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STEDE.
Stede rings the doorbell.
It's a pleasant, sunny morning – or it would be in any other circumstances. He glances sideways at the petunias in the garden to take in the vibrant purple and notes how well-maintained they are. Not by the main owner of the black cathedral-looking home he’s standing outside of, he imagines, with no small measure of fondness. Perhaps a gardener, although he’s fairly sure the second owner of the house wouldn’t be pleased about letting people into his space. He shifts on his feet, glances at the front door and decides to ring the doorbell again.
And then he starts tapping his foot against the porch as there is no further response. He looks down at the welcome mat – although welcome might be an inaccurate assessment of the thing, considering the mat has ‘Come Back With A Warrant’ printed on it. He can hear the sound of the doorbell ringing inside the house, and craning his head to the side reveals the tidy black sedan parked in the driveway in front of his own yellow Maserati.
He should be home, then.
Stede steps sideways to peer in through the closest window for movement. He doesn’t spot anything – it’s only a layer of black lace, but it’s effective when the rooms beyond are completely dark. He thinks he can make out the shape of a gargoyle. Maybe.
No sign of the man he’s looking for, though.
Stede moves back to press the doorbell again. He gets his fingers on the button before the door swings open and he stops to regard the rather displeased-looking man behind it. “Izzy! You’re home.”
Izzy’s expression gets significantly more displeased when he takes in Stede standing there. “No,” is all he says, flat and unimpressed.
“Well, you are,” Stede points out. “I can see you.”
“Get off of my fucking porch, Bonnet,” Izzy says. “You’ve got no reason to be here except to ruin my morning even more thoroughly than it’s already been ruined, so you can fuck off before I get the rifle off the mantelpiece.”
There’s every chance he’s not bluffing. He’s taken shots before and Stede’s not even sure that the time he’d been clipped in the side was an accident, even though Izzy had stitched him up afterwards (which wasn’t much of an apology in the scheme of things but was more than he’d expected after bleeding on the tulips.)
"We need to talk about Ed," Stede says.
"We fucking do not," Izzy tells him, shutting the door.
Stede puts his foot in the way. His boot saves him from the worst of the heavy wood slamming into his ankle but it still hurts. He grits his teeth to avoid making any noises that might encourage Izzy to try it again, gives him a tight smile instead. It doesn’t seem to make Izzy any more amenable to giving him the time of day.
“Izzy,” he says. “I’m not leaving until we talk.”
“Don’t know what you think there is to talk about,” Izzy mutters.
“I think you do,” Stede says.
Because last night had been date night, as in Stede’s date night with Ed, and they’d gone out to a beautiful winery and had dinner as the sun set, and Ed had been quieter than usual but had still cracked jokes like usual, had held Stede’s hand and pointed out a cluster of grapes that looked phallic and laughed. It had been sweet and gorgeous and Stede had been so in love that he’d barely been able to drive them home, unlock the penthouse and make it to the bedroom with Ed’s legs around his waist.
Because they’d started getting undressed and he'd breathed something about Ed being breathtaking, being beautiful, and instead of getting that shy little smile he's used to, Ed had burst into tears.
And that had been the end of the night.
Stede hadn't even gotten a set of pronouns out of Ed today, only a shoe thrown at his head from the lump of silk and sour mood from the couch. His only clue was the words from the night before, sobbed into his nice dress shirt, something largely incoherent about Izzy and he doesn’t- and then something about Ed’s current appearance , the meticulous updo and soft gauzy dress and delicate lacy undergarments, a you didn’t see how he looked at me, Stede, he was-
Stede’s never going to understand Ed and Izzy’s relationship, but he’s hardly going to let Izzy make Ed cry without a fight.
“We can do this the civilised way or the uncivilised way,” he announces, bending his knee so that’s in the way of the door as well.
“Could break your fucking leg,” Izzy says. “Show you uncivilised.”
“I daresay that won’t help your cause,” Stede says.
“Won’t it?” Izzy says.
“I’ll climb in through the window if you shut me out,” Stede says, thinking about Ed’s incoherent sobs. He doesn’t love Izzy (far from it) but he loves Ed, and either he’s going to get to the root of this or he’s going to fight Izzy over it. If he has to kick Izzy’s ass after they try conversation, so be it. (He's not going to be able to kick Izzy's ass, so he very much needs the talking to work.) “After the morning I’ve had, you don’t want to test me.”
Izzy snorts at the threat, visibly unconcerned.
Stede starts mentally calculating how much force he’ll need to put in to break a window enough to climb through without cutting himself open in the process but the pressure on his foot disappears a moment later. He looks up from it to see that Izzy’s disappeared from the doorway, so he pushes it open further and cautiously looks around.
It’s not that easy to spot Izzy at first – he’s bundled on the heavy leather couch in the front room, a thick black blanket around his shoulders. He’s wearing a shirt of Ed’s underneath it (and Stede knows, because he’s seen Ed wear that shirt with the disgusting zombie on it before) and the rattiest pair of sweatpants that Stede’s ever seen, barely hanging onto his legs with torn-open holes in the knees that certainly weren’t put there in the name of distressed fashion.
Stede’s so busy taking in Izzy’s terrible outfit that he’s almost alarmed when he works his way up to Izzy’s face, because the man has bruised circles under his eyes that are darker than Stede’s seen on anyone before. His hair’s a mess, falling over his face instead of meticulously slicked back, and he’s got something green smeared on his cheek.
It's somewhat comforting that Izzy looks like utter shit.
It also means that Stede doesn’t feel quite as willing to fight him. He sits down in the armchair opposite, folds his hands neatly in his lap. “So. Last night. Did you two have a… fight?”
“What Edward and I do is none of your fucking business, Bonnet,” Izzy says. Pauses for a beat. “No.”
“Well if nothing happened, I wouldn’t have to deal with-” Stede starts, then stops. Rephrases. “It affects me when Ed’s upset on our dates. Presumably because of something you did, Izzy.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Izzy says. “Got home from work, Ed got packed and dressed for your little fucking date and left for the weekend, I stayed here. The fucking end.”
“And there was nothing related to what Ed was wearing last night?” Stede says.
Izzy stiffens.
“Izzy,” Stede says, because he’s kind of disappointed in Izzy over this. “My expectations of you are very low already, but for god’s sake.”
“Fuck you.”
“I would’ve thought that you of all people would be comfortable with the exploration of gender identity,” Stede continues and then stops abruptly when he sees the look on Izzy’s face, because Izzy looks like he’s about to cry.
“You’re a fucking moron,” Izzy says, barely audible.
“I,” Stede says. He falters as Izzy swipes at his face with the corner of the blanket, falls into silence as Izzy sucks in a loud, shaky breath.
“Who the fuck do you think did Ed’s hair?” he says, waves his free hand in a gesture that could mean anything. “The makeup, the fucking- picking out the shoes? You think Ed can decide on a pair of shoes?”
“Izzy, I-”
"I dressed her up for you," Izzy says, voice cracking on it. "She was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I dressed her up for you."
Ah.
"I think there's been a-" Stede starts, as diplomatically as he can. Misunderstanding, is what he's about to say, because he'd been fully prepared to chew Izzy out for causing the current situation in his home right now but he's starting to realise that Izzy hadn't even intended to do anything to Ed at all. He doesn’t even seem jealous, just… a little heartbroken, maybe. He's also realising that apparently Ed has been keeping some things apart from Izzy, and it's clearly making Izzy upset.
Izzy doesn’t let him finish the sentence. "You've had your fucking gloating," he snarls at Stede. "Now fuck off."
Goodness, they're bad at communicating.
Stede, wisely, fucks off.
IZZY.
Ed comes home after the weekend, just as planned, and then they begin the practiced art of skirting around each other after the routine exchange of “pronouns?” “No.”
Izzy’s at a disadvantage like this. He doesn’t know what Bonnet had told Ed, is the thing, whether he’d gone back and said that Izzy’s a petty, jealous fuck or if he’d said something more insidious or nothing at all. It’d be more advantageous for Stede, to tell Ed that Izzy’s a fucking bigot. Then Ed would either kick Izzy out or would move into Stede’s apartment for good and Bonnet would get his happily ever after minus Izzy, which he would undoubtedly enjoy.
All Izzy can do is stand under the guillotine and wait for the blade to fall.
It’s nighttime now, somehow. He’d dragged himself off of the couch when Ed’s bike had pulled into the driveway, had made a cursory attempt at showering and collecting what’s left of his pride. He doesn't remember what the rest of the day had held. He's barely aware of his own body as he sits on the couch and stares blankly at the news. He doesn’t care.
"Hey," Ed says.
Izzy can see movement in his peripherals – black leather and soft-curled silver hair, fully-dressed. He inhales and registers the faint floral smell, some sort of vanilla hint to it. It’s the perfume that has made its place on the sink in the upstairs bathroom, the one with the golden flowers painted on it. The one for special occasions, usually. "Going out with Bonnet again?" Izzy says, as neutral as he can make it.
(It isn't very neutral, but he pats himself on the back for the effort.)
"Nah," Ed says. "Thought we could go down to Jack's."
"Jack's a prick and he still owes me five months of rent from two years ago," Izzy says. Two years, three months and five days, to be precise. It’s not like he’s holding out any hope that Jack will pay him back anyway, but he sure is going to bring it up every fucking time he sees the fucker.
"Okay," Ed says, dropping down next to him. Izzy shuffles to the side automatically to make room but Ed ends up pressing a line of warmth into his side anyway, leather and skin and so innately comforting that Izzy's stiff shoulders relax without him meaning for them to. "We can stay home then. You seen that new Predator movie yet?"
We. What's going on? "No."
"Yeah, it's crap. Put on number two, I like that one."
"You're the only one." Izzy obeys Ed’s orders, running on autopilot as he switches the channel and pulls up the hard drive with all their pirated movies that they have plugged into the TV. He turns it on without saying a word, too aware of Ed settled against his side. They do this all the time. It still makes Izzy’s skin prickle, still makes him want to run away as fast as he can physically manage. He’s waiting for everything to fall apart.
“Stop fidgeting,” Ed murmurs, a low buzz by his ear, and Izzy realises he’s been obsessively twisting the ring on his left hand round and round for the last five minutes. “’s my job.”
“Sorry,” Izzy says, and then grimaces. Why the fuck is he apologising? He never apologises. It’s the tension of it all hanging over him, the wait to see what Ed’s going to do to him. Their last big fight, he’d ended up stitching himself back together on the toilet while Ed threw up in the bathtub and slurred something about Stede fucking Bonnet being married. They’d clawed their way back from that, somehow (and so had Stede, to Izzy's displeasure,) but…
Izzy rubs his thumb over the tiny green gem, looks down at the ring. Feels the ache in his chest get a little stronger.
“Watch the movie, Iz,” Ed says.
Izzy watches the movie. Whatever Ed’s planning, nothing happens while Danny Glover is on the screen. Somewhere after the first hour Izzy starts relaxing into the couch despite himself, the familiarity of it enough to lull his body into calm despite his brain working overtime. They used to do this all the time, before Ed got bored and he got shitty. Some of the best days of his life were spent on this couch in a roach-infested apartment, with Ed rambling over the top of their VCR copy of The Return of Jafar.
The Predators hand Danny their revolver.
Izzy blinks out of the haze of memories and vaguely realises Ed’s curled into him now, warm breath fluttering over Izzy’s neck. He briefly suspects that Ed might have fallen asleep but when he shifts to turn off the ending credits Ed stretches out along the length of the couch and yawns.
“Do you want,” Izzy says, pauses. “Another one?”
“D’you?”
“You’re the one who took over the fucking TV,” Izzy mutters, casting his gaze down at the floor. He needs to do a more thorough job of vacuuming, there’s body glitter in the fucking carpet again.
Ed shifts sideways, lips brushing against Izzy’s neck over where the swallow sits. Even now, the touch lights him up in every conceivable way.
Izzy wonders if this is some sort of elaborate torture method. It’s… soft, in a way he’s entirely unaccustomed to. “Kinda tired.”
“It’s nine o’clock,” Izzy says hoarsely.
“Mm,” Ed says, shifts. “It’s fine, we’re old now. Got an excuse. Come to bed with me?”
They both know he’s not going to say no. He switches off the TV and runs through his usual routine of checking the doors and turning off the lights as Ed heads upstairs. He stares down at the light switch. His heart’s racing. What the fuck is going on here? If it’s some sort of pity date before he gets shot or thrown out, Izzy muses, it might still be worth it. He should be making the most of it before he’s gone. (He’d honestly prefer if Ed killed him, because even now he doesn’t know how to live without Edward fucking Teach.)
Izzy sucks in a shaky breath.
Fucking idiot.
Ed’s waiting in the bedroom when he gets up there, lamp casting warm shadows across the room. Izzy glances at where the sheets are pulled back, the duffel bag from the weekend still tossed in the corner and yet to be unpacked. He waits for the other shoe to drop but Ed just turns around, both arms out. "Get my jacket, yeah?"
That's a normal request, because for some reason Ed's obsessed with finding the most difficult clothes in the world. He approaches and finds the first buckle without saying a word, clicks it out with practised ease, moves onto a strap.
Ed doesn’t say anything either and that more than anything makes him nervous, his hands trembling slightly as he pushes the jacket off of Ed’s shoulders and folds it over a chair. He turns back around to find Ed facing forward now, standing there patiently and staring at one of the photos on the wall. Izzy glances sideways at it as well, sees that it’s the one that Jack took when they got out of prison the first time. He’d had a massive black eye from a fight against a man twice his size and it stands out in stark relief against his pale skin in the photo, and he’s scowling directly at the camera.
Ed’s perfect in it, of course, gorgeous even when greasy-haired and messy, an arm slung over Izzy’s shoulders.
The only thing Izzy likes about that photo is that they’re both wearing their wedding rings; Izzy’s around his neck and Ed’s hooked through one exposed nipple.
Izzy looks down at his own ring on his hand now, swallows.
Ed’s still standing there so he drops down to his knees without voicing any of the thoughts in his head, removes the three leather belts automatically. He’s already down here so he moves to Ed’s boots next, carefully takes them off and sets them off to the side, out of the way. He turns back and stops when he sees the sheer black fabric over Ed’s painted toenails, tries to remember which pair of socks these are. He’s not sure he recognises them at all, which is- odd.
Izzy’s still absently going through his mental catalogue of Ed’s wardrobe as he works on Ed’s three belts and leather pants, until his fingers come into contact with lace and silk and he stops, sucking in a shaky breath through his nose.
It's not the same set (he can tell already.) It's white rather than teal, tiny flowers slipping out over the waistband of Ed's pants.
“Needed to clean the dress,” Ed says in a small voice. “Got shit on it the other night. Thought maybe we could go out to Spanish Jackie’s once it’s ready, though.”
“It’s too nice for a place like that,” Izzy says.
“We could stay home,” Ed says. “Fancy dinner. Use the dining table for once.”
“You used the dining table as wood for the bonfire in June,” Izzy says.
Ed blinks. “Oh.”
Izzy doesn’t really get it (why would Ed want to do any of that with him? Now? Bonnet’s been the one that gets all of that,) but he turns it over in his head anyway, pushes at the puzzle pieces in the hopes of making a picture that Ed might like. He'd promised to try for happy this time, not content. Even if he's shit at it. “Bonnet’s… friend. Chef. He has a restaurant.”
“Is it good?”
“Not bad,” Izzy says. He doesn’t mind Roach, and the food’s alright when it’s not overly fancy bullshit. “Despite the company he keeps.” He swallows, looks up at Ed’s face. Clearly Stede had said something, but what-? “Why are you-?”
"I thought you wouldn't like it. You were so fucking quiet when you were - I thought you didn't like it," Ed says. Adds, in a tiny, scared voice, "me."
Izzy swallows, feels a lump in his throat. He pushes the words past it, feels his eyes burn as he says hoarsely, "I liked it too much."
Ed sniffs.
"I like you too much," Izzy says, drops his head and presses it to Ed's hip over the leather and the tiny peek of white lace. It feels easier to say down here, trying to unravel the ball of tangled string inside of himself. "How could you not fucking know by now, Ed, I'm fucking insane over you. I want you so much it feels like I'm dying every single day. How could you think I was ever-?"
“You liked it when I was-”
“I like you,” Izzy says again, with as much emphasis as he can put into it.
Silence, for long enough that Izzy risks looking up again. He can feel wetness on his face, doesn't know how obvious it is. Ed's eyes are wide and shiny-wet too. Whatever Stede’s been telling Ed, Izzy still gets to watch the understanding for his words sink in. He’s not sure why they had to have this conversation at all – he’d have thought after all these years that Ed would know how he felt. That he’d watched Ed leave the other night and had felt utterly shattered with the knowledge that this wasn’t for him to share in, that none of it was. He still catalogues the desperation on Ed’s face, the way Ed’s staring right back at him.
“Alright,” Ed says eventually, barely above a whisper.
“Alright,” Izzy says, and goes to work on Ed’s pants because he doesn't know what else to do.
Ed’s pants get folded on a safe spot on the floor because Izzy’s not ready to move away yet. He’d been right about the socks – they’re new, more stockings than real socks, black at the bottom and shifting through a gradient the further they get up Ed’s thighs, settling into the same white as the panties and the lace straps keeping them up. The panties are more modest than he’d expected, delicate, pretty, tiny peeks of tattooed skin and the curve of Ed’s cock underneath.
Izzy’s technically seen it all before, has seen Ed naked often enough that he could draw everything by memory if he were any good at drawing, but somehow this manages to feel more intimate. He feels like he’s had a baseball bat to the head. He can’t stop staring at Ed’s – everything, god, he thought he'd fucked it all up, what has he done to deserve this?
“Izzy,” Ed breathes, and Izzy leans in to press his face to Ed’s hip again, inhales shakily. He can still smell the perfume, can smell Ed, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with the maelstrom of emotion in his chest.
“You’re,” Izzy manages, barely a croak, “beautiful.”
Ed makes a hoarse little noise. Izzy curls his hand around one nylon-covered ankle, rubs his thumb over the bone. He’s using his scarred hand, twisted and oversensitive, and he looks down at it for a moment and wonders how someone as ugly as him is allowed to touch someone as perfect as Ed.
Izzy turns his face to press a chaste kiss to Ed’s cock over the panties, feels it twitch under his mouth. He’s not really trying to do anything except fill the spaces he doesn’t have words for, the need to try and show Ed how much he feels. A hand lands in his hair, tangles in it. He looks up at Ed and takes in the flushed face and blown pupils, the unambiguous wonder in Ed’s eyes. Like there’s more to see than a tired old man that’s been in the same place for the last thirty years and doesn't have any interest in being anywhere else.
“You’re beautiful too,” Ed murmurs.
“Not like you,” Izzy says desperately. “You’re everything.”
Ed sucks in a sharp, audible breath and releases the grip on Izzy’s hair. “Take your shirt off.”
Izzy struggles to his feet, oddly light-headed. He strips off his undershirt, shirt and vest as fast as possible and lets it fall uselessly to the floor, showing none of the care that he did for Ed’s clothes. He doesn’t make a show of it – it’s not about him.
“Where do you-?” he says, stupid with it.
“On the bed,” Ed says.
Izzy goes without a second thought, sprawls onto the mattress and then rolls onto his back because he doesn’t like that he can’t see Ed while face down. It also means that he’s privy to Ed crawling over him slowly in the delicate lingerie and a black t-shirt, settling between his spread thighs, a position they've been in a thousand times and it never gets tired for him. A car honks outside but Izzy can’t take his eyes off of Ed leaning over him, loose hair making a silver curtain around them.
"Stay," Ed says, pressing his wrists into the mattress.
Izzy can barely breathe, let alone summon the strength to go anywhere. He keeps his hands where they are when he's released, stares up at Ed's face as deft fingers unbuckle his belt, slide his pants and underwear down his hips. He’s so caught in Ed’s expression, pursed lips, a tiny smudge of red eyeshadow that hadn't been washed away, Ed's everything, that he doesn’t realise he’s turned on until Ed pushes up one of Izzy’s thighs and leans down, grinding them together slowly.
It's not comfortable. By all rights, he shouldn't be enjoying this – the rub of Ed's cock against his through the panties, the drag of rough lace and silky-smooth silk. He's not sure he is enjoying it, only that he can't quite catch his breath and he can feel the fabric getting damp with his own arousal, with Ed's.
“Ed,” Izzy gasps.
“Yeah,” Ed says. “Tell me again, Iz.”
“You’re gorgeous,” Izzy says. “You’re fucking- breathtaking, Ed, I want-”
“-what do you-”
“-want to kneel at your feet every day, don’t care if they’re in boots or heels or fucking clown shoes, Ed, I’ll take whatever you give me and when I was- when I was zipping up your dress I couldn’t stand how much I wanted to touch you, you’re so beautiful-”
Ed comes faster than Izzy's expecting, with a full-body shudder and a soft gasp at the word beautiful, shoves him harder against the mattress and pants against his neck, hot and damp.
Izzy just clings tighter, tangles his fingers in Ed's hair to pull them closer together, doesn't let go. He can taste the edges of his own orgasm, though, so he creaks out a, "Ed, please, I'm- I'm close-"
Kudos to Ed, one second doesn't pass before there's a rough hand squirming in between their bodies. Ed's fingers fumble over his cock, pressing awkward for half a beat before they find their rhythm, rolling hard circles exactly the way he likes it. Izzy can't arch into it with Ed's weight pushing him down but he squirms from how much it is, gasping uselessly at the ceiling as his orgasm crashes over him.
Ed turns the circles light but doesn’t stop touching him until Izzy’s trembling all over, until he physically can’t take anymore. He doesn’t realise he’s been crying until he hears Ed sniffle against his neck, suddenly becomes aware of the dampness on his own face that matches what he can feel where Ed’s nose is pressed into his skin.
Distantly, he wonders if everyone feels this ruined over loving someone. If everyone loves hard enough that it crushes them from the inside out.
“Came in my fucking pants,” Ed mumbles distractedly, some time later. “Haven’t done that since I was twenty.”
“You were twenty-one,” Izzy says. “Was in Hornigold’s office when Jack was fingering you under the desk.”
“Oh yeah,” Ed says, rolls off of him. “Huh.”
Silence, for a beat.
“Are these better than the teal, d’you think?”
“Yeah,” Izzy says.
"Gonna have to clean 'em," Ed says.
"Probably a lost cause," Izzy rasps.
"Yeah, maybe," comes the response.
They stay where they are for a long moment. Izzy lets his breathing even out, his skin cooling without Ed pressed up against him.
"I love you," Ed says suddenly. "I know we don't say it, but-"
"I love you," Izzy says in a rush, before it can get stuck in his throat again the way it has for the last thirty years.
Ed's quiet after that.
A hand catches Izzy's, laces their fingers together and holds on tight. He squeezes it back, feels his eyes getting stupidly damp again.
Maybe all of Stede’s stuff about communication isn’t complete bullshit after all.