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Ed feels like shit.
He feels worse than shit: he feels like he’s maybe dying, like he’s maybe never gonna feel good ever again, and also like maybe there’s a little man inside his head with an ax, chopping up his brains?
He’s sick. He’s been sick for days, ever since stupid fucking Pete had sneezed fully in his face when the crew had stopped by. They’d all been a little sniffly—that’s how it goes on ships, though, when something starts going around it really goes around—but Ed hadn’t worried about it too much, because he’s always been a tough guy, never been too easy to knock flat, always powered through it, whatever. He can do anything.
Except right now, he’s probably dying, and he’s all alone on the couch, and his head hurts, and—
“Ed?”
Stede’s voice is soft, concerned, gentle, and Ed can’t seem to make his eyes open to find him.
“Ed? Are you all right?”
A cool hand lands on a forehead Ed didn’t even remember he had, soothing the guy with the ax and making Ed shiver with the sheer animal pleasure of the lessening of pain.
“Oh, my darling,” Stede murmurs, and the couch shifts, his warm hip pressing into Ed’s own through the blanket. “You’re burning hot.”
“No ‘m not.” Ed says automatically, tilting his head to press into Stede’s soft hand more firmly.
“Hmm,” Stede says, and leans in closer, bringing his other hand up to stroke Ed’s cheek, and oh, that’s even nicer, isn’t it, gentling Ed’s shivers, dry against Ed’s clammy skin.
When he pets down the side of Ed’s neck, brushes his fingertips over Ed’s collarbone, Ed can’t help letting out a definitely-pathetic little moan. It’s too much. It’s good, but he’s feeling so much already, all of it bad, and the good is just piling on top of it, and when Stede’s fingers pull back—both hands—he lets out a whimper of relief.
“Would you like me to go?” Stede asks, starting to shift, and Ed shakes his head a little too vigorously, feeling everything inside it slosh around and groaning with the awful feeling. He tucks his face down into his blanket, feeling miserable, feeling ill, feeling Stede’s warm body pressing him against the back of the couch and keeping him from floating away, and he slides a hand out to catch Stede’s and tug it towards himself.
“All right.” Stede’s voice has a smile to it, and Ed wishes he could open his eyes without feeling like the world’s moving at a slight, sickly pace, because he loves looking at Stede, at the way his eyes crinkle in the corners and soften and go all sparkly and sweet. “I’ll stay.”
Ed gives his fingers a squeeze, then tucks himself into a ball, brain melting back into sleep one beat of Stede’s pulse under his fingertip at a time. Stede rests his face on Ed’s upraised knees, murmuring a quick is this all right? and Ed squeezes his fingers again, loving the weight of Stede against him, loving the way he’s so careful with Ed when Ed’s feeling tender, feeling bad—loves the way Stede makes him feel worthy of care, like he deserves it. Like he’s loved.
(Because he is.)
In the morning, he’ll feel better—he’ll wake up to Stede setting a cup of tea on the table beside him, and he’ll be a little too hot under the blanket. Stede will bring him a damp cloth, will gently wipe his face, his neck, his hairline, will lead him to the bed and swaddle him in blankets, read him poetry and feed him toast with marmalade, once he’s feeling up to it. By the afternoon, he’ll be a little restless, will move to the chair on the porch, will watch Stede chop wood, will feel much perkier after that—and in the evening, after a filling dinner of soup and crusty bread from the stash of dough Roach had left them in the icebox, he’ll curl himself around Stede in their bed and breathe in the sweet smell of his hair as their feet tangle together. He’ll sleep long, wake up with a clear head and a warm armful of snoring husband, and he’ll smile before he’s even opened his eyes.