Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ed isn’t as hungover as he could be, but the lack of sleep isn’t doing him any favors. His whole face hurts when he shuffles downstairs the next day, grunting a good morning to the others clamoring for breakfast in the kitchen. He fills a cup with coffee and a glass with ice water, and it’s tempting to chug both at once. Staring down at his floral mug on the kitchen island, he wonders if it’s feasible to drink hot coffee with a straw.

Roach elbows him. “How were the drinks, man? I need feedback; that’s part of the deal.”

“Good.” No matter how desperate the situation, Ed can’t bring himself to drink black coffee. He chugs the water instead, wipes his mouth and beard with the back of his hand, and starts dumping sugar in the mug.

Oluwande, Frenchie, and Jim are over for breakfast, along with the usual crew, and the kids are pestering the guys like they haven’t seen them in weeks although they were just here a couple days earlier. Louis has a particularly high-pitched giggle at seven in the morning, and Ed flinches, gripping his coffee cup until his knuckles protest.

“You look like death, man,” Roach says, leaning on the counter. His apron says Fuck the Police in a delicate, curling font, punctuated with a lip print. “Shit was not that strong. You drink the whole pitcher yourself?”

“Could have, but nah.” Ed shrugs, stirring his coffee so enthusiastically that it swirls like a whirlpool after he pulls the spoon out. He takes a first sip and sighs. The nutty, smooth flavor sands the edges off his headache and unknots the tension in his shoulders. He lowers his voice. “Just fuckin’ tired, man. Up late.”

“Up late with who?” Lucius asks, suddenly right the fuck there at Ed’s other side and smiling all faux-innocent. “I mean, I could hazard a guess, but…” His eyes cut to the table, where Stede is wielding a butter knife and a piece of toast as he chats with Frenchie about 80’s synth pop.

“Who says I was with anyone?”

“You,” Lucius points out, “when you said you didn’t drink the whole pitcher yourself.”

“Has anyone ever told you sticking your nose in people’s business is a good way to get it cut off?”

Lucius laughs, flicking his wrist dismissively as he drops his shoulder. “Please. I’m far too cute for that.”

Before Ed has a chance to try to counter that remark — and how he would, he doesn’t know, because his knife is back in his jeans, strapped beneath his sock, but waving it around at the breakfast table would be, well, counter-productive to everything — Stede spots him and calls out, “Oh, Ed! Good morning! Come join us; you simply must try these new preserves Roach made.”

How the man is so fucking chipper at this hour when Ed feels like he was dragged backwards through the mud by a Jeep all night is a mystery for the ages, but he ignores Lucius’ pointed eyebrow raise and goes to join the table. As he slides into his chair, Stede presents him with a slice of toast like a platter. The dark, seeded wheat bread is smeared with a thick golden jam, and a heavenly aroma rises off it.

Stede presses the edge of it to his bottom lip. “Try a bite,” he insists, cheeks rosy and hair still tousled from bed. He’s missed a button on his pajama top somehow, though it had looked pristine last night, and the cut of the collar dips between his pecs on one side.

Ed’s eyes are fixed on that glorious inch of golden hair as he leans in slightly and crunches into the toast.

The jam bursts to life on his tongue, sticky and almost aggressively sweet over the earthy flavors of the bread. Spices dance over his palette, almost tingling in his mouth without overwhelming the underlying resh tartness of the fruit. Ed draws back to chew, jam smeared across his lips, and his tongue darts out to catch every drop.

Stede is watching his mouth, smiling. “Good?” he asks, voice straining at the edges.

“Mm.” Ed nods. “What’s in it?”

“It’s apricot and honey with a chai spice mix.” Stede is still staring at Ed’s face, and Ed feels his lips start to curve. Okay. They’re moving beyond just interesting now. “You’ve got a bit of, um—” Stede gestures to Ed’s face, crumbs and jam no doubt caught in his beard.

Ed touches his upper lip with two fingers, not really looking for the spot. “Here?” he offers, and when Stede shakes his head, he combs his fingers through the ends of his beard. “Here?”

“No, um, here. Let me just—”

And, okay, Ed wasn’t planning for the part where Stede is a dad and so he doesn’t just reach out, he picks up a cloth napkin from the table and fucking licks the corner, but Ed isn’t going to complain. He’s had worse stuff on his face than Stede’s spit, and it’s still cute and a little funny, the way Stede frowns in concentration and scrubs at his cheek with the napkin.

When Ed pulls back with a soft murmured, “Thanks,” the rest of the table is alarmingly silent.

Staring, all of them. Ed’s shoulders tense, and he glares down the table, daring them silently to say a single fucking word. Everyone becomes suddenly very enamored with their plates, other than Lucius, who looks like he’s pressing his lips together to lock back the comments, and Jim, who is still staring at Ed in the pointed sort of way that says you’re not the boss of me. Fair enough.

The weird silence is broken by Louis taking a drink of milk and then letting out a suspiciously cartoony belch. He and Alma dissolve into giggles, high-pitched and delighted, as the adults at the the table try not to crack up too — with varying degrees of success.

Even Stede’s lips are twitching when Ed looks over. His eyes are fixed on his scrambled eggs, but he doesn’t try to scold Louis, and Wee John takes the baton of reminding the kids to say excuse me after burping.

Breakfast is a simple spread, relative to this house, with the preserves as the obvious star, and Ed doesn’t hesitate to spread them thick on his own toast, alternating bites of that with crispy bacon to get that salty-sweet contrast. Around the table, there’s only quiet chatter and sounds of satisfaction for a few minutes before they’re interrupted by a steady chime.

Stede has his fork raised, tapping it against the rim of his juice glass for attention. “Excuse me,” he calls. “One moment. I have an announcement to make, and then I’ll let you all get back to breakfast.”

Everyone quiets, and Ed scrapes his brain wondering what announcement Stede could possibly be making at breakfast. His eyes catch on Oluwande across the table, and he remembers, suddenly, their chat last night.

The divorce.

Oluwande meets Ed’s eyes and quickly shakes his head, as if he can read Ed’s thoughts, but the look Oluwande turns on Stede is nevertheless edged with alarm. Ed isn’t the only one worrying, then.

If Stede notices their reactions, he shows no sign of it. He takes a deep breath, broad chest expanding with the inhale, face solemn — and then breaks into a smile. “I’ve managed to nab us tickets for Wet N’ Wild today. Anyone who’d like to is welcome to attend.”

“Yes!” Alma screeches, and Louis grins so tight it looks like it hurts, hands balled into fists as he practically vibrates in his chair.

Ed dips his head closer to Louis to ask, almost at a whisper, “What’s Wet N’ Wild?”

Louis doesn’t have the same volume control. “It’s a water park! They’ve got slides, and a carousel, and frozen lemonade—”

“And roller coasters,” Alma interrupts, squirming closer to Louis and Ed until she’s almost in Frenchie’s lap. “And ice cream, and hot dogs, and a HUGE wave pool—”

“With inflatable sharks!” Louis shouts, bouncing in his seat. “And- and- and- their drinks have rainbow curly straws, and they’re—” he stands up in his chair and hold his hand out over Ed’s head “—this tall.”

“They are not,” Alma scoffs. “They’re not as big as Ed.”

“Are too! Denis brought one for show ‘n tell last year and it was tall as me.”

“That was forever ago. You were a baby — a bigger baby.”

“I am not a—”

Frenchie ducks his head and muffles a fake cough into his fist, catching their attention before he nods at Stede, who is still standing at the head of the table, eyebrows raised at his offspring. “Did the two of you not want to go?” he asks mildly.

Louis drops back into his chair. Alma bites her lower lip. Stede smiles again.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, who else would like to join us for a day out? Pete, we’ll be needing you to drive, of course, but after that—”

“Hell yes, I’m going,” Pete answers, not waiting for the question. He turns to Lucius. “You’ll come too, right, babe?”

“I can’t swim, remember, babe?” Pete doesn’t react to the sharp undercurrent in Lucius’ tone, only watching him expectantly, and finally Lucius sighs and shrugs. “Alright, well I guess there’s no great hardship in watching you run around in little shorts all day.” Pete, grinning, darts in for a kiss.

The rest of the staff beg off going one by one — too busy or, like Lucius, not able to swim — except for The Swede, who didn’t bother coming down for breakfast, and then at last Stede turns his attention to Ed and asks, “Well? Care to join us?”

Ed almost vibrates as much as Louis did. “Fu— Hell yeah. Just try and stop me.”

“Hmm.” Stede’s lip quirks up. “I don’t believe I will.”

Ed hardly tastes the rest of his breakfast, only manages to eat it because Stede tells Alma and Louis they have to finish their food before they can be excused from the table. The kids stuff their faces; Alma even forgets about the aversion she usually has to foods touching each other and makes a sloppy sort of toast, egg, bacon, and jam sandwich. Ed is a bit more subtle about inhaling his own meal, but he’s only a few bites behind them as the kids drop their forks, shout that they’re finished, and rocket up the stairs to get ready.

Although Ed had learned to swim as a kid, back before things really went to shit, he’s never been to a water park before — never been to any sort of theme park, actually. He remembers seeing adverts for one, stretched out and watching a flickering tube TV in a motel room that reeked of mildew while Izzy untangled rope at the table, cursing Edward out under his breath for not coiling them properly to start with.

They’d still been teenagers back then — or at least, Ed had been. Izzy might have been twenty. Either way, they were young enough that Edward had leaned up on his elbows at the commercial, watching the grainy roller coaster spiral across the screen, and asked Izzy if he wanted to go. Might as well enjoy their ill-gotten gains.

Too expensive, Izzy drawled, not even looking up from his work. Waste of time. We’ve got better things to do than buy overpriced hot dogs just to puke them up on the rides. You want to vomit, I’ll rig this rope up and we can hang you from the ceiling to spin.

Back then, Edward didn’t know Izzy like he does now, and he smiles, remembering the conversation. Dizzy Izzy and his fucking sensitive stomach. Edward hadn’t realized at the time because Izzy was still keeping that little secret from him, but now it makes more sense now why Iz never wanted to go on carnival rides.

Ed soaks up the last of his egg with the crust of his toast, throws back the last few swallows of coffee, and licks his lips before rising from his seat. “Gonna go check if the kids need help,” he says, thumbing toward the doorway.

Stede straightens in his chair, a few bites of fruit and bacon still on his plate. “Ah. Wait for me in the living room a tick, would you? There’s something I’d like to discuss.”

Ed’s stomach turns over unpleasantly at those words, but he tamps it down. He’s not about to get fucking kicked out — Stede was flirting with him a minute ago. At least, he’s pretty sure that was flirting. It was Stede’s idea of flirting, probably, the toast and the napkin thing, and last night in the secret pantry with Stede’s blue chip dust-stained fingers on his goddamn knee.

It might not be what Ed is used to, but he’s pretty confident it was flirting.

He loiters in the living room as requested, running his fingers along the carved mantlepiece with a private smile. The carved cherubim on the sides feel much less sinister to him now that he knows their little secret, although he’s still of the opinion that only a madman would decorate his home with fat baby angels.

“My mother loved those,” Stede says, entering the room as Ed cups one angelic cheek. His voice is soft and fond. “I remember her holding me up to touch them. It’s one of my only memories of her, really, but…” He steps up to Ed’s side and rests his hand on the other angel’s crown of curls. “The letters she left me are all addressed to my cherub.”

“That’s sweet.” And probably not inaccurate. Ed hasn’t seen any of Stede’s baby pictures, but he can imagine, with those golden curls and all. Guilt twinges in his chest, knowing he had such negative thoughts about something that meant a lot to Stede.

Then Stede’s nose wrinkles and his hand drops away from the mantle. “To be honest, I always found them a bit terrifying. Used to have nightmares about them coming to life and hovering over my bed as a kid.”

Ed barks a laugh. “Fuck. Me too, mate. They’re creepy as hell.”

He loves the way Stede’s hazel eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, how sweetly round his cheeks look. Stede reaches out and brushes something — dust, or crumbs, who knows — from Ed’s collar, smoothing down the crisp lines of the borrowed shirt.

“You’re all dressed up already,” Stede muses. “Sorry for the late notice on this waterpark business. I was going to—” he looks away, up at the family portrait over the mantle and lowers his voice “— I was going to give the children the news later today, about the divorce. I thought it might go easier if we had a bit of fun and wore them out first.”

“I get it,” Ed says, leaning back against the mantle. He nods over Stede’s shoulder as Oluwande, Jim, and a few of the others come to join them in the living room. “It was never going to be easy. Besides, it’s not as if I can’t change my clothes. I’ve got plenty to choose from.”

Actually, thinking about Stede’s dresser and closet, Ed remembers rows and rows of dress pants, suits, jeans, but not a single pair of shorts, much less— “Hey, now that I think about it, have you got any spare swim trunks I can borrow? Didn’t think to pack any.”

To Ed’s surprise, Stede’s face turns red. “Oh. Um. Actually, I haven’t got any myself.”

“I’ve got spares,” Pete interjects from over by the sofa, where he’s stooped to look at something on Frenchie’s phone. “You can borrow a pair of mine.”

“Thanks, mate,” Ed says, flashing Pete a grin that has the bald man turning pink and pleased. “That’ll work.”

“C’mon.” Pete nods toward the stairs. “You can take whichever ones you want. What’s mine is yours and all that.”

“So generous,” Lucius drawls, draping his arm over Pete’s to accompany him to the room as Ed trails behind them.

-

It turns out that Pete has a lot of spare swim trunks — rainbow plaid and shark print and splashed with huge leaves like a tropical rainforest — but in among the collection Ed does manage to find a single pair of plain black shorts. He checks on the kids first, making sure they’re both well-coated in goopy white sunscreen before going to change in his own room, draping the shirt he was wearing over the back of a chair and opting for his own old, faded black v-neck tee rather than risk anything of Stede’s in the sun and chlorine.

When he gets back downstairs, everyone else is already assembled by the door.

It takes a village to get two kids to a waterpark, apparently, although Ed can’t tell how much of the equipment is really for the children and how much is Stede and Lucius. All in all, there are three overstuffed beach bags by the door, overflowing with towels and bucket hats, extra tubes of multiple brands of sunscreen and spare clothes, plus god knows what else. Pete’s bald head gleams when he steps out into the sunlight, a bag slung over each shoulder to load into the car. The sunscreen on Pete"s bald spot is probably Lucius" doing, considering the way the younger man is so slathered in the stuff that Ed can still see a thick streak of white down his nose. He"s also fully dressed in a shirt with sleeves and crop pants.

Noticing Ed"s scrutiny, Lucius wrinkles his nose. "Some of us would prefer not to look seventy-five in our fifties," he says primly.

Ed smirks. "Some of us were born this color, mate."

He knows that"s not how Lucius meant it, but it"s still satisfying to see the boy get flustered by something for once. Ed turns away and grabs the last bag to load in before Lucius can scramble for an apology or a catty response.

The car they"re taking isn"t the legendary red sports car Stede supposedly got his wife — Ed has yet to catch a glimpse of that one — but they wouldn"t all fit in something that fun anyway. Instead, they pile into a big black SUV together, Lucius in the passenger seat up front with Pete, the kids in the back, and Stede and Ed relegated to the very back in jump seats. The back row chairs face each other. Legs stretched out, Ed and Stede"s ankles criss cross one another.

"You"re not swimming in that, right?" Ed jokes, taking in Stede"s "casual" choice of rosy linen slacks and a loose button-down. The shirt is open almost to his waist, revealing a floral patterned undershirt beneath it.

"I"ll change when we get to the park," Stede says, cheeks pinking yet again. The man is almost as mysterious as his weird house sometimes, and like the house, Ed wants to tear him apart and find all the hidden treats.

It takes about twenty minutes to drive to Wet N’ Wild, and then Pete spends another five circling the parking lot, waiting for Stede to point out just the right spot, and then Lucius takes multiple pictures of where the car is on his phone so they won’t get lost on the way out. The whole time, Louis and Alma are pouting, tugging on Stede and Ed both in turn to hurry up, as if all the water will dry up if they don’t get inside the minute the park opens.

Other patrons are pouring through the gates, the lines moving quickly, and from the parking lot Ed can already hear the pounding, perky beat of aging pop songs and the shrieks of children. There are big cardboard stands, maps, and banners by the entryway advertising the newest and most popular attractions — a water coaster called Queen Anne’s Revenge, Spanish Jackie’z taco and churro stand, and the giant wave pool Alma had mentioned to him, Blind Man’s Cove.

Stede taps his finger on the cove when they reach the map. “Home base, I think,” he says. “Somewhere to put our things while the children are enjoying the rides, and it’s near the lockers, food, and restrooms.”

He looks at Ed, as if he might have some kind of contrary opinion to provide. Ed shrugs. “Works for me.”

Lucius and Pete go ahead with the bags to find chairs while Ed and Stede navigate the kids past the temptations of face painting, caricature artists, and Your Name On A Grain Of Rice!

Well, they try to navigate past. By the time they reach the seating area by the pool, Ed has a whale-shaped keychain with his name stamped on it in the pocket of his trunks, and Stede and the kids are decked out in matching rainbow puka shell necklaces.

Lucius and Pete are still setting up. They’ve managed to find a table with a beach umbrella over it ten feet back from where the waters of Blind Man’s Cove lap at the sand-colored concrete slope, and Lucius is already stretched out on a lounger with a towel over the bars while Pete fluffs an embroidered pillow they clearly nabbed from the living room sofa and tucks it under his head.

Ed can’t see Lucius’ eyes through his dark, bug-eyed sunglasses, but he knows the man is looking at the puka shells. He can taste judgment on the air.

The kids barely even pause by the table before they both set off at a run, screeching, toward the water. “Wait!” Stede tries to call after them. “You need to—!”

They’re not listening, as if they can’t hear him at all over the siren call of motor-generated waves and their own screams of delight. “I got this,” Pete says, hands on his hips. “Sweetie, you alright?”

“Mm. Beautiful.” Lucius squirms down into his pillow and sticks a pair of earbuds in his ears. “Have fun, babe.” That’s all Pete needs to kick off his Crocs and take off after Louis and Alma.

Stede’s hands are clamped onto the back of a chair as he frowns at the pool. “They’ve never had proper swimming lessons,” he murmurs.

“Neither have I, but I get along fine,” Ed says. It doesn’t break through, so he steps in closer, claps a hand on Stede’s shoulder and rubs a bit. When Stede finally looks at him, Ed nods toward the kids, splashing in the waves with Pete. “We’ll keep an eye on them. You go get changed.”

Smiling, Stede reaches up and pats Ed’s hand. “Of course you will. I’m being silly. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“We’ll be right here, mate.”

Stede scoops up his beach bag and strides off toward the Republic of Pirates guest services area, and Ed turns his attention back to the waterpark. It really is something else — he can see the twisting metal and plastic snakes of ride structures looping in the distance, greens and blues and blacks against the clear sky. The sun beams down on the blue-tinged water of the wave pool, its surface dotted with children and parents and the floating, inflatable sharks that Louis promised. Small scuffles break out over the toys as Ed watches — they seem to be a high-value item around here. At the other end of the wave pool, where the water is deepest, a cartoony-looking pirate ship towers over the Cove, and a few bigger kids are on board, climbing the rigging and firing blasts of water from canons at the smaller children below.

Ed grins. He’s gotta get to that boat. He wonders if he can swim well enough to tow Louis over on his back, if Alma can keep up on her own. Or maybe Pete can take Louis, if Ed needs to take Alma over.

He’s plotting it out, shading his eyes from the sun with one hand. It’s a scorcher, a great day to be wet, and the hot sun is turning his black t-shirt into a sauna against his skin. Ed reaches for the back of his collar to pull the thing off, then pauses as he turns toward the table.

The seating area has filled up with other parents and grandparents, scuttling to get into some shade, and it’s hard to miss how, well, white the other park patrons are. He easily identifies a Coach beach bag on one table, a Bugaboo stroller parked under an umbrella nearby.

It’s not surprising — this is somewhere Stede is coming, after all — but it is very, uh.

People are looking, and it’s not just Lucius-flavored judgment on the wind this time. Ed is drawing attention, standing out like a horse in a sheep pen with his long hair, brown skin, and tattoos.

He lowers his arms. The shirt can stay on. It’ll be cool enough to wear once he gets it wet anyway.

A blast of lukewarm water hits the nape of his neck, and Ed whirls to find Louis, giggling even as he flinches back, a bright blue squit gun in hand. “Betrayal!” Ed roars, raising his hands like claws. “Mutiny!” Louis takes off running, and Ed stalks after him into the pool, mindful of his unprotected leg.

They only make it a few feet toward the pirate ship, Alma on Ed’s shoulders and Pete toting Louis, before Ed’s plan to take over the canons falls apart. Apparently the temptations of a distant water canon can’t hold a candle to Pete murmuring in Louis’ ear about toppling his sister, and soon the four of them are soon locked into some ridiculous hybrid offspring of a splash war and a wrestling match.

Louis’ water pistol has long since fallen under, lost to the pool filters or some kid with goggles and a snorkel passing by, probably, and they’re forced to fight bare-handed, slamming arcs of water into one another. Ed’s eyes sting, screaming from the strong chlorine in the pool, but it’s fine. He can’t see anyway, between the wet hair plastered to his face, the walls of water hitting him, and Alma still trying to cling to his back, occasionally slamming a knee into his ribs or covering his face with her hands.

It’s messy and stupid, and Ed swallows about a cupful of nasty-ass pool water every time the mechanized waves crest again, and yet through the storm he can still hear Pete calling out to the shore, “Come on, babe, the water’s great.”

“Mm, I don’t think so, thanks,” Lucius shouts back. “Really enjoying the view from here, actually.”

“I promise I won’t let you drown.”

“Not the problem, babe.”

“You can ride on my shoulders.”

“I can do that at home,” Lucius says smugly. Pete has stopped splashing, so Ed is only fending off Louis’ weaker onslaught, but he coughs anyway, then coughs again when Lucius adds, “Children pee in that water.”

“Since when are you scared of a little piss?”

Holy shit, Ed is dying. He’s doubled over, cackling, and Alma is pulling his hair like horse reins with both hands and yelling in his ear, “What’s funny? What’s so funny? I don’t get it!”

Over Alma’s shouting and the overall shrieking noise of the park, Ed still catches the sudden choking noise that Pete makes a couple feet away.

He pushes his hair back from his face and tucks Alma under his arm, expecting to find that Pete is somehow literally drowning in a children’s paddling pool. Instead, he follows Pete’s wide-eyed gaze to the shore to find that Stede has at last emerged from the changing area, wearing some sort of sheer, dark teal cover-up that brushes his ankles and — no lie — the tiniest pair of bright yellow briefs that Ed has ever seen outside of literal pornography.

Despite the color on his cheeks, Stede seems remarkably unselfconscious as he sets his clothing bag aside and waves a cheery hello to his children before stretching out in a towel-draped chair. His hair is wheat gold in the sun, and every vulnerable inch of him is pale as the white-washed walls of his home, untouched even by the sunlight under all his usual layers. Now, Ed’s questions from the pantry are answered in full — that dark gold dusting of hair Ed has caught only glimpses of in the past two weeks really does stretch everywhere, soft and tempting at the center of Stede’s chest, tracing a trail from his belly down to vanish beneath the top of his briefs, and then reappearing thick like honey across his fleshy thighs.

Ed stares. He can almost feel it on his tongue, the way it would taste if he sunk his teeth into that softest, sweetest point on the inside of Stede’s thigh — the light scrape of those more wiry curls against his lips, the easy give of flesh inside his mouth. He probably purples up so well.

Chuckling, Pete elbows Ed lightly to get his attention. “He’s so weird, man. Bet you’re glad he didn’t try to loan you any swim trunks now, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Pete,” Ed growls, leaning in until they’re almost chest to chest. “Before I dunk you under and hold you there.”

Pete’s eyes widen. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “Lucius was right.”

Their discussion is cut short by Alma, clinging to Ed’s arm and yanking until he stumbles. “Let’s go! I want to ride rides! Daddy said we could.”

Ed looks over to check in, keeping his eyes carefully focused on Stede’s face so he’ll be able to leave the pool without humiliating himself. Smiling, Stede nods at them. “You don’t need to accompany them, of course. If you’d rather stay here, Pete or I—”

Despite his claims, Stede is absolutely clutching a bright-colored paperback against his chest. It’s clear he has hopes for the morning that don’t involve cramming himself into inflatable toys and getting drenched. Besides, Ed wants to try the rides.

“Throw me a towel, would ya?” He asks, dragging his feet as he climbs out of the wave pool. “And my brace. Should be in the blue bag.”

Stede throws the towel, then rummages around for a moment while Ed carefully dries his leg. “Is it hurting?” Stede asks, biting his lip as he holds out the hard sided brace Ed brought along for the day.

“Nah.” Ed grins and throws Stede a wink. “Just might come in handy.”

His instincts turn out to be right on. In order to go down a slide, he and the kids must first climb up — and up and up and up and — but there are ramps here and there, elevators built into the structures that not everyone is allowed to use, and Ed might not have a doctor’s note, but he knows what pain looks like. He knows how to make it look good, and maybe he was lying to Stede a tad when he said it didn’t hurt anyway. Even buoyed by the water, Alma wasn’t a small kid, and her squirming on his shoulders for an hour wasn’t doing his joints any favors.

It only takes a few strokes of the grey in his beard, sad doe eyes and a wince or two before most of the park employees are persuaded to let Ed and the kids use the elevators, bypassing the lines of people and hundreds of sun-heated metal steps.

The kids are all too happy to get in on the game when people do hesitate, once they understand that Ed’s bum knee is getting them out of a half hour wait for the newest rides. When the spotty-faced teenager at the base of Queen Anne’s Revenge purses her lips at Ed’s brace and says you’re really supposed to have a note, Ed turns and stoops to address Alma and Louis with a deep, theatrical sigh.

“Sorry, kids,” he says. “It seems like it’s just not happening today.”

Alma stares up at him, glances over quickly at the park employee, and then sticks her lower lip out, eyes wide as she clasps her hands in front of her unicorn swimsuit. “But Papa, you promised,” she says, improvising like a champ, and holy shit, Ed is going to get her so much candy for this.

Instead, he ruffles her damp braided hair. “I know, sweetie, but there’s not much I can do. Papa’s leg just isn’t up for it since, you know, the accident...”

Louis runs over to the girl at the elevator, tugging the loops on her denim shorts. “Please? Oh, please let us go.”

“Now, now.” Ed takes him by the shoulder and gives the girl a weak smile. “This young lady is just tryin’ to do her job, kiddo. It’s out of her hands.”

“Well,” the girl says, face as bright pink as her t-shirt. “Well, actually…”

Ed doesn’t whoop out loud, but it’s a close thing.

They get through all the major rides at least once, sometimes two or three times, with a break between rounds for Ed to buy the kids a frozen lemonade. They share it — three spoons and sitting side by side on a concrete curb a foot or so away from a trashcan that buzzes ominously the whole time — and after a bit of back and forth, Ed manages to persuade them that Roach could make something just like this at home, actually. Ed has tasted the man’s margaritas; he knows.

When they finish their third run of the Queen Anne’s Revenge, forearms still sticky from smears of sugary lemonade that won’t wash off, Louis brings up the inflatable sharks at the wave pool again.

“We never get one,” he whines. “The big kids always shove us off.”

“I saw a boy get punched in the nose once,” Alma says, eyes shining. “He bled. We had to get out of the pool.”

“No one will bleed this time,” Ed promises. He hasn’t punched a ten year old in at least thirty years. He can probably avoid it for a couple more hours, even if Alma does look vaguely disappointed.

The walk back to Blind Man’s Cove is hotter than slow roasting in a car with busted windows at mid-day. Sunlight beams down on them and radiates back up from the black pavement until it feels like Ed’s sandals might melt to the soles of his feet. He’s dried out fast now they’re out of the water, but damp gathers and drips on his neck, down his back, and his hair sticks in the patches of sweat until it feels like he’s wearing a sodden fur muff on top of his head. He thinks longingly of the wave pool which, while lukewarm, was at least cooler than the air. He’s actually looking forward to going to war with some fucking kids over an inflatable shark at this point, as long as he can do it in the water instead of out here.

But they arrive back to find Stede out of his chair, bustling around the table while Lucius lounges, Pete sitting at the bottom of his chair and rubbing his feet. Anyone passing by would think Lucius was the millionaire and Stede the assistant, given the tableau.

Louis calls out, “Daddy!” and runs over to tell his father all about their morning, Alma hot on his heels, and Stede looks up with a smile.

“Oh, you’re back right on time. I was just setting things out for lunch.”

“Lunch already?” It doesn’t feel like they’ve been at the park all that long, but now that Ed is thinking about it, he hasn’t had anything but the frozen lemonade since breakfast, and he’s getting that hollowed-out feeling in his stomach that comes with not getting enough of anything to feel full.

The table is already laid out with a spread fit for a king — if the king in question is six years old and having a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. All the beach bags have been moved onto the ground to make space for three large, greasy pizzas, a box of chicken nuggets so large Ed considers asking to be buried in it, and a similarly impressive paper sack filled with french fries. A couple litters of soda at the center of the table loom over the rest of the food, along with a few individual-sized water bottles.

Alma and Louis, seeing the food, hit the table like cheap theme park pizza is some kind of Michelin star bullshit, and it’s all Ed can do to snag a couple slices for himself, wedging in between them for a shot at a paper plate. As they’re all licking grease off their fingers and wrestling over french fries, he thinks of Stede with his little hoard of junk in the secret pantry and grins. The little Bonnets really couldn’t be anyone else’s children.

The one thing Stede didn’t get enough of is paper napkins, so Ed wipes his hands off on the hem of his shirt, slouching his hips forward in his chair to hide the movement under the table where the others won’t see. Pete and the kids are already up again, done with their food and scoping the shark situation, laying out a strategy for which floaty toy will be the most vulnerable.

Thankfully, Alma is taking the lead in the planning, so it might actually work.

“You coming with?” Pete asks as the kids take off, circling the edges of the pool.

Ed shakes his head. “Be along in a bit, though,” he promises as he yanks a beach bag up into his lap and starts to paw through the pockets, searching among bits of weird sand, crumpled gum wrappers and stale goldfish crackers until he finds what he needs.

One secret Ed has learned in the past two weeks: dig far enough in any nook, cranny, or pocket, and he’s bound to find one of Alma’s misplaced hair ties.

The one from the beach bag is bright pink, a few strands of blonde tangled around it in a knot, but Ed pulls the old hair free and winds the band over his fingers before standing. His hair fights him, gone curlier than usual with the heat and damp. It clings to his fingers and palms, then escapes, bumps and snarls resisting any effort that doesn’t involve a real tool.

Cursing under his breath, Ed wrestles it into submission to get a pathetic sort of low ponytail. It’s worth it for the little extra hit of air he gets on the back of his neck, makes his body feel slightly less like a swamp, but his shirt is still sticking to his skin. He grabs the hem, whipping it back and forth to fan air on the inside and cool off.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Stede asks, peering up at him over the wire frames of his blue-tinged sunglasses. “All that black. I can’t imagine; I’m sweltering as it is.” He gestures down at himself, as if Ed needed a reminder of how little he’s wearing. Standing beside him, Ed can see the slight paunch of Stede’s stomach spilling over the waistband of his briefs. He can’t decide what he wants on that flesh first, his hands or his teeth.

Ed tears his eyes away. The trunks he borrowed from Pete are a bit baggy, but they’re not a fucking tent. He doesn’t need to embarrass himself in a kiddie park.

“I’m sweating like a whore in church,” Ed admits, smirking when Stede’s cheeks pink at the phrase. He tugs at the hem of his shirt again. “It’s hot as balls in the sun, but not so bad in the water.”

“Maybe you ought to take your shirt off.”

If not for Lucius’ low, muttered, “Oh my god,” Ed would have forgotten the other man was still at the table with them.

“Thought about it, but uh—” Ed jerks his head at the park, the other tables full of families scattered nearby. He spreads his hands. “My look doesn’t exactly fit in here, you know?”

Stede doesn’t bother turning his head to see the park. His eyes are on Ed’s arms, his hands, following the gesture. “I think your tattoos are quite lovely,” he says, utterly missing the point. “I mean, what I’ve seen of them. I’d love to get a better look at the rest sometime.”

“Would you?” Ed’s smile spreads slowly, baring his teeth in a grin as Stede reddens further, realization of what he just said dawning in full. His ears are so scarlet they look sunburned, peeking out from beneath his blond hair.

Oh yeah. Ed doesn’t need to worry about that weird flutter in his chest anymore. It seems he’s not the only one here in need of a good fuck. This? This, he can work with.

But Stede looks about ready to combust from this alone — ‘Take your shirt off so I can see your tattoos sometime,’ fucking hell — so Ed decides to take pity on him rather than amp things up in public. They’ve got plenty of time.

“It’s not just the tats,” he says, shrugging. “Pete’s got tats.” As Stede’s embarrassment fades to pursed lips and confusion, Ed adds, “I’ve got scars, mate.”

Stede looks down, where Ed’s hand is again gripping the hem of his t-shirt. He licks his lips.

Lucius stands up and grabs Stede’s wallet from one of the bags. “You know what? I’m going to go get some water before you two perish of thirst.”

“There’s water on the table?” Stede calls after him, but Lucius is already halfway to the concession stand.

Turning back to Ed, Stede reaches for the belt of his gauzy little robe and tugs it free. The edges fall open, the barely-there veil of teal falling away to reveal all that pale skin Ed was thinking of earlier. The hairs at his waistband are darker than the ones on his head, almost ginger, and there are little divots on his inner thighs, lavender-tinged lines embedded in the skin. Ed is captivated, wondering what the texture would feel like against his tongue.

It takes him a second to realize Stede is pointing at something — another pale line, stark white even compared to the ivory skin on his belly, but thin and straight, unnaturally so.

“My appendix burst in college,” Stede says, tapping the scar. “Middle of the night during midterms, sophomore year. Nearly failed half my classes thanks to this.”

Ed can’t help it; he laughs.

Stede tenses, reaching for the edges of his robe, and Ed lunges forward, grabs his hands to stop the self-conscious gesture. “God, no. Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you, mate.” He squeezes Stede’s hands, feels the bones shift under his palms before he pulls away. “It’s just — That’s not quite the same kind of scars I’m talking about, y’know?”

Others, maybe, he could get away with, but Ed can’t imagine anyone would look at the starburst marking on the right side of his stomach and not recognize it as a gunshot wound. It’s been seven years since a lucky security guard caught him — or maybe not so lucky, since the guy was likely aiming for his hand or leg — but the thing still stands out, gnarled and ugly compared to the rest of his skin thanks to Izzy’s inexpert work digging out the bullet.

There’s probably still bits of it floating around in his blood. That was the first time Edward had looked up at Izzy, watching him sweat and curse and fight to staunch the blood with one hand as he worked with the other, and said, Maybe we should call it quits.

Stede goes quiet, soft brown eyes blinking up where Ed is hovering over his chair, and rests a hand on Ed’s forearm, thumb sweeping along the black scales of his snake tattoo. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, hard to hear over the sound of the park until Ed leans in closer, watching his lips to catch the words. “I didn’t mean to stir up old memories.”

He means Ed’s dad. It’s clear from the sympathy in his eyes, the way he bites his lip and watches Ed’s face so closely as he apologizes. Of course he does — that’s the only thing like this they’ve ever discussed, and it’s not a bad guess. Those scars have faded well, their stark edges absorbed back into his skin as it grew, but Ed can still find them, knows where they are as well as he knows the letters of his own name.

Ed licks his lips, staring into Stede’s warm eyes. “That’s…”

He’s not sure what he means to say, but it dies on his tongue when Stede reaches for his face. Ed’s breath stutters, a sharp inhale that catches in his throat, and then Stede’s fingers are combing a few frizzy curls back, tucking them behind Ed’s ear.

Despite the heat, he wants to shiver at the sudden shock low in his spine.

Stede smiles. “I think you missed a bit with your elastic,” he says. “May I? Alma says I’m improving.”

It’s all Ed can do to nod, especially when Stede moves his legs to the side and pats the front of his own chair. Ed sinks down into the spot, his back to Stede, the towel still warm from the other man’s body.

“Don’t worry,” Stede murmurs when Ed’s breathing goes shallow. His hands are in Ed’s hair, slowly working the hair tie free. “I’ll be gentle.”

Ed always knew he would.

-

Ed is back in his room, in his pajama pants and scrubbing at his damp hair with a towel, when there’s a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” he calls, keeping his voice down so as not to disturb the kids.

It’s not a surprise when Stede pokes his head into the room, still dressed in the chinos and button-down he’d put on after they got back from the park, but it is a bit funny when his gaze lands on Ed and his cheeks go pink again. “Oh. I didn’t mean to— If I’m interrupting—”

“Told you to come in,” Ed says, voice threaded with amusement. You’re the one who wanted me shirtless in public, he thinks, but keeps that sentiment in his head. At least Stede seems more alarmed by the amount of skin he’s seeing than any of Ed’s scars. If he recognizes the gunshot wound for what it is, he doesn’t show it. “Have a seat. Just need to finish drying my hair and then I can put a shirt on.”

“Don’t go out of your way on my account,” Stede says — a little too quickly, but he settles on the edge of the bed as Ed pats around the room, scrunching his hair with the towel. “I just wanted to check in since we had, well, quite an exciting day.”

“Yeah.” Ed coughs. “Sorry ‘bout that. Again.”

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ve uh, never been escorted out of a business before.” Stede’s nose is red, but that could be sun. “New experiences are what life is all about, right?”

“To be fair, that little shit really did deserve it.”

And it hadn’t been Ed’s idea for Alma to scratch out the little bastard’s eyes. Someone in the area might have been yelling things like, “Get him!” and “Go for the soft spots!”, but things were a bit chaotic at that point, and Pete had been yelling too, so unless there’s video (there might be video) no one can really prove who said what.

Besides, the whole thing would have been avoided if the boy hadn’t decided that being a bit bigger and a bit older meant he could shove Louis off his shark floaty and yank it out from under him. Ed was pretty pissed about it all in the moment, too. Alma had simply gotten there first.

“Don’t worry,” Stede says, pursing his lips. “After our chat at the park office about non-violence, we may have had a separate little discussion about the importance of standing up to bullies. I believe there are some leftover cookies downstairs from the conversation, if you’re interested.”

Ed grins. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Stede still looks more than a little flustered, fingertips digging at the loose fabric on Ed’s quilt, and Ed softens his tone as he takes a step closer. “Hey. She’s a good kid. Management’ll change at the park and they’ll forget this whole "lifetime ban" nonsense by next summer, anyway."

"One can only hope."

“How’d storytime go?” Ed asks, turning to hang his towel on the back of the door. He needs to give Stede the illusion of privacy again for a second — it’s not the Fellowship’s progress toward Mount Doom that Ed is actually interested in hearing about.

Behind him, Stede lets out a deep sigh. It ticks up at the end, the ghost of a laugh, and Ed feels his own lip twitch in response. “Better than I expected. Unfortunately, the jury’s still out on how I feel about that.”

Ed makes an inquisitive noise before facing Stede again. He’s leaned back on his hands on the bed, knees spread and socked feet kicking against the wooden frame. “I’d gone in prepared for questions, tears, a whole speech on how it’s not their fault and sometimes mommies and daddies just don’t work out, you know.

“When I finally manage to get the words out — just the first bit, mind you — Alma looks me straight in the eye like she’s breaking news to me, and just goes,” his voice rises in a startlingly good impression of his eldest’s frank tone, “‘Mom hasn’t lived here all summer, you know.’”

Ed chokes, tries to muffle it behind his hand, but it’s a losing battle when Stede’s mouth curls and he adds, “And Louis asked if they get two Christmases like his friend Braeden now, because he already knows he wants an iPad and a bicycle this year.”

Yeah, the laughter isn’t staying inside after that. Ed giggles at the image even as Stede shakes his head, smiling. “I don’t know how they got to be so bright. Lord knows they didn’t get it from my side.”

“Hey, cut that shit out,” Ed says, pointing at Stede. “Those two are so clearly your kids that it’s disgusting. It’s like living with three of you, but two of ‘em are half the size and have none of the filter.”

“Oh, well.” Stede sits up, grasps his knees and smiles down at his hands, flustered but so obviously pleased. “I mean, I don’t— Hm.” He smoothes imaginary wrinkles from his thighs, gathering himself, but he hasn’t stopped smiling when he looks at Ed again. “Anyway, I actually popped by to see if you wanted to watch another film tonight. I know we didn’t have a plan this time, but there’s a whole library of options downstairs, and I was thinking something classic this time.”

“Is Hook not a classic?”

“A modern classic,” Stede says solemnly. “But I was thinking more along the lines of The Philadelphia Story or Meet Me in St. Louis.” His face brightens further, until he’s outshining the bedside lamp. “Oooh, or Bringing Up Baby,” he exclaims, clapping his hands against his thighs. “Haven’t watched that one in ages!”

Fuck, he’s cute, Ed thinks, and ducks his head so his wet hair falls forward, hiding the warmth in his own cheeks. Blushing like a fucking kid. It’s hard to resist, with Stede so excited about his dorky old movies that he’s practically bouncing on the mattress, and all Ed wants to do is take the couple steps over to the bed, clap his hands on Stede’s smooth-looking cheeks, and kiss him.

He does walk over — one step, two — and Stede is beaming up at him like a beacon as Ed turns and settles, perching on the edge of the bed beside him, close enough that when he puts his hand down their pinkies brush. He resists the urge to rub them together. “‘Course I’d love to watch a movie with ya.”

Holding hands is a bit much, yeah, so Ed settles for nudging Stede’s shoulder with his own instead, and he’s not imagining the way Stede leans into the contact for just a breath before pulling back, twisting to look at Ed. “Brilliant. Which one were you thinking?”

“All of ‘em.”

“All?” Stede’s eyes widen, and then his excited smile drops away, morphing into a slight frown as he thinks it over. “Well, we could start, but I’m afraid it would be rather late by the time we go through the first two. Maybe tonight just one of the Hepburns, and then tomorrow night we could—”

“Stede.” The other man stops rambling promptly at the sound of his name, and Ed watches his face, searching every line or flash of movement for a hint of what he’s thinking. “Have you thought about what day it is, mate? What day tomorrow is?”

“Of course I have,” Stede says, raising a hand to wave the question away. “It’s the end of your trial period. Two weeks! I spoke to Oluwande before he left this morning; he should have the full employment contract ready to go tomorrow by lunch, and then it’s only a matter of—” Ed was so busy watching Stede’s expression, he must have slipped in guarding his own, because Stede turns to look at him and his face just falls.

“Oh. You don’t want to stay. Of course— Of course I should have asked first. So stupid.” He looks down and his fingers go tight on his knees, knuckles white, and Ed wants to reach out, pry them loose and lax one by one. “Presumptuous idiot, yet again, but I just thought— The children adore you.” Stede sounds almost pleading, and then his voice softens again. “You seemed like you were having fun, too, but I know—”

His voice chokes off like a record skipping before he kicks up again, more forceful, arguing with someone, “You have your own life, your own place. You have things to get back to, I’m sure, and Izzy, but you could visit. Even if you don’t stay, you’re welcome. You could even keep this room. I’m sure The Swede — have you seen The Swede lately, by the way? — I’m sure he won’t mind if we ask—”

Stede is past babbling now, and Ed gives in to the urge, reaches out and puts his hand over Stede’s. Their fingers intertwine like two pieces of broken vase slotting back together. Ed squeezes, and Stede’s rambling stops.

“I want to stay,” Ed says, feeling suddenly calm amidst the storm of Stede’s emotions. It’s funny. He’d expected to feel nervous now, or even frightened. He’d expected that little kick of adrenaline, like diving off a rooftop with a brand new line. Instead, the waters in his soul are placid, the skies blue. “I just don’t want the fucking job.”

Stede is staring, fingers tight against Ed’s the only reassurance that he’s still listening as Ed looks away, fixing his eyes on the little lever in the bookcase where the closet mechanism is hidden. “The last two weeks, they’ve been some of the best days of my life. I feel like a fucking kid again around here, in a way I didn’t think I’d ever get to. I stopped being a kid so long ago, mate — long before I turned eighteen — and the last thing I want is to spend one more red sky morning waking up on crusty sheets with Izzy asleep on the floor, knowing I could have had this and I let it go.”

There’s a line at the center of Stede’s eyebrow, perpendicular to the furrows in his forehead, and Ed can tell he’s been going in circles, confusing things more by not just saying it, and he was never suited to this verbal dancing bullshit, so he stops trying.

“I don’t want to be your employee, Stede. I don’t want to be your fucking nanny forever. I just want to be here. With you.” And he only gets a millisecond to see the storm in Stede’s eyes beginning to clear before Ed just leans in and finally — fucking finally — kisses him.

It’s stilted at first. It’s been a long time since Ed has kissed anyone, and he can’t remember the last time it felt so very important to get it right. Still, close-lipped and dry as that first brush is, Stede’s mouth is just as soft as Ed imagined. He smells of sweet floral shampoo and still, ever so slightly, of coconut sunscreen, and when Ed reaches up with his free hand, fingertips just skimming Stede’s cheek, stirring his hair, he makes this little sound that has Ed’s heart in a vice, squeezing him from the inside out.

Stede’s lips part, and as their tongues meet, gentle and almost shy, Ed sinks his fingers into that tousled blond hair he’s been dreaming about for days. Judging by the eagerness with which Stede reaches back — both hands on Ed’s face, then curling into the nape of his neck — he’s not the only one who’s been dreaming.

It’s Ed’s turn to make noises, letting a choked off little hum escape when Stede pulls him in closer by the back of his neck, mouths moving together with slick urgency, and all Ed wants to do, all he wants to be right now is closer. His free hand fists in Stede’s shirt before he thinks of the fabric and lets go, rubbing down Stede’s bicep instead as Ed struggles to get some leverage, get to his knees.

His body won’t fucking cooperate, no matter how much he wants to be splayed over Stede’s lap right now, and instead he keeps kissing him, kisses him down with one hand scratching over his scalp and the other in his lower back until they fall back onto the bed, sinking into that glorious duvet and Ed is surrounded with pillows and softness and the clean and heady scent of Stede.

To Ed, it feels like sitting down to a feast after weeks of bread and water. He can’t decide where he wants to start, only knows that every small noise that slips from Stede’s mouth makes him want to spark another. He drapes himself over Stede’s chest, mouthing at his jaw and, when Stede’s head falls back with a sigh, down his neck. His hands slide down, satisfaction radiating through him at the sensation of that firm, broad body finally laid out beneath him, and he plucks at the shirt buttons, remembering how Stede’s chest looked at the water park and eager to get a closer look.

“Oh,” Stede gasps when Ed nips at his jawline, tugs again forcefully at his stupid fancy shirt, and Ed grins. “Oh, my. Ed, I—”

“Yeah,” Ed answers, mouthing at his throat as he finally gets the first button open without popping it across the room. “Me too.”

“No, I—” The feeling of Stede’s adam’s apple bobbing beneath Ed’s lips is delicious. Stede’s hands slip lower, down Ed’s back to settle at the dip of his waist. “I think maybe we’d better… slow down.”

Ed freezes. “Oh.” His cock is throbbing in his pajama pants, obscene against the silk drape and pressed into the side of Stede’s thigh, and it takes willpower he didn’t even know he had not to push forward, to rut against Stede’s leg just a bit more.

He scoots back an inch. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Don’t know what came over me.” He does. Fucking Stede came over him, or he could have if he let Ed keep going, but god the man just got divorced like, yesterday. Of course Ed is moving too fast, too greedy, wants too much of him right away.

“It’s alright,” Stede says quickly. “It’s fine, really; it’s only—” and Ed withdraws a little further, takes his hand off Stede’s chest and prepares for Stede to roll away, sit up, leave, but he’d not prepared for Stede to say, “The children are just down the hall.”

Oh. Yeah. The fucking kids. The kids that may have handled your mother and I are splitting up just fine but might not be so forgiving of immediately walking in on their dad hooking up with the nanny, because Ed wasn’t exactly planning on this being a quiet, subdued sort of experience.

“Here,” Stede says, reaching for his hand, and Ed lets him take it, pull him around and rearrange their bodies however he sees fit. When he’s done, their heads are properly nestled on a single pillow, stretched out on the mattress with their legs intertwined, and Ed’s hand grips the collar of Stede’s fancy shirt as Stede runs gentle fingers through his hair.

It’s not how Ed had hoped for the night to end, exactly, but it’s not—

He’s not complaining.

Stede sighs, and Ed can’t tell if it’s contentment or melancholy, so he makes an inquisitive sound, turns his head until his face is nestled into the pillow, and waits. Stede’s other arm, trapped beneath Ed’s body, rubs circles into his bare lower back. They’re probably meant to be soothing. Ed maintains a careful distance between his hips and Stede’s thigh.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Stede says, and it’s unexpected enough that a breathy laugh slips between Ed’s lips.

“Mate. You’ve got two kids. I know you’re not—”

“No, not that.” Ed doesn’t need to look up at Stede’s face to know the man is flustered again. Heat radiates off him like a stove. “I mean, you know. Relationships.”

“You were married,” Ed says, but it comes out more confused than reassuring. “I’ve never been married. If anyone should be fucking clueless here, it’s me.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t—” Stede cuts himself off with a frustrated grunt. He grips the back of Ed’s head harder when he pauses, as if he’s concerned Ed will use the break in conversation to run away. “Thing were never right, with Mary, and I think that may have been my fault.”

Stede groans softly, and Ed reaches up to sweep some hair back away from his face, lets his hand linger on that soft cheek after, while Stede assembles his words.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s incredible gauche to discuss one’s ex with a new…”

“It’s fine,” Ed interrupts so Stede won’t feel pressured to finish that sentence with any particular word. “I could talk about my exes too, if it helps.”

Stede’s grip on his back tightens. “Please don’t,” he says, voice oddly strained, and yeah, he’s probably right. It wouldn’t be the same. Stede was married. He’s got a family. Ed has a string of unrequited youthful crushes, dubious one-night stands, and a couple fuckbuddies. Might be elevating things a bit to label anyone he fucked more than once as an ex.

“I’m probably no good at any od this,” Stede says again, adding, “but I’d like to try,” and that second half of the sentence is enough to have Ed’s chest aching. He resists the urge to clutch Stede, pull him in for another kiss that’s bound to go too far too fast and land them right where they started.

“That’s the thing I keep thinking about,” Stede continues, staring up at the ceiling over Ed’s bed. “I didn’t try before, not really.

“You know, whatever other faults my father had, he made the right choice when he pointed me at Mary. She was the daughter of some business associate, and I suppose her family had much the same complaints mine did: out of university, having brought home a degree but no fiance. It’s odd to think that anyone would consider your late twenties to be ‘getting old,’ but they certainly didn’t mince words telling us as much. And Mary is a lovely woman on paper — smart, funny, creative. She’s a wonderful mother. We should have been a good match, I suppose. On paper.”

“Alright,” Ed says trailing his hand down Stede’s face to rest over his heart again. He can feel the heat of him through the thin shirt and plucks again at the button he’d conquered earlier. “I know I said you can talk about her, but I think the compliments are getting a bit much.”

He tries to sound joking instead of bitter, but he’s not very good at it judging by the way Stede grabs for his hand, pressing it still. At least his fingertips are touching skin.

“You’re missing the point,” Stede says, frowning slightly, and Ed wants his hand back to touch the lines beside his mouth. “In theory, she was a good match, but the reality was different. We went through dating with all the passion of two colleagues at a networking event, and then we married, and we were like roommates, not lovers.

“We had entire separate lives — her art, my business, her hobbies and mine, and only the children between. God, we hardly even took meals together, and I thought I liked it that way, and I thought she liked it that way, and never once in ten years did I ask.

“Even this bedroom…” He pauses, looking at the walls around them, and smiles. “Do you remember I told you it’s my favorite room in the house?” Ed nods against his chest, and Stede continues. “It’s my room, actually. Or, it was my room. After Louis was born, Mary and I decided to sleep in separate beds. She wanted her comforts and her art, the things that made her happiest. I wanted the things that gave me joy in the room, my treasures —” he takes a breath, squeezing Ed’s waist to pull him closer “— and those things — her joys and mine — they were never the same. We never truly tried to make them the same.”

Holding Ed tight, Stede smiles at the wall across from them with its many books, ships in bottles, and antique navigation equipment. “This is the only room of the house where I ever felt I could be perfectly myself. I never felt I could be that person with Mary.” He turns him smile on Ed, and his hazel eyes soften as he reaches up to stroke Ed’s hair back from his temples. “That’s why I was so pleased when you wanted to be here.”

“I like the ships n’ stuff,” Ed says, a defensive edge to the words. I like you. “Pictures of the sea and all, I don’t know. Feels like home.”

Stede’s eyebrows raise. “Did you grow up on the seaside?”

“Sorta.” It feels off, staring half at the ceiling and barely seeing Stede when he talks about this. He hasn’t mentioned any of this in — fuck, maybe to Izzy, when they were still kids? He can’t quite remember.

Twisting somewhat out of Stede’s grasp, Ed turns on his side to face him, propping his head up on one arm while the other stays on Stede, tiptoeing fingers down the center of his chest. “House I was born in was right by the ocean. Mum said they had the windows open — I came early, surprised ‘em — and she could hear the waves crashing outside when I first started to cry.

“Don’t remember much of living there myself, though,” Ed admits, dropping his arm and sinking back into the pillow. “Playing in the sand, finding crabs, Dad carrying me on his shoulders out into the sea — that’s about all I’ve got. I was only four or five when we left. Dad had work on fishing boats before that, and he wrenched his back. Couldn’t haul nets after that. Couldn’t work.”

“That must have been difficult,” Stede says softly. He cups Ed’s face again, traces the curve of his cheek with a thumb that drifts slow to the corner of Ed’s mouth, and Ed doesn’t even have to turn his head to kiss the pad.

“Like I said, don’t remember. I guess we moved to the city so he could get new work, but I can’t recall him doing much besides drinking and shouting. Not sure which came first, the losing work or the booze.” Things are getting too fucked up for romance. Ed can tell by the way Stede’s open face dims, even though he doesn’t say it. He changes the subject. “All the paintings of the sea and stuff in here, it reminds me of some of the shells and such that Mum held onto after the move. She had ‘em all in a line on her windowsill, and she’d hold them up to my ear.”

Stede’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile returning. “Did you hear the ocean?”

“No.” Ed grins. “Heard a baby scream, though.”

Stede chuckles. “I’m sure you did.” His hand drifts down from Ed’s face to cup his shoulder, then runs along his arm. When their hands meet, he curls their fingers together before raising Ed’s hand to his lips and dropping a kiss on his tattooed knuckles.

The juxtaposition of Stede’s soft lips pressed to the faded ink and scars on his hands makes Ed want to flinch back, but Stede holds him too tightly to pull away without hurting. “My grandmother had a summer cottage at the seaside,” he says, and Ed settles at the soothing tone. “She took me every year before I started school, until she passed and Father sold the property.” His smile is fierce, proud as he adds, “He often told me in later years that she was an old bitch.”

“She didn’t do what he wanted,” Ed guesses, smiling again, and Stede shakes his head.

“Grandmother was the one who introduced me to Captain Blood and Treasure Island. She bought me my first wooden sword at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk near her home, and a stuffed parrot with feet that could clamp onto my shoulder.

“When I came home from boarding school after the first year, the parrot was gone, and the sword, but the books she’d given me were still stashed in my closet.” Stede sighs, rolling onto his back again. “I must have read that old copy of Treasure Island a dozen times, until the binding started to come apart. It was how I’d escape at school when I couldn’t actually leave — staring at the bright-colored illustrations and daydreaming of running away to a life of adventure at sea.”

He folds his arms behind his head, gazing at the ceiling as if he can see through the plaster and out, beyond the dark horizon, to the ocean again. “I suppose I never really outgrew that. I’d have the same fantasy every so often even after the children were born — leaving it all behind and running away. When you think about it, I guess Mary simply beat me to the punch.”

“We could still run away,” Ed says, unthinking.

Stede rolls back toward him in answer, face open and warm. “We could, could we? Just like that?”

“Sure. Off to the sea, steal a boat, and that’s it. Who could stop us?”

“The law,” Stede says dryly. “My children.”

“They can come too.”

“God, no,” Stede groans. “Think of the impact it would have on their education.”

Ed counters, “Think of Alma on a boat,” and then laughs when Stede shudders theatrically.

The way he wrinkles his nose and draws back like a turtle retreating into a shell when he’s bothered by something Ed says probably shouldn’t be endearing, but it is. It’s stupid cute, actually, and Ed has spent days wanting to kiss that weird scrunched up face, so it’s habit to kick that want aside until he realizes he doesn’t have to.

They’re only a few inches apart as is. It’s easy to nuzzle in and peck the tip of Stede’s ridiculous nose.

“Oh.” Stede says, lips curving up in a smile and eyes crinkling, delighted, as Ed draws back. “Hello.”

“Hey yourself,” Ed says, and he goes in easy when Stede wraps an arm back around his waist, tugs Ed in closer until their lips are almost touching, legs overlapping like layers of pastry. “So, are we doing this, or what?” When Stede blinks, Ed specifies, “Running away. Living by the sea. You in?”

“Oh, definitely,” Stede says, and Ed’s heart leaps so high up in his throat he thinks it will spill out his eyes. Then, Stede adds, “In fact, I think I’m already there.”

Ed hums, inquisitive, and Stede squeezes the soft place below his ribs. “I’ve often wondered if some part of me, in some other universe, didn’t have the gumption to follow through. By day, he’s strolling through a quiet seaside village, and then he climbs up the winding stairs each night to reach his bed at the top of a lighthouse.”

That’s… not what Ed had in mind, but at the same time, he likes it. The way Stede describes the moment, Ed can see it, as if Stede is reading him a bedtime story from his own imagination. Ed nestles down further in the pillows, eyes half closing. “You’re a lighthouse keeper?”

“No, I don’t think so.” That cute nose scrunch again. This time, Ed resists, not wanting to distract from the story. “I only live in the lighthouse. I imagine it’s been decommissioned. I’d have a job, of course, in town, running—” He stops abruptly, pursing his lips in thought. “Actually, I’m not sure what I’d be running. A florist, perhaps? Or maybe a book shop. Or both!”

“A florist and a book shop?” Ed scoffs. “Not sure that’s sustainable, mate. You’d get water on the books, looking after the plants.”

“But you’d have everything you need for pressing flowers in one spot.”

“I dunno. I think you need a real business plan to make that one work. What’s your overhead?”

“Well,” Stede answers, smiling fondly as he brushes a damp curl back from Ed’s eyes, “ I’m not sure. Maybe you’ll be able to help me with that.”

“Nah, you get your own plan.” Ed grins. “I’m busy. I’m just up the road, see, and I’ve got my own gig running a—”

“Restaurant?” Stede suggests, and Ed chokes.

“Fuck no; I can’t cook. Not unless you think I can snag Roach out from under you.” Stede looks offended at the very suggestion, even in the context of a fictional alternate universe. “I was gonna say, I dunno, pawn shop.”

Pawn shop would fit. Ed knows stuff. He knows acquiring stuff, valuing stuff. Besides, every town needs a pawn shop.

Stede’s smile brightens at the idea. “Oh! Then I’m running an antique store. It’s next door to the pawn shop.”

“We’re rivals, then?” Ed asks, intrigued. “You stealing my customers?”

“No, no, no,” Stede says, looking smug as anything. “That’s the trick, you see. Everyone in town thinks we’re rivals, but we collaborate in secret and conspire to set the prices together.”

It feels as if something has stuck in Ed’s throat. He pauses for a moment, licks his lower lip and watches Stede’s face closely. “In secret?” Stede nods. “Why’s it gotta be a secret?”

“Well, because otherwise people would know they’re not getting the best prices, and they might go elsewhere.” He smiles, taking Ed’s hand again to bump his thumb along the knuckles. “We’d have to keep our discussions and meetings under the table, perhaps even set up a sort of hidden passage between the shops so we can go back and forth after hours. All very hush-hush. Rather romantic, don’t you think?”

The lump in Ed’s throat has gotten harder to swallow around. He turns his cheek into the pillow to avoid looking at Stede for a second. “Yeah,” he breathes, and it almost comes out sounding normal. Normal enough.

For a minute there, he thought… But he’s not stupid; he knows what Stede is saying, and it’s fine this way. Sneaking around after storytime or fumbling around on the sofa downstairs in the dark, biting their lips to not be caught — it is romantic, sort of. It’s not easy, not like Ed had hoped it could be, but that’s okay. That’s normal. Ed has never gotten anything easy.

He’s drawn back from his thoughts by a brush of lips against the back of his hand. Stede is gorgeous in the lamplight — glowing and warm, a fire that Ed can’t stop himself from touching again, even knowing it could sear his skin right off.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Stede asks, blinking at him from over the back of his hand, and it’s the sort of look that makes Ed want to tell him everything, spill his guts out in a single exhale onto the sheets between them and let Stede pick through the pieces.

Yeah, but he’s not fucking doing that. What a way to wreck the mood.

Instead, he says, “We should take the kids to a real beach.”

Stede beams. “Oh, that’s a brilliant idea! Do you know they’ve never been? I always suggested it, but for some reason Mary vetoed me every time.”

“Well,” Ed says, smiled pulled back to his face despite himself at Stede’s enthusiasm. “They’re overdue, then. Not a real childhood if you’ve never been chased by a swarm of gulls or had your sandcastle wrecked by a sudden wave.”

Stede’s fingers grip Ed’s hand tight, tugging it to his chest. “We could go tomorrow, in fact. It’s not that far. We’ll call it a celebration — the end of your employment, and a new beginning.”

“New beginning,” Ed echoes and tries to keep his smile in place. “Sounds perfect.”

And, if nothing else, when he leans in again, Stede meets him halfway. The kiss is just as sweet this time as the first, and when Stede sighs against his lips Ed clutches the expensive material of Stede’s shirt tightly.

He doesn’t let go even when Stede pulls back, even when he whispers, “I should say goodnight,” against his forehead. “It’s been a big day, and we’ve got another ahead tomorrow.”

“Stay,” Ed tells him, resting his other hand on Stede’s waist.

Stede’s face melts into fondness, and he squirms in closer, draping his arm over Ed in turn. “I have to get up before the children wake,” he warns, and Ed’s chest aches.

“‘Course,” he mumbles, turning his face until it’s buried between Stede’s collarbone and the pillow. “Just a little while longer.”

“A few minutes,” Stede whispers, breaking off on a yawn that Ed echoes back.

It doesn’t take long. The room is warm, and the bedding wraps their bodies up like being cradled against a loved one’s lap. Despite his few minutes, Stede drifts off first, golden lashes dusting his cheeks and pink lips parted. Ed lies there, carefully still, and watches Stede take gentle breaths, fingers twitching where his hands rest on Ed’s side.

He’s got half a mind to stay up all night, enjoying every bit of this he gets, but really, Ed doesn’t last much longer before slipping into darkness.

-

Ed wakes up alone, without even a divot in the pillow beside him to show where Stede had been,

That’s fine. That’s expected. He has a fuzzy memory of waking during the night as the bed shifted, the neon red blur of the clock informing him it was somewhere between one and two in the morning, and a gentle hand brushing back his hair, lips on his forehead and some whisper of nonsense.

There are far worse ways to be left to sleep alone.

The bedside clock reads eight now, and that’s the latest Ed has been allowed to sleep these last two weeks. He stretches back against the sheets, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the rice krispie pop of his joints, and he wonders if this is what mornings will be like now. Ed Teach, nanny, got up at seven to help with the kids. Maybe Ed Teach, former nanny and current dirty little secret gets to lie around in bed as late as he wants.

He’s tempted to test it, stay in the bed on his phone for as long as his aching bladder will allow, but then he remembers the plan — kids, the beach, a new beginning — and feels a twinge of guilt for sleeping as late as he has. Stede had said an early morning, a long drive. Ed has already wrecked that plan, so he rolls out of bed and goes to the bathroom to get ready.

Despite knowing the clock is ticking, Ed doesn’t feel any sense of urgency as he starts the shower and waits for the water to warm. He’s loose-limbed and mussed from the extra sleep, his hair permanently rumpled after sleeping with it damp, and he’ll need the wash to look halfway decent, even if he is just going to get covered in sweat, sand, and saltwater all over again.

His body feels heavy, swaddled in cotton batting, and he makes no effort to fight it off as he carefully soaps his limbs and finger-combs the tangles from his hair. When at last he’s clean and ready, flush from the heat, he steps out and wraps a towel around his waist before padding over to the mirror, wet feet leaving their imprint on the tile.

Wiping the fog from the mirror with a hand towel, Ed faces down his reflection. Even soaked, his hair is visibly more grey than black these days, the thin skin beneath and around his eyes creased. Ink traces patterns across his chest and arms from his collarbone to the gathering of his towel, the lines faded and sometimes broken by scars. He can follow the footprints of his own long history across his skin — the shoddy mermaid tattoo he’d gotten at sixteen from a girl only two years older who’d sworn she was a professional when they met in that truck stop, the splayed, banana-shaped scar on his wrist from falling asleep too near the bunsen burner one night when Izzy was out working without him, the cluster of fading crosses on his arm that he’d done himself, bored beyond belief during a short prison stint.

New beginning, Stede had called it last night, and that’s what it will have to be. Ed isn’t the man he was before, can’t be that guy and this one at the same time. But he can’t take back the past. He can’t erase the memory of where he’s been from his skin.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, deep brown and soft and wondering, and searches the reflection for some clue of who else he can be, who Ed is if not Edward. It’s past time to leave Edward behind for good.

Swallowing, Ed turns on the taps at the sink and reaches for his razor.

It’s easy, in the end. Well, not easy, not physically easy. Going from a full beard to a clean face is actually a pretty time-consuming pain in the ass, and his skin burns from nicks and cuts to flesh that hasn’t felt a blade against it in well over a decade, but emotionally it’s easier than he thought it would be.

When he gets back to his room, the man blinking back at him from the full length mirror in the closet isn’t anyone Edward recognizes. Ed smiles.

Fishing Pete’s borrowed trunks from the laundry hamper, Ed leaves them on the bed to pack for the time being and goes back to the closet, choosing clothes that suit this new guy, no-beard guy. He rolls the sleeves on the lightweight violet shirt to his elbows, cuffs the hems of the soft grey trousers to just above his ankles, and hums a little tune under his breath. This is the kind of man he’ll be now — a man who doesn’t own a leather jacket. A man who wears sandals and linen to the beach.

Ed runs a hand down the line of buttons on his shirt and gives the man in the mirror a soft, warm smile. Yeah. He likes this guy.

He’s humming again as he leaves the bedroom, but he’s forgotten the name of the song. The tune reminds him of long stretches of road, dessert shrubs and killer sunsets. It’s older, he knows. Maybe Stede will recognize the tune if Ed sings a bit for him.

From the second floor landing, Ed can already hear the laughter and chatter of morning in the Bonnet house, and his smile stretches. The children, especially, sound excited — Louis basically squealing with laughter and Alma, words indistinct and muffled by distance, chattering away like she’s had a whole bag of sugar for breakfast. Ed wonders if maybe Stede broke the news about the beach already. It’s a shame — Ed wanted to see the kids’ faces when Stede told them — but that’s what he gets for lying in bed so late.

He shakes off the last of his lethargy now and kind of dances down the next few steps, grinning and eager to get on with the day, to see Stede, to let Stede see his new look, the new brand of Ed.

From the first floor landing he can finally see into the living room below, and the source of all the giggling he heard upstairs — Alma, with her hands planted on the back of the sofa, bouncing on her tiptoes as her ponytail bobs and swings with the movement, and Louis clambering and climbing over the cushions like they’re the steppes of Everest, although shoes aren’t allowed on the sofa. Stede, too, looks excited, dressed from head to toe in ivory that hangs from his broad shoulders and gathers in a froth at his wrists. He’s pink-cheeked, radiant, and he’s crossing the living room in two great strides to greet a woman that Ed has never seen before.

No. That’s not true. Ed has seen her.

He knows her brown curls from the photo in Stede’s bedroom, recognizes her pert nose from the family portrait on the living room wall. Ed has lived in this house for two weeks, and he may never have met Mary Bonnet, but he’s seen her around every corner and smiling down from every shelf a dozen times a day.

And now that smile is aimed at Stede, and when he steps in to reach for her hand, she answers by putting her arms out wide. Stede only beats the children at stepping into the hug because he happens to be closer.

But they’re all hugging, all the Bonnets clustered together in their giant, sumptuous living room with its brocade curtains and priceless fucking art, and then Stede steps back, still beaming like a bride on her wedding day as he watches Mary bend to kiss the children’s heads.

With one hand on each of their little shoulders, she leads them toward the kitchen, smiling down as they talk over each other in their eagerness to catch her up on the summer, and Stede trails after them, so enamored at his perfectly matched little family that he doesn’t once look up at the landing.

Ed goes back upstairs.

At least, that must be what he does, because the next moment he’s aware of he’s in his room, shoulders pressed back to the door to hold it closed, his eyes hot and vision blurry.

Whatever actual schooling Ed didn’t or didn’t have, he’s not stupid. Even Stede signing the papers doesn’t make shit final-final, and it does nothing at all to change the fact that Mary is still Stede’s wife, still Alma and Louis’ mother, that she was born and bred to exist in a home like this one, a family, in every way that Ed never has been.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but all that does is make his cheeks damp, burning the image of Stede’s fond smile on his corneas.

He should have known. He should have heard it in Stede’s voice last night, when he asked to slow down, when he’d babbled on about Mary and what a great woman she was — funny, smart, creative. Who talks like that about a fresh fucking ex?

A secret relationship. Rather romantic, don’t you think?

Shitfuck. Ed pushes off from the door and drops to sit at the foot of the bed, pawing at the tracks on his face with the sleeve of his borrowed shirt. He’s trying to keep it together, but his chest hitches on every breath, loud and jarring in the otherwise silent room. Scrubbing at his face with both palms, he feels unmoored with the too-soft mattress underneath him, the unfamiliar bare skin beneath his hands. It’s all gone fucking wrong.

He blinks the tears back and tries to take control of his breathing, focusing his unseeing gaze on the wall ahead. He can’t go down there. There’s no way he could handle it, seeing that up close, and besides, what would be the fucking point? He can’t fight Mary Bonnet, can’t challenge her to a duel with wooden swords or deck her or even make a damn case for why he should be here instead of her. There’s nothing to say.

Fucking Stede. Ed’s despair flips abruptly to anger, seething. What had the man been playing at last night then, stroking Ed’s face like it was something precious, kissing him, holding him to tight in this very bed while he whispered some bullshit about Ed being one of his treasures.

Treasure. Yeah, right. There’s nothing of value in this room, not really — stupid overpriced bits of fabric and some rusty antique tools, books made up of paper and leather and useless fairy tales. Hell, half the decorations weren’t even real antiques, just shoddy shit that was made to take up space and probably came from fucking Pottery Lobby or some shit: the paper mache globe on one shelf, a crumpled and burned fake treasure map half unrolled a few cubbies down, and then there were the two toy treasure chests on either side of the TV. They weren’t even nice-looking, like the other toy chest downstairs. Ed had pegged them as cheap crap on day one.

He glares at the chests, considering. Smashing shit wouldn’t solve his problems, but it would sure as hell feel good, and those chests would break easy. He can already hear the satisfying crunch.

Wait.

Some corner of his brain, some bit beyond the swirl of fucked up hurt and loop of images of Stede smiling, laughing, pulling Ed closer and then hugging Mary, manages to worm its way through and shake him awake.

The treasure chest to the left of the TV is garbage — particle board, probably, and some plastic latches painted to look like brass — but the one on the right…

The one on the right looks solid. It’s twin to the other in the same way a Posters.com print of Rembrandt"s Night Watch is like the real thing, which is to say, it"s fucking not.

Tears are still drying on his cheeks, making the skin feel tight and tacky, but Edward rocks to his feet, leaving the bed behind to cross the room for a closer look. He brushes his fingers over a spot beneath the chest’s decorative metal latch, a slim strip where the dark oak is worn smooth, and lets out a cracked laugh when the panel springs open under his touch.

“You crazy son of a bitch,” he whispers, staring down at the little row of numbered buttons on the box — a combination pad. Of course. All of Ed’s desperate searching that first week, and the fucking prize was here all along. He could cry for a multitude of reasons, but he finds nothing left in his lungs but a single jagged breath.

His hands are shaking as he steps back, eyes sore from the recent crying jag, and he scrubs the sweat from his palms on his pants before remembering they’re Stede’s — Stede’s fancy-ass designer linen bullshit, now streaked with dark lines from the damp and oils on Edward’s skin.

It’s impossible not to laugh at the irony of the moment, and so he tells himself that’s what the heavy, tight feeling in his chest is when he strips away Stede’s clothes — suppressed mirth. Ed drops Stede’s formerly fine things in a pile beside the laundry hamper and skims into his own old jeans. They’re tighter than he remembers, digging in at the navel to a softness that was never there before, and the overflow makes his old black t-shirt look off, so he grabs the borrowed button-down back from the laundry, throws it over his own shirt as an extra layer beneath his jacket.

He has to stomp down a twinge when he uses Alma’s bright pink hair tie to put his hair up again, this time in a more functional tail, but keeps nudging his thoughts back into focus when they wander. One step at a time. Only think about the movements. Arms up, tightening his hair back, and then down at his side. His duffel bag is still on the closet floor, exploded, and it’s too much work to gather it up, too much time when someone might come to look for him at any moment.

It’s not like the bag matters, or the stuff in it. Edward has what he needs, all he’s ever needed — clothes on his back, phone in his back pocket, his own hands and feet and teeth, and now the box, the thing he came here for, the only reason he’s been in this house for two weeks.

Two weeks ago, he’d walked in the front door — been pulled, really, yanked into the living room by the same gloriously wild-eyed man who’d shared his bed last night — but now, Edward unlocks and pries open the window.

Downstairs is not an option. Too many people, too many eyes, too much— Stede, and his happy family, and his beautiful fucking wife who belongs in the picture like they’d been designed for it — memory. But Ed has always been an expert at finding creative ways to make a sudden exit from somewhere he’s not welcome.

Stede’s bedroom is the only room on the third floor with a balcony, which means that when Edward shimmies his hips out the window with the treasure chest tucked beneath his arm, the rubber soles of his boot scramble for a toe hold on the brick. He clings to the concrete ledge of the windowsill with his free hand, not looking down as he feels around with his feet, kicking sideways with his good leg until he hears the faint clang of hollow metal and finds the drainpipe. Perfect.

It won’t hold his weight — and he was done making that mistake the third time he fell, thanks — but it’s a decent enough handhold to guide him down the wall, cramped toes against the brick facade taking most of his weight.

Besides, he doesn’t have to climb down far or carefully. It’s more about slowing the descent, boots scraping against the textured surface, sending showers of displaced dirt and bits of stone in his wake as he slides, inch by inch, down the wall until he’s a foot down from his window, two, three, and this would have been good enough ten years ago, but now he keeps sliding a couple feet more until finally it’s impatience, not logic, that makes him go fuck it and jump back.

He lands on the second story balcony with knees bent, and the shockwaves still radiate from his toes to spike through his stupid knee, pain bright enough to make him hiss.

The flash of triumph lanced through the hurt is interrupted by a short, strangled shriek.

Edward whips around, clutching the chest tight against his chest, and finds himself face to face with Lucius. He’s rumpled and unshaven in a burgundy robe and slippers, a coffee cup clutched between his palms. A few drops of milk-stained coffee drip down his exposed collarbone where the robe gapes open.

Right. This is Pete’s balcony.

“Ed?” Lucius gasps, mouth quickly overcoming the shock of having a man fall from the sky during his morning caffeine. “What the fuck are you doing? Stede was looking for y—”

Panic lights up every nerve in Ed’s body. Stede. Lucius can’t tell Stede, not now, not when Ed was so close. He has to be stopped.

It’s a wild swing. Both of Edward’s hands are on the chest, but he’s not expecting the weight of it — heavier than he’d thought and lighter, all at once. The balance is all wrong. He aims for Lucius’ head, thinking only of taking him down, buying enough time to get off the fucking lawn.

But Lucius ducks. Not down, but back, like he’s worried Edward was aiming for his face instead of his skull. His slippered feet lose purchase on the concrete as he sways, and Ed has a flash of seeing Lucius’ eyes go wide before his back collides with the balcony rail and he goes backwards.

Goes over.

“Lucius?” Ed hears through the gap in the balcony door. “Babe? I heard a noise. Everything alright?”

And Edward can’t be here, can’t stay to see Pete’s face because this is the side of the house with the garage, the driveway, and it’s not far but he didn’t hear Lucius land, and—

Edward tucks the chest back under his arm and levers himself over the other side of the balcony, dangling down from the rails by one hand. He takes a deep breath, all he has time for, and lets go.

The pain in his leg is nothing compared to the other hurts lancing through him. He’s nothing but one giant ache, and he doesn’t bother trying to protect his stupid fucking knee. As soon he touches the ground, he turns for the nearest gate and doesn’t look back. He runs.