Archive of Our Own

The long grass brushes against where Ed’s socks are tucked over his trouser legs, and the mud squelches against his boots.

Step, swipe. Step, swipe.

The detector wails, pitching its small, desperate cries directly into his ears through the heavy headset he wears. He stops and swipes again, careful to keep the coil at an even height above the ground even at the periphery of his stroke. Weee-oo. Oo-wee-oo. Oo-weeeeeeeee.

Ed crouches, flicks a blade away from his ear, and pulls a trowel from his utility belt. There’s no real hope in it, anymore, the way there was when he was younger. The wail of the detector doesn’t rouse the same passion in his breast that it once did. The promise of treasure. The promise of a better life. A different life.

He digs the trowel into the soft ground, stabs a definitive circle in the soil and flips out the plug on top of the fallow turf.

Still crouching, Ed grips his detector halfway down the shaft and hovers it above the clump of dirt. Nothing. A worm wriggles, half-way exposed by the clump he’s unearthed. He hovers the detector over the hole. Oo-weeeeeeee.

He pitches his weight forward to peer into the small trench he’s wrought in the ground. There. There.

And that’s what it is that keeps him coming back, time after time, season after season. His heart pounds, for a moment, against his ribcage, but it’s out of habit more than anything. He reaches elbow-deep into the hole and feels with his fingertips along the cool loam until the blade of his thumb catches on a rough edge, and he digs his fingers into the spongy dirt and pulls up the handful for inspection.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump–

“Find something?”

Ed looks up, squinting against the glare of the sun, low on the horizon. Izzy is standing before him, hip cocked, leaning on his detector, headset hanging loose around his neck. Ed pushes his own headset down, where it traps his long, salt-and-pepper hair somewhat uncomfortably against his own sweaty throat.

“What’s that?”

“Find something?” Izzy repeats.

Ed glances down at the handful of soil clutched in his left hand, and opens his dirt-stained fingers one by one. Izzy crouches down across from him, peering into the small trench as Ed gently brushes at the dirt clod to reveal–

Ah.

“Pull top,” he mutters.

“Go fuckin’ figure.” Izzy turns and spits. It lands heavily on the grass, like a slug. Ed busies himself brushing the rest of the dirt off and pulls out his magnifying glass.

“Looks like… nineteen seventy-two? Seventy-three?”

Izzy shrugs.

“What about you?” Ed asks, without any real interest.

“Two pound twenty in change,” Izzy says, patting the pocket of his black cargo pants, which jangle accordingly.

“Nice one.”

Ed wipes the pull top against the leg of his pants, and rubs with his thumb to get the last bit of dirt off, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small plastic bag full of pull tops, and slips this one in with the others. He’ll sort them out by date and manufacturer when he gets home. For now, though…

“Let’s call it,” he says.

Izzy nods. “Pub?”

Ed sighs, and pulls off his headset. He gathers his hair off the back of his sweaty neck and bundles it into a messy bun on the top of his head, relieved at the brush of rapidly cooling evening air against his warm skin. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t particularly feel like going to the pub, what with the noise and the smoke and the urgent press of bodies all around him. The thought of going home, though, to his quiet flat, with the plants, and the laundry he still hasn’t folded since Saturday and the cup of tea he abandoned half-drunk on the windowsill in the kitchen, and all his empty cupboards, is somehow worse.

So.

“Yeah,” he says, “Go on.”

He tips the small pile of dirt back into the unlucky hole he made, bangs the excess off his trowel against his boot, and hoists his detector over his shoulder. He can feel the sun’s last rays warm against his cheeks. Izzy still has his back to the sunset, and when Ed turns to him with a jerk of his head in the direction of the road, he fancies there’s a bit of an odd look in Izzy’s eye.

“What’s up, man?”

That seems to shake Izzy out of whatever daze he’s been in.

“Nothing,” he says gruffly, “You’ve just got a bit of dirt–” and gestures broadly at his own left cheekbone. Ed wipes at his cheek. “–no, it’s more–” Izzy makes an abortive gesture with his own hand, like he might reach out and touch Ed’s face. Ed doesn’t flinch away, but Izzy drops his hand by his side. “Never mind,” he says, and turns towards the road.

Ed shrugs and falls into step with him, four safe paces away.

A lamb bleats from the field nearby, and its mother answers it, a moment later. Small clouds of midge flit in the last golden beams of the setting sun, moving together by something like telepathy, buffeted by the gentle evening breeze and the cooler air rising from the nearby creek bed.

They reach a border fence and Izzy hops the stile, landing rather neatly on the other side. Ed tries to do the same, but jars his bad knee slightly upon landing, and swears.

Izzy watches him rub at his thigh for a moment, mouth twisted in something like sympathy, but says nothing. Ed flexes his leg a few times and then nods, and they walk on.

“You going to the talk on Tuesday?” Izzy asks, a moment or two later, as they hit their stride again.

“Hm?”

“Buttons is giving a talk about… well, buttons. At the club. On Tuesday.”

Ed groans.

“Yeah,” Izzy scoffs, “Load of shite. Did you catch University Challenge last night?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, “Absolute wanker who won.”

“I hate it when they do that,” Izzy says, “Wave their arms around in the air like they’ve won the bloody thing all by themselves.” He raises his arms in a cruel imitation. “Ooh, look at me,” he lisps, “I’ve won a trivia contest.”

Ed snorts. “Yeah,” he says, “Bloody wankers.”

“Absolute wankers.”

It’s just gone dusk when they arrive back at Izzy’s car, an inappropriately sporty little number in a surprisingly kicky yellow. Izzy’s gruffly embarrassed about the car, but Ed knows that he loves it, has even caught Izzy cooing to it, in more private moments, when he thinks he’s alone.

Izzy opens the boot and pulls back the tarp he keeps there to protect the interior from the dirt they often end up tracking back with them. Ed perches on the bumper and pulls his boots off one at a time, shaking out some small pebbles and brushing off the excess grass while Izzy packs away their gear.

Ed reaches out wordlessly to accept the flask of tea Izzy offers to him. He winces as it swishes into his mouth, strong and hot and bitter.

“Excuse me! I say, excuse me! Gentlemen!”

“What the fuck?” Izzy mutters, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazes at the approaching figure.

Ed swallows his mouthful of bitter tea and squints at the newcomer. He’s… definitely different. He’s wearing a ridiculous get-up, matching top and bottoms in what appears to be a bright turquoise camouflage pattern, though Ed isn’t sure what god-awfully gaudy landscape could possibly conceal anything of that hue. His hair is golden, pure golden strands like the wheat in the field they just crossed, gently curling over his forehead and about his ears. His cheeks are lightly flushed with exertion as he trots down towards them over the crest of the hill. His boots are sturdy, expensive-looking, and definitely brand-spanking-new.

He absolutely doesn’t belong, is Ed’s first thought, and it’s not just his looks. If Ed had to pinpoint it, he’d say the man is downright chipper. It’s a little grating, honestly, especially because Ed is tired and his knee fucking hurts and he’s already dreading going to the pub, now that he’s agreed to it.

The man jogs up to them, and takes a second to catch his breath, panting and half-crouched with his hands on his ridiculous knees.

Ed and Izzy watch impassively.

“Whew,” he says, finally, straightening and putting his hands on his hips. “Hard walking around in these things, isn’t it?” He wiggles a be-booted foot.

Izzy snorts derisively, and Ed just shrugs. His own boots are heavy and steel-toed, yes, but soft and worn, and practically molded to his feet. He’s well used to the tramping gait they encourage.

“Are you metal detectors?” the man continues, seemingly oblivious to his at-best-lukewarm reception.

Izzy scoffs and Ed groans. He could mouth the next words along with Izzy, for how many times he’s heard them. “Those,” Izzy says, gesturing at the detectors in his trunk, “are the metal detectors. We’re detectorists.” Izzy crosses his arms and positions himself in alliance with Ed, who can’t help but roll his eyes. Even though Ed’s seated and hunching, Izzy, standing at full height, is only a handful of inches taller than him.

“My sincerest apologies.” The man gives an awkward half bow, like something out of another fucking century. He’s so un-self-conscious about it all, though, that Ed can’t help but crack a small smile. “I’m a student at the local university– naval history. I’ve heard there’s a number of sites of piratical import around these parts, and I heard there was a gang of local detector –er– detectorists, and thought: wow! That’s bound to be an interesting perspective.”

He’s practically bouncing on his toes, almost comically animated in his physical and vocal gestures. It should be exhausting, really, but Ed just finds it… sort of charming? Weird.

Next to him, Izzy heaves a long-suffering sigh. “There’s really not much to be found in the way of buried treasure ‘round these parts. Mostly just bottlecaps and pennies. Bits of wire.”

The man scrunches his face up in disappointment that’s nearly as loud as his excitement. “But wasn’t the Dread Pirate Blackbeard rumored to have a hoard hidden somewhere in this part of the world?”

“Right,” Izzy snorts, “Most of what’s known about him is conjecture. More to the myth than the man, if you ask me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the man looks sheepish for the first time in this whole bewildering interaction. “I’ve always loved those stories. Figured there was probably at least a tiny grain of truth in them, don’t you think? Where else do the legends come from?”

“He’s got a point, Iz,” Ed says, grinning, and leaning back on his elbows.

The man beams. It’s nearly bright enough to stave off the burgeoning darkness beginning to surround them now that the sun has dipped behind the hills.

There’s a warm breeze kissing along Ed’s cheeks, and it smells like summertime, and he’s transported, briefly, in that way that certain scents sometimes provoke in him, to a different time. The excitement and nervousness of it all. Treasure. Or the possibility of it, even. Just out of sight.

Ed knows that he should be too old and jaded to believe in buried treasure (the cheek of it, the inexcusable romance of it) but underneath that, buried further and deeper into his own heart and soul than even Izzy’s souped-up detector could detect, is a part of him, long forgotten, that thinks, yes, maybe here, maybe now. Maybe me.

He finds himself beaming up at the man, who beams back, and sticks out a jovial hand.“I’m Stede,” he says. An odd name, but it suits him, an odd man.

“Ed,” he says, taking it. The man’s– Stede’s– hand is soft and warm, no hint of calluses. It’s nice. Ed is suddenly self-conscious about the amount of dirt on his own hands, and pulls quickly away. “This is Izzy,” he adds, belatedly, having forgotten, for a moment, that Izzy was there at all.

“Charmed,” says Stede.

Izzy tilts his chin ever so slightly in acknowledgement. “Aren’t you a little old to be a student?” he asks, a little meanly, Ed thinks.

“Ah yes,” Stede says, “Well I’m a mature student, obviously. And I’m actually just auditing classes. Read Business my first time around. Just looking for a change of pace. You know how it is. ”

Ed doesn’t. From the look he’s giving Stede, Izzy doesn’t either.

“I’m, uh, finding it a bit hard to fit in with my fellow students, though,” Stede continues sheepishly. “The university has a detecting club, actually–”

“Wankers,” Izzy hisses quietly.

“--excuse me?”

When Izzy doesn’t seem keen to elaborate, Ed shrugs, and explains, “The university club is officially affiliated with the Danbury historical society. They get loads of sponsorship– well, it’s all relative when it comes to metal detecting, but relatively loads– and any dig site in the area of actual historical importance, they get priority.”

“Ah–” Stede frowns a little at that. “Well that’s disappointing, certainly, but I’m actually not interested in joining the university club. They’re a bit–” he grimaces, “Young? I was more hoping to meet enthusiasts that are… our age,” he says, gesturing companionably between the three of them. “I’m afraid I don’t get along very well with the other students on my course. Young people can be very cruel, can’t they? I don’t suppose your own club is looking for new members?” he says, hopefully.

“Usually are, mate,” Ed finds himself saying. “There’s actually a talk on buttons this week at the scout hall.”

“Wow! Buttons!” Stede seems genuinely interested, if his absurdly twinkling eyes are any indication.

“Yeah,” Ed says, with more enthusiasm than he really feels on the subject. “Should be great. Maybe we’ll see you there.”

“Definitely,” Stede says, grinning at him.

Ed grins back.

“What the fuck was that?” Izzy says to him once they’re back in the car.

“Hm?” Ed’s been staring out the window, silent, for the last few minutes.

“Are you actually going to the talk on fucking buttons?”

Ed shrugs. “Could be a bit of fun, Iz.”

“He probably won’t even show up, you know.”

“Probably not,” Ed sighs lightly. And why is that thought so depressing? What is it about the man and his absurd outfit and his frankly off-putting level of enthusiasm that seems to have twisted its way into Ed’s chest and pulled?

They reach the village and Izzy pulls up outside the pub. It’s dark now, and the interior looks warm and inviting, but Ed lingers for a moment when he gets out of the car.

“Coming?” Izzy says, turning back in the doorway. He’s framed by the light inside, and it glints off of his hair, turning it golden in a way that stirs something wistful and a little sad in Ed’s stomach.

“Nah, Iz,” Ed says, feeling a wave of relief wash over him as he finally decides. “You go ahead. I’m gonna walk home.”

“Oh,” Izzy hesitates in the entry. “D’you want a lift? Maybe fancy a cuppa instead?”

“Nah. Cheers, mate. Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

It’s hard to tell if Izzy is disappointed, but he shrugs, after a moment, knowing better, apparently, than to try and argue with him.

“Well, will I pick you up on Tuesday, then?” Ed can’t see it, but there’s a distinctly audible eye-roll.

“Yeah,” Ed says, “That’d be good. ‘Night, Iz.”

“‘Night, Edward.”

He walks away into the night without looking back.

Ed’s just sitting down to his lunch of a sad sort of ham sandwich on Monday after a morning of fruitless job searching and a half-hearted wank in the shower, when his phone buzzes.

Iz has sent an attachment, says the notification.

Ed swipes it open with one hand while he takes a bit of his sandwich with the other. It’s terrible, but he chews it for the necessary sustenance it provides, only wincing a little at the taste.

At first, he thinks Izzy’s sent him some kind of abstract art, but then it resolves into an aerial photo of a patch of fields. A second text comes in with GPS coordinates.

? Ed texts back.

Do you know if anyone has detected here?

Where’d you get this?

Google Earth. Looks like a promising spot, geographically.

No idea, mate. Maybe WJ knows. Ask him on Tuesday.

Busy tonight? Making curry. Come over.

Ed looks at the disappointing sandwich flopping limply in his hand, and thinks about the prospect of eating another one for dinner.

K, he texts back.

At half-past six, Ed unfolds himself from the couch, wincing a little as his knee cracks. It’s a little swollen after the tweak at the weekend, so he grabs his brace before he heads for the door.

There’s a chill in the air this evening, and he’s glad of his beard and hair for coverage, if nothing else, as he hunches his shoulders against the cold.

Izzy lives about a twenty minute walk away, a route so ingrained that Ed hardly has to look up once along the way. He stomps up the steps to the back door and Izzy waves at him through the kitchen window as he lets himself in.

“Beers in the fridge,” Izzy says by way of greeting. He’s holding a wooden spoon and wearing an apron that Ed thinks, albeit fondly, makes him look like an idiot.

“Cheers,” says Ed.

It’s… technically true. Izzy’s fridge is as bare as Ed’s own except for the beer. Ed grabs two, and opens them on the edge of the counter, handing one to Izzy. He sips and leans against the counter as Izzy stirs and sniffs the pot on the stove. Ed watches as his nose wrinkles in distaste, and smiles a little around the lip of the bottle.

Izzy is a very… utilitarian chef, if one could call it that. Ed’s always suspected he only cooks because he needs food to survive, not because he has any interest in creating anything that tastes good.

Still, he can’t complain, because Ed also needs food to survive, and this way, he doesn’t have to make it himself.

“So I’ve been looking on Google Earth,” Izzy says, business-like, as he grabs an industrial-sized tub of curry powder from the otherwise empty spice rack to the left of the stove and shakes a generous amount into the pot, “and I reckon I’ve spied a promising site.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Don’t know whose land it is. Might need permission, I suppose.”

“‘Spose we might.”

“Grab a couple of plates, there.” Izzy sniffs the pot again and frowns. “Done as it’s gonna get.”

Ed grabs some plates from the cupboard and a couple of forks and knives from the cutlery drawer and sets the table as Izzy spoons out generous portions of curry. He pulls out his laptop and they tuck their chairs close together so that Izzy can walk him through the site using satellite images. When he talks Ed through the surrounding geography and pulls up historical maps to show Ed the old waterways (“–so say I’m Blackbeard, and I’m sailing up this strait– just here, see?– to, I don’t know, pillage a church or some other pirate-y bullshit–”), Ed has to concede that he’s right: this is indeed a promising area.

The curry is awful, but it’s warm, and there’s vegetables in it, technically, or there were at some point, so Ed tucks it away readily enough.

Izzy gets them both a second beer after dinner, and on his way back to the table, he says, with calculated casualness, “I’m thinking of getting the band back together.”

“The band?” Ed takes the beer but raises his eyebrows incredulously, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Izzy says gruffly. “Wrote a new song. Probably no good. Thought I might play it at the open mic at the White Horse next Thursday. You in?”

“Fuck. Seriously?”

Izzy nods.

Ed reclines with a grin. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Izzy hesitates a moment, and then nods and puts his beer down. He digs next to the couch before coming up with an old mandolin. Ed smiles into his mustache a little. He’d found the mandolin in a charity shop years ago and given it to Izzy as a gag gift, but instead, it led to a very short-lived stint as a cover band and an even shorter-lived stint performing some of Izzy’s original songs at open mics around the county.

Izzy slides down to the floor and crosses his legs. Ed raises an eyebrow, and he blushes a little. “Practiced like this too much,” he says, “Can’t play in any other position, now.”

“What about at the open mic?”

“I’ll just play sitting down, I guess.”

“Fuck, man.” Ed chuckles. “And what am I supposed to do? Just loom behind you with the guitar?”

“Fuck off.”

Ed snorts. “Go on, then.”

Izzy shakes his head, and takes a moment to compose himself before hesitantly plucking out the first chords.

Ed watches him concentrate, and nurses his beer. Izzy’s got a nice voice, and it’s not like Ed knows anything about poetry or music, but his songs always rhyme in a pleasant sort of way, and they, you know, make sense, even if they don’t make sense. This one is about a sailor lost at sea who keeps imagining he sees lighthouses along the shore, and that he’s made it home, but is ultimately mistaken each time. It’s sad, probably, Ed thinks, because of all the minor chords, but he notes a few points where he thinks he could add a nice harmony to the mix.

Izzy finishes, and looks up at Ed from the floor.

“Yeah,” Ed says, “It’s good.”

There’s a long pause.

“Just… ‘good’?” Izzy asks, soundly slightly piqued.

“It’s– fuck, man.” Ed scrubs a hand over his face. “You know I’m shit at lyrics and stuff. It’s. Yeah, it’s. Good. It’s… pretty, or whatever.”

Izzy snorts. “Well if you don’t like it, we don’t have to–”

“Iz,” Ed rolls his eyes, and leans far enough forward that he can grab Izzy’s shoulder and give it a little shake. “It’s great. Amazing, even. It’s the best song in the whole fucking world. Five stars. First class. What do you want me to say?”

Izzy shrugs a little petulantly.

“Yeah, see?” Ed releases him and settles back in his chair. “It’s good. I’m in. Let’s do it. Next Thursday?”

Izzy looks like he’s going to say something, but in the end, he just presses his lips together and nods.

“...and when we consider the number of buttons on the average pirate’s uniform, as it were, and the number of gold coins that were regularly distributed among crew members, is it really any wonder that we find so many more buttons than gold coins? Thank you.”

Ed jerks awake just in time to clap exactly twice as Buttons switches off the projector.

He’s not the only one to have dozed off, he sees, looking around him. Ivan and Fang are openly snoring. Jim is discreetly wiping some of Olu’s drool off of their shoulder. Lucius and Pete have clearly been necking throughout the entire presentation. Roach is staring at Buttons intensely, but then, Ed thinks, Roach hardly has another way of looking at anything. Wee John, Swede, and Izzy just look a bit glassy-eyed, and Frenchie is watching a video on his phone.

Perhaps predictably, there’s no sign of Stede.

“Er, great,” says Wee John, with a bit of a start, “Thank you very much, Mr. Buttons. Frenchie, the lights?”

There’s a pause.

“Frenchie?”

“Hm?” Frenchie looks up placidly from his phone. “What’s that?”

“The lights?”

“Yeah, babe.”

Frenchie reaches over and flicks the light switch and the fluorescents flicker back on, illuminating the scout hall. It’s a large room, technically multi-purpose, with a stack of folding chairs and tables in one corner. There are exactly thirteen folding chairs set up, grouped haphazardly around the old projector. A single table against the sidewall bears a sign that reads “Finds Table.”

It’s empty.

“Well,” says Wee John standing up and taking Buttons’ spot at the front of the room, “Club business. The next in our presentation schedule is,” he consults a clipboard, “Roach, with a talk about shrapnel. That’s nice. That’ll be next month. First Tuesday, as always. And,” he flips over the single piece of paper. “That concludes club business.”

“Actually, Mr. Feeney,” interjects Izzy, “I was wondering if you knew who owned the farm back to the west of the ring road once you pass Hawk’s Lane.”

Wee John strokes his chin for a moment. “I may be wrong but I think that farm belongs to Spanish Jackie.”

“Oh my god,” says Lucius.

“What? Who’s that, babe?” asks Pete.

“Isn’t she that woman whose husbands keep disappearing? Yeah, the Gazette ran an article about it ages ago, there was some big kerfuffle, and an investigation, but nothing came of it. They couldn’t find any evidence.”

“Aw. My intrepid reporter,” says Pete, ruffling Lucius’ hair.

“Aye,” says Buttons, “Good fucking luck gettin’ permission to detect there.”

“It does seem a bit unlikely?” adds the Swede. “If she murdered them, a farm would be the perfect place to hide the bodies.”

Jim nods in agreement.

Izzy waves a dismissive hand. “Leave it to us,” he says. “We’ll get permission.”

Ed isn’t so sure.

“Well,” Wee John says, rubbing his hands together. “Keep us posted. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

There’s some general mumbling and shifting of feet and chairs.

Fang starts awake and shakes Ivan. “Pub?” he asks.

Ivan blinks sleepily and nods.

As they’re preparing to leave, the double doors at the end of the hall burst open dramatically.

“Hi all!” It’s Stede. “Is this the right–? Ah yes!” He waves at Ed and Izzy. Ed waves back, with a small flutter in his stomach that’s something like disappointment being replaced by relief. Stede’s not wearing his ridiculous camo today. He’s swapped them for a pair of tight red jeans and an aggressively flowered shirt. He stops as thirteen sets of curious eyes land on him and stick.

“Hey! Stede!” Ed scrambles belatedly to his feet and walks over to shake Stede’s hand in welcome. “Guys, this is Stede. Stede, this is the Danbury Metal Detecting Club.”

There’s a weak chorus of ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s.

“Did I miss the presentation?”

“Yeah, man, sorry, but–”

“I could start over, if ye like,” Buttons offers.

“No–” Ed cuts in quickly before Stede can say yes. “No, he’ll just have to catch the next one, I guess. Guys, Stede’s a student of history– naval history–” he self-corrects, “Pirates and all that. Arrrgh. And he’s keen on the perspective we might have as detectorists. Thought he might join up. Become the newest member of the esteemed DMDC.”

Ed’s babbling. He can feel himself babbling. He can’t seem to stop babbling. It’s just that there’s been a pit in his stomach since he rocked up to the scout hall and saw no sign of Stede, and now, it’s like there are fireworks going off inside his chest. Very uncomfortable, but.

“I’d like that,” Stede is saying, with a soft smile. “If you all will have me.”

“Great!” says Ed, “Yeah, great. Really great. We always need new members, anyway, right guys?”

Another chorus of vaguely affirmative noises.

“There you go, then,” Ed says, giving Stede’s shoulder a friendly clap, “It’s settled.”

“Oh, well that’s. That’s really very kind of you all,” Stede stammers, looking pleased.

The rest of the club, collectively, is still just staring.

“We were just heading to the pub, weren’t we, lads? Ivan? Fang?” Ed raises his eyebrows at them all meaningfully. “Lucius?”

“If you say so,” Lucius drawls, wryly.

There’s a general groaning and scraping of chairs as the group stands, en masse, and heads for the exit, stacking their chairs as they go. Frenchie hums as he helps Wee John disassemble the empty finds table. In ones and twos, the club files towards the door.

“That’s Pete,” Ed’s saying, “And Olu and Jim. This is Buttons– he was the one giving the riveting talk tonight. Maybe he’ll fill you in over a pint, eh?– and of course, you know Izzy already.”

Izzy gives Stede a silent nod, and shoots Ed a Look as he exits behind Buttons. Ed ignores him.

“And that’s the Swede and Frenchie and Roach and our president, Wee John.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Stede says, “And, um, you know, thank you for, um, granting me entry to your club.” This last part to Wee John.

“Ah, like, we’ve never been particularly exclusive,” Wee John says, as he locks the hall door behind them with a key he keeps on a fob attached to his belt by a retractable lanyard. Stede’s smile doesn't waver. “Anyway, see you there.” He nods to Ed, and catches up to Frenchie, who takes his arm.

“And thank you for the introductions,” Stede says to Ed, as they fall in step behind the group. He bumps Ed’s elbow with his own, and it makes Ed feel warm, for some reason, even though the night’s a bit chilly again.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “Can hardly leave you to fend for yourself among all the youth, can I?”

Stede chuckles. “God, I hope not. They seem like a nice crowd, anyway. Colorful bunch.”

Ed can’t help but give a skeptical nod to Stede’s own get up.

“Oh,” Stede catches the look and blushes, “I wasn’t sure what to wear, honestly, and– I just meant. You know. Metal detector –er– detectorists. Bit of an unusual hobby, you know? Who are they? Et cetera.”

“Well, I mean, on the surface, typically, you get a mix,” Ed says, “You’ve got the real die-hards, like Ivan and Fang, who are in it for the technical challenge. There’s gearheads, like Izzy and Pete. Collectors, you know? You’ve got the academically inclined, like yourself,” he nods to Stede, who gives him a soft, pleased smile, “You’ve got your war nuts, like Roach. He’s into the more recent stuff, shrapnel and things, not so much the really ancient stuff. There’s a number of people who are into it for the more local aspect of the history, like Oluwande and Wee John. And then there’s just sort of… the assorted hangers on. Lucius is Pete’s boyfriend. He doesn’t really detect much, himself, but he just knows a lot about it by association. He’s a reporter for the local herald. Does write-ups on any notable finds. Does adverts for Buttons and Frenchie’s jewelry retrieval business. Stuff like that. I think Jim just likes the excuse to be alone in a field, honestly. Doesn’t give too much away, that one.”

“What about yourself?” Stede asks.

“Oh, I’m in it for the gold,” Ed says, grinning. “I mean, secretly, we all are. We say we’re happy finding ring pulls and buttons, but really, we’re looking for buried treasure.”

Stede’s eyes sparkle. “Ever found any?”

“Treasure?” Ed sucks on his teeth for a moment. “It depends what you consider treasure,” he says, finally. “I’ve found coins. Some old, some not. Some rare, or rare enough.”

“Wow!” Stede says.

It’s a word he says a lot, apparently, a word that would normally make Ed bristle, assuming he was being mocked, but Stede only seems perfectly, painfully earnest.

“I guess,” Ed chuckles. “But no. I’ve never found any gold or anything. Copper. Bronze. Loads of silver. But no gold.”

“No long-lost pirate’s booty?”

“You sound like a bit of a treasure hunter yourself, man, watch out.”

Stede only shrugs. “I guess I just like the idea of holding something that, say, a Saxon once held. A king, maybe. Someone who had a voice, and a life and–” Stede inhales deeply, and then releases it with a helpless gesture of his hands. “I don’t know how to say it, really,” he says, “I just… I love the idea of that, you know?”

Ed’s heart is beating very fast for some reason, as he releases a small, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, man,” he says, “I think I do.”

Stede’s expression turns instantly grateful, and he reaches out and squeezes Ed’s arm warmly for a moment, as they walk. “So,” he says, then, clearing his throat. “How long have you and Izzy been together?”

“Like, together together?” Ed knits his eyebrows, “Whoa, no. It’s not like that, with Izzy. We’re just mates.”

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume–”

“Nah, you’re alright, man.”

“I’ve got, by all accounts, broken gay-dar, so–”

“--Nah, it’s.” Ed scrubs a hand over his face, which is suddenly very hot, even in the cool night air. “Jesus. We used to go out, really briefly, a long time ago. Didn’t work out. We’re just. We’re better off as friends than–”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“You’re okay, man.”

There’s an awkward silence. The first, really, that Ed’s had in Stede’s company, so far. It feels… unnatural for him.

“Um,” Ed says finally, “What about you? Are you…married or seeing anybody, or…?”

“I’m–” Stede winces, and Ed’s stomach drops a bit. “I’m, uh, sort of in the middle of a divorce, right now.”

Ed hisses sympathetically. “Fuck, man, sorry.”

“No, it’s.” Stede laughs a little, sounding strained, “It’s for the best, I think. For both of us.” He hugs himself a little protectively as they walk. “That’s why I’ve come here, anyway. Fresh start and all that. Thought I would, you know, reevaluate my life. Seemed like the time. Find something that makes me happy.”

He looks miserable, now, though, and Ed wants nothing more than to make that go away, and bring back confident, earnest, self-assured Stede.

“Look,” he says, “Good for you. Most of the people I know? They’re fucking miserable. So you’re doing a lot better than them.”

“Thank you,” Stede says, in a small voice. “That’s. You’re kind, Ed. Thank you for that.”

“Nah.” Ed blushes, grateful that he can hide in his beard at moments like this.

They’ve been lagging behind the rest of the group, consciously, at least on Ed’s part, wanting to drag this out, for some reason, but they finally reach the pub. Ed holds the door open for Stede.

“Pint?”

Stede grins at him, eyes bright, earlier awkwardness completely gone. “Yeah alright,” he says, “Pint.” He presses warmly past Ed and into the pub and Ed takes one last breath of clear, cool air, before he follows.

The others are at a table in the corner already, and by the time Stede’s bullied Ed into letting him pay for his pint, and they go to sit down, Izzy is saying, “Yeah, next Thursday at the White Horse,” and there’s a general murmur of assent from the group.

Ed groans. “Don’t come. It’s gonna be a disaster.”

Izzy rolls his eyes. “It won’t be a disaster.”

“Yeah,” Olu says, grinning, “Why wouldn’t we want to come see Blackbeard’s Hole at their comeback performance?” There’s a round of laughter. Only about half of it is jeering.

Lucius snorts into his rum and coke.

“What’s, um, Blackbeard’s Hole?” Stede asks him curiously.

“It’s stupid,” Ed says, automatically, “It’s. It’s a band that Iz and I started.”

“You’re in a band?” Stede’s eyes light up.

“In fairness,” says Lucius, “It’s more of a pop-folk acoustic duo than a band.”

“Wow!”

There it is again. Ed blushes and buries his face in his pint.

When he re-emerges, Stede is excitedly agreeing to come listen with the rest of the DMDC next Thursday night. Ed groans.

“That is,” Stede says carefully, having the decency to look contrite, “If you don’t mind, Ed.” He places a hand on Ed’s forearm.

In his peripheral vision, Ed sees Lucius’ eyebrows shoot up into his fringe.

“Yeah, whatever, it’s fine,” Ed says. He glares at Lucius, who schools his face into a more neutral expression.

Stede beams at him.

“So Stede,” Lucius drawls, curling into Pete and laying his head on Pete’s shoulder. “Are you seeing anybody?”

“Oh, I, um, no,” Stede stammers. “I’m, I suppose you could say, in a period of voluntary celibacy at the moment.”

Ed chokes on his pint.

Lucius looks like Christmas has come early.

Stede manfully suffers through a seemingly endless round of questions from the club, while Ed focuses on getting as drunk as possible very, very quickly. He learns, however, the following things: Stede grew up in London, though he’s from New Zealand, like Ed. In his early twenties, Stede’s father strong-armed Stede into what was essentially an arranged marriage to a woman named Mary, in whose family Stede’s father had some kind of vested political interest. The marriage ultimately resulted in two children, Alma and Louis. Stede studied business, though he had no real interest in it, and, also at his father’s insistence, joined him in the family business: something in finance. Two months ago, Stede and Mary had mutually decided to end things, and were in the process of separating their estates. Stede moved to Essex to take classes in naval history with an eye towards rounding out his education in subjects that actually interested him. Stede’s a Leo. Stede’s never gotten a piercing. Stede’s never done a body shot.

These last three questions are from Lucius, who’s eyeing Stede up and glancing pointedly between him and Ed in a way that’s making Ed feel increasingly exposed. In the end, Ed is forced to excuse himself to get another pint.

When he returns, Stede’s face is red, but they’ve moved on to safer topics of discussion.

The next day, Izzy picks Ed up at the office he’s got a temporary contract to clean after hours, and the two of them drive out to Jackie’s farm.

“Did you look into her at all?” Ed asks, as they’re rounding the last corner of the lane, and the house comes into view. It’s a very authentic looking farmhouse, which is the nicest thing Ed can bring himself to think about it. It’s big, certainly, if not very well-kept. He scrunches his nose as they pass no fewer than six signs that warn TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

“A bit,” Izzy replies. “Found that article that Lucius was on about. It’s true that several of her husbands have disappeared in mysterious circumstances, and it’s true that they could never find any evidence against her. It sounds like they tried to, as well. Couldn’t get anything to stick, in court, though. Lucius is on the case, anyway. Digging up some stuff from the archives.”

Ed whistles. “And what do you think? She killed them and buried them on the farm somewhere?”

Izzy scoffs. “That’s the kind of thing I’d want my current husband thinking, I suppose. Keep him in line.”

Ed snorts.

Izzy parks the car next to a large tractor, and the two of them hop out, looking around nervously as they approach the door.

“Let me do the talking,” Izzy says.

“Right,” Ed laughs, “Because you’re so fucking charismatic, and you have such a good way with people.”

“Fuck off.” Izzy elbows him hard in the ribs, and knocks firmly on the door.

There’s a long silence.

Izzy looks at Ed, who shrugs.

Just as Izzy moves to knock again, there’s the faint stomping of heavy boots from inside. It gets louder and louder until the door is flung open and even Ed has to crane his neck to meet the eyes of the veritable giantess that greets them.

“Yeah?” she says, “Who the fuck are you?”

Izzy recovers first, and sticks out a hand for her to shake, which she does, delicately, after arching her eyebrow at him.

Her hand is made of wood.

Ed just nods at her.

“You’re not from the newspaper, are you?” Jackie asks, looking suspicious.

“My name is Israel Hands, and this is Edward Teach. We’re part of the Danbury Metal Detecting Club, and we were wondering if we could–” Izzy stops talking abruptly as Jackie holds up an imperious finger.

“Hush,” she says. Her head tips sideways, like she’s listening for something.

Ed doesn’t hear a thing.

“Geraldo!” she bellows after a second. “Shut the fucking dogs up, won’t you?”

There are no dogs barking, and there is no audible response from inside the house.

“That’s better,” Jackie says after a moment. “Those damn dogs do my fucking head in.”

Izzy smiles nervously.

“You were saying, Iggy?” Jackie says.

Izzy winces, but continues. “We were wondering,” he says smoothly, “if we could detect on your land.”

“Detect what, exactly?”

“Well we don’t know, really. I don’t suppose you know if anyone has detected here before?”

“Yeah,” Jackie says, squinting thoughtfully, “There were some guys who came before with those stick things. A few years back, now.”

“Really?” says Ed, stepping forward, unable to help himself. “When was that?”

Jackie squints up at the sky. “Sixty…seventy years ago, maybe.”

“And what happened then?” Izzy asks.

“They dug a couple trenches, found a few trinkets, and then they fucking left again, didn’t they?”

“What kind of trinkets?” Izzy asks immediately.

“Fucked if I know,” Jackie snorts, “I was just a kid, then. I don’t really remember.”

Ed squints at the woman in front of him. How old is she?

“Jewelry?” Izzy prompts. “Coins?”

“I just said,” Jackie says, “I. don’t. remember.”

“So this farm’s been in your family a while?” Ed ventures, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah,” Jackie says, “My dad’s dad, and his dad before him. Generations– Shut the fuck up!”

When she turns to shout back into the house this time, Ed jumps, but manages to catch Izzy’s eye. Izzy is bristling with excitement.

“I’ll tell you what,” Jackie says, when she turns back to them. Ed bites the inside of his cheek. “Since I like you guys so much,” she says, “I’ll give you permission to detect on my land. Might even be able to find that box of old trinkets they dug up back in the day.”

“Well,” Izzy say, “That’s–”

Jackie holds up a single wooden finger, and again, Izzy stops, practically choking on his own tongue.

“I’ll give you permission if you promise not to go anywhere near the paddock at the bottom of the south field.”

Ed tries very hard to keep his expression even and neutral.

“Yeah,” Izzy says, somewhat weakly. “Sure. No paddock.”

“No. Paddock.” Jackie turns her glare to Ed.

“No paddock,” Ed hastily agrees.

“Great!” Jackie says, smiling just as suddenly as she’s changed her expressions throughout this entire bewildering interaction. “Well if that’s all, gentlemen, I have to feed my dogs.”

She shuts the door in their faces.

There’s a moment of shocked silence, and then Izzy turns back to Ed and shrugs.

“Oozing charisma, what did I tell you?” he says smugly.

“You jammy dickfuck,” Ed says, punching his shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “Come on, let’s get out of here before she changes her mind.”

“Quick scan of one of the fields before we go home?” Izzy asks, just before they turn out of the lane and back on to the main road.

Ed just looks at him and grins.

“So I figure,” Izzy says, as they hop over the fence and get ready to don their headsets, “They probably dug those trenches here sometime in the seventies, which means–”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Abandoned it because of the war, and then never came back to finish it off.”

Izzy’s waving his detector over the same spot in the earth again and again with an odd expression on his face.

“What?” Ed says, “Already?”

“It’s a strong signal.”

“What’s the target ID?”

“Iron.”

They stare at one another for a long moment. That’s a tricky reading, alright. Could be iron. Could be gold.

Izzy crouches in the field and marks out a careful perimeter with his spade, lifting the ground with a great tearing of roots.

“Find something?” Ed crouches next to him as he carefully brushes dirt off of– “Is that a–” Ed leans closer to look.

“It’s a Ford Mustang,” Izzy says, holding the toy car out in the palm of his hand.

They both stare at it for a moment, heads nearly touching, then burst into laughter. Ed pushes Izzy and they both end up unbalancing into the mud.

“I don’t think we should tell the club about the permission, yet,” Izzy says, thoughtfully, as they’re walking back to the car.

“Hm?” It’s getting dark, and Ed is trying to scrape some of the dried mud out from under his nails while he can still see.

“I think we should keep it to ourselves for a bit,” Izzy says, “Until we get a better lay of the land.”

“Just detect here alone, you mean?” Ed asks.

“Yeah,” Izzy says, like he’s trying to be casual about it. Ed can tell that he’s excited about something, though. “Just until we get a better sense of what may or may not be here.”

“Alright,” Ed agrees, easily. “Just us.”

Stede’s packing up his things after a lecture (capping his pen, tidying his note pages and securing them with a paperclip, tucking them away into a flat file that he has organized by date using sticky notes to cross-reference by topic) when he hears them. Hushed, but not completely inaudible.

“What is he doing here, anyway, do you think? He’s so old.”

Only through a lifetime of practice does Stede manage to repress any noticeable physical reaction to this, though his gut sinks sickeningly, and his face starts to feel hot. There’s nobody else this comment could possibly apply to. Even the professor for this course is a man about twenty years his junior. He knows he must appear ancient to these– these overgrown children. Honestly, he’s always shocked by how young the rest of his cohort is. Surely, he wasn’t as young as this when he was an undergraduate, was he? Some of them must be Alma’s age, or nearly, but they seem – and act – younger than she ever did. Or at least since she turned about 10 and started reading the grown-up books from Stede’s study and engaging him in discussions on their merits and significance in the literary canon.

“Maybe it’s some kind of study release program from prison.”

“Or the retirement home!”

“Seriously, though, if I ever end up taking survey level courses at that age–hell, at half that age– shoot me, okay? Like, look at your life, my guy. Make better choices.”

There’s some scattered laughter, and then the sound of the lecture hall door swinging open and shut.

Stede’s the last one here, he notes, with a quick glance around the room, so he lets himself sink back into his seat and bury his head in his hands for a moment.

He knew, objectively, that he would stand out here. There are only about three mature students in the whole history program, and Stede’s specialty means that he’s the only one in any of his classes. The other two are nice enough, but they both have families at home, which means that opportunities to socialize outside of class are few and far between.

Stede’s here on his own. His family feels so far away.

Make better choices.

It sounds like something his father would say to him, were he still alive. Hell, maybe his father did say that exact thing to him at some point. Who can remember?

(Stede can. Stede can remember the exact wording of entire arguments he had with his father, so he knows for a fact that his father never said those exact words to him, but it does seem like something he might have said, perhaps to someone else in whom he was perpetually disappointed.)

By “better choices,” of course, his father would have meant his choices. His choice of degree. His choice of career. His choice of wife.

And Stede made those choices. Didn’t have any choice in the matter, in fact. And look where it’s gotten him.

He’s middle aged, he’s getting a divorce, and only now, for the first time in his life is he doing what he actually wants. Or, at least, what he thinks he wants.

These kids have no idea –no idea– how lucky they are that they’re here, learning how to make choices for themselves, learning, probably, what they want, what makes them happy.

Up until recently, Stede had only ever been told that he had everything he wanted, told that happiness would come with time if he kept his head down and his nose to the grindstone and his thoughts and feelings to himself.

They’re babies, his fellow students, but in many ways, so is Stede. For the first time in his life, he’s following his own compass, and much like an actual compass, he doesn’t have that much practice reading it.

So yes. Stede is old.

And yes, Stede is, technically, retired.

These things are not really news to Stede.

No, the real kicker, Stede thinks, is that after making the hardest, most gut-wrenching decision of his life, he’s not even sure it was the right one. He isn’t sure if he’s happier now than he was with Mary. He has no guarantee that he’s even capable of such a thing.

He’s gone and hurt the only people he really loves, and for what? To be the oldest baby in the fucking world. To be ridiculed by all the other younger, hotter babies, babies with their whole lives ahead of them. Statistically, at this rate, Stede may not even have time to reach any semblance of emotional maturity before he fucking dies. Lord knows his fellow students won’t get there for at least another twenty years.

Idiots.

Idiot.

Stede scrubs his face hard with his hand, and finishes packing his bag. He can hear the sounds of the cleaners starting up outside, and doesn’t want to risk an awkward encounter with the janitorial staff when they come in to hoover the lecture hall and find him crying alone in a desk that’s two sizes too small for him.

He pushes through the lecture hall doors with his head down, only looking up briefly to give a small nod to the man pushing a heavy industrial floor buffer. Belatedly, because it was such an infinitesimally short glance, Stede realizes that the man has long greying hair that’s in a fetching sort of half-ponytail, and a look of intense concentration on his face as he pushes the buffer with a slow, deliberate sort of step/swipe combo.

“Ed!” he says, pulling up short in surprise.

Ed is wearing headphones, and doesn’t respond, but when Stede stops and waves at him, he does an honest-to-god double-take, and grins, pulling them down and letting them settle loosely around his neck. “Oh, hey Stede,” he says, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Likewise!” Stede says, having to pitch his voice over the sound of the buffer.

“Oh! Sorry. Here.” Ed flicks a switch and the buffer powers down after a few dramatic shudders.

“I didn’t realize you worked at the university,” Stede says into the sudden silence that follows.

Ed gives him a confused sort of look. “I mean, I don’t really, mate.” He plucks at the cheap-looking maroon polyester vest that he’s got on over his sweatshirt. “It’s a temp agency. They send me all sorts of places. Might redo the lines on the footie pitch, or spray weeds on the motorway. Clean a bunch of offices.”

“At least you get to travel for your work,” Stede says with a small smile.

“Huh. Never thought about it like that.” Ed scrunches his nose. It’s cute, Stede thinks, absently.

“Do you like it?”

“Does anybody like being a temp?”

Stede shrugs.

“I like that it’s easy,” Ed says, thoughtfully, after a long second. “I like that I have enough money for food and rent. I like that it’s not the same thing every day. I like that I don’t think about it when I’m not doing it. Or when I am doing it.”

It shouldn’t be that profound, or anything, but the measured, genuine way Ed says it throws Stede off, honestly. Here’s a man with little to no pretentiousness about him, he thinks. It’s an attractive quality. Stede’s father would hate him.

Scratch that, It’s a very attractive quality.

Stede beams at him. “When you say it like that,” he says, “it sounds ideal, honestly.”

Ed gives him another confused sort of look. “If you say so,” he says, a little gruffly, but Stede thinks he might sound a little bit pleased.

“Listen,” Stede says, following some kind of instinct he doesn’t fully understand, “Are you almost finished? Maybe we could grab a coffee?”

“Nah,” Ed sighs, “Just starting. Got three more floors to do after this.”

“Ah,” Stede says, “Damn.”

“I’m cleaning up the lab in the science building after a chemistry practical tomorrow morning,” Ed says, tilting his head oddly, and sounding a little unsure. “Could grab a coffee after that, if you’re around. ‘Round two?”

“Ooh, sounds fab.”

Ed actually laughs at that, but it’s a nice laugh. Friendly. “You’re something else, Stede,” he says, “You know that?”

“It’s been brought to my attention before,” Stede says, starting down the hallway, “But nobody ever says exactly what.” Ed’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. Exhilarating. “Happy buffing!” Stede calls, as he waves goodbye.

The sound of Ed chuckling follows him down the long hallway until it’s drowned out by the loud hum of the buffer. It buoys Stede aloft long after he can no longer hear either.

Farm? Izzy texts Ed the next morning. I’ll pick you up after work.

Shit. Right.

Actually, Iz, Ed texts, I can’t. I’ve got a thing.

Fuck. What fucking thing can you possibly fucking have? You don’t even have a fucking job.

Fuck you, I do too have a fucking job.

I mean a fucking REAL job, you twat.

Fuck off.

You fuck off.

See you at the meeting later, though, yeah?

Ed rolls his eyes and locks his phone.

He’s got a thing today. With Stede.

A sort of a.

Coffee thing.

And he’s excited about it. Which is strange. Ed doesn’t really do excitement, these days, aside from the odd hopeful flutter when he’s detecting. Mostly, everything is just dull and monotonous, but.

Stede’s a really odd duck, Ed thinks. And he seems to know it, too. The other day, in the field, he really can’t have felt he was blending in, but somehow it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.

And he walked right into the DMDC in those pants. Didn’t bat an eye. The rest of them in their usual chorus of beige and browns.

And yesterday. None of the students in the university ever notice Ed, let alone speak to him. It’s actually one of the reasons he keeps accepting jobs there. He likes the feeling of being invisible.

But Stede saw him. And it was nice. Talked to him like a peer. Asked him out.

For coffee.

Ed can’t figure out if there’s any sort of romantic undertone to it. He isn’t entirely sure he cares. Stede’s fucking fascinating, and Ed kinda just want to see him again. Doesn’t really matter what context.

But Stede had also asked him about him and Izzy. Stede had touched his arm, and walked with him, slow, behind the rest of the group. Stede is excited about Ed’s fucking open mic gig.

Stede’s nice to look at.

Stede didn’t belittle him for being the world’s oldest fucking temp.

Stede’s got wavy hair like something off of a paperback romance novel.

Yeah, okay.

Maybe Ed wants this to be a date.

Just a little bit.

The lab’s an utter fucking disaster. Ed isn’t sure what experiments these guys were running, but he can’t imagine this was the desired outcome. Something fucking stinks to high heaven, and he ends up having to tie a clean rag around his nose and mouth just to fucking breathe.

It does do a lot to calm his nerves, though. Hard to feel too amorous when you’re trying so hard not to fucking hurl.

Finally, though, he’s done, and he can’t tear off the makeshift bandana and hideous maroon vest fast enough.

He stops by the loo quickly to scrub the chemical feeling off his hands and give himself a quick once-over in the mirror before he goes to meet Stede.

Yep. Not great, but. Fine. It’s fine.

Stede’s leaning against a column outside the science building, wearing a button down with loads of little multi-colored flowers on it, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leather book bag slung across his chest. He looks so fucking collegiate, Ed thinks. Like some kind of hot fucking literature professor or something, fuck.

He’s tapping away at his phone, but looks up with a grin as Ed approaches.

“Ah, good, you found me,” Stede says, slipping his phone away into his pocket.

“Yeah,” Ed says, “Hey.”

“How was cleaning?”

“Fuckin’ gross. How was class?”

“Yeah, pretty gross as well,” Stede mugs. “Nah, just boring.”

“Aw, really?”

“No,” Stede says, scrunching his nose apologetically. “It was really interesting, actually. Just didn’t wanna brag about my interesting day if you’ve had a shit one.”

Ed laughs and jostles Stede’s elbow with his own. “Well, go on,” he says, “I haven’t had a shit day. And besides, it’s not over yet.”

Stede grins at him and chatters gleefully about dueling, of all things, all the way across campus where there’s a small cafe that does basic teas and coffees, little prepackaged sandwiches and mini packets of crisps, and maybe a couple of uninspiring pieces of fruit, just for a good showing.

Ed’s riveted, because it’s definitely interesting, even if he’s not really absorbing any of it. Stede is really animated when he talks. He gestures a lot with his hands, and he keeps touching Ed whenever he wants to make a point.

It’s starting to make Ed feel a little bit desperate, actually. Not that Stede’s consciously trying to rile him up, or anything, he doesn’t think, and not that he couldn’t fucking handle it if he were, but just. At some point, Stede’s going to stop talking, and then Ed’s going to have to have something to say beyond the occasional, “Huh, you don’t say?” or “Really? With a whole fish?”

They make it into the queue without Ed overtly exposing his massive inadequacy, however, and the first break in the conversation (if you can call it that), is when Stede touches Ed’s arm, lightly, and says, “What would you like, Ed? I’m buying.”

And is that condescending or is it chivalrous? Ed doesn’t fucking know.

He stares up at the menu for a second without really reading it, and then names what he knows will be the cheapest item on there. “I’ll get a tea, thanks.”

“You’re sure?” Stede asks kindly, “Want a muffin or anything?”

“Nah,” Ed says, “Tea’s fine.”

Stede steps up to the counter and orders for both of them, and it’s so reflexive for him that it makes Ed remember that this man was married for years, is married, still, technically.

“Sorry,” Stede says, sheepishly, as they shuffle to the side so the queue can proceed around them while they wait for their drinks. “I’ve just been blathering away. I tend to do that.”

“No!” Ed rushes to reassure him, “It’s incredible, really interesting stuff. I like hearing you talk about it.”

Stede blushes. Interesting.

“I’m being idiotic,” Stede says, breaking eye contact with Ed to shake his head. “I’m just– going on and on when what I really wanted to ask is–”

“Order for Steve!”

Stede winces and scrunches his nose up at Ed.

“They never get that right,” he says, “Hang on. TBC,” and goes to collect their drinks.

Ed’s on the edge of his proverbial fucking seat, now that Stede’s on the brink of revealing– what, exactly? His true intentions here? Whatever.

The whole thing’s so fucking confusing, not least because his own reaction to Stede is such a surprise to him. Just a huge fucking bag of mixed signals. Ed’s sure that whatever Stede’s going to say next will clear all that up.

From across the cafe, Stede catches his eye, and nods him to an empty table. Ed shoots him a thumbs up, and makes a beeline for it. When he looks back, Stede is mouthing, “Cream and sugar?” at him.

He snorts. Nods. What a dork.

Stede comes over, finally, with a drink in each hand, arms laden with tiny little plastic tubs of creamer and packs of sugar.

“Thanks,” he says, as Ed moves to relieve him of the drinks. He lets the rest of the mess spill somewhat unceremoniously onto the table. “I wasn’t sure how you take your tea, so.”

“Well good,” Ed chuckles, “Because the answer is twenty billion creams and a million sugars, so, yeah, this should be just about enough.”

“I’ll go get you some more,” Stede says, committing to the bit enough to stand up out of his chair.

“No,” Ed laughs, grabbing his arm and pulling him back down. “Come back.” Stede lets himself be pulled.

He smiles at Ed and it’s so happy and warm and kind. He looks so pleased to have made Ed laugh.

And that seems fucking hopeful, right?

Ed tries a move that’s never failed him before. He lowers his head to one side, and looks up at Stede through his eyelashes, blinking slowly. “What,” he says, “Did you want to ask me, Stede?”

“Um,” Stede’s eyes flick down to Ed’s lips, and yeah, that’s what Ed’s talking about, there we go, this is definitely a date, and it seems like it’s fucking on, honestly. “Metal detecting,” Stede says suddenly, jerking his eyes back up to Ed’s.

“Hm?”

“Metal detecting?” Stede says again. “I was hoping to get a little more information about the club, and, I don’t know. Bit of the local history. You seem knowledgeable.”

Ah. That’s not very date-like at all, is it?

Ed blinks, and takes a sip of his tea to hopefully distract Stede from how thrown he is by this. He burns his tongue.

“Yeah, sure, man” he says, finally, straining to keep his voice light. “What did you want to know?”

Fucking everything, it turns out.

Stede’s done a bit of research into the mechanics and theory of detecting, but only enough to have about a million more questions. And it turns out that the only thing more intimidating than listening to Stede is having Stede listen to him. He’s so fucking active about it, nodding along, making these soft little noises of assent, or wonder, or disbelief, depending on the situation. He’s so fucking animated.

If Ed was worried before about what to say, that’s gone, now, because Stede never lets him be quiet for more than a second or two before he’s jumping in with the next question.

They talk until it starts to get dark, and when it seems like Stede’s in no danger of running out of steam, Ed finally stops him, lifting a single finger, causing Stede’s mouth to snap shut like a fucking bear trap.

“Stede,” he says, “Come along to the club meeting tonight, if you’ve got more questions. There’s people there way more knowledgeable than me. It’s Tuesday, right? Did you forget?”

“Oh!” Stede says, looking pleased, “I mean, no, I rather hoped, you know, but. I wasn’t sure if you’d all want me back?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“I,” Stede swallows, “I don’t know?”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Like, do you have three pound fifty to spare every fortnight?”

“I should hope so.”

“Then you’re fucking in, mate,” Ed says, sticking his hand out. “Welcome a-fucking-board.” Stede grins at him, and reaches across the table to shake on it.

Stede ends up giving him a lift to the meeting, which is just plain decent of the man, Ed thinks. He’s pretty sure, at this point, that Stede isn’t into him, romantically. Disappointing as that is (and it is hugely, crushingly disappointing, for some reason) he’s trying to be glad about them being friends.

Stede is interesting, and he’s kind. Those are good qualities in a friend.

Stede is funny, both on purpose and seemingly without noticing that he’s doing it. Yeah, Ed’s always up for a laugh.

He’s thoughtful, and he’s smart, and he seems to get where Ed’s coming from, even when he doesn’t manage to articulate it in a way he thinks sounds quite right. Stede seems to be able to fill in the blanks.

So yeah. He’ll probably be a really good friend.

When they arrive at the scout hall, everybody’s still trickling in.

“Stede, good to see you,” says Frenchie, strolling by with a folding chair, but still stopping to shake Stede’s hand. “Ed.”

Ed nods at him, and goes to grab a chair of his own.

Stede follows, looking pleased. They set up and wait for the others to arrive.

Wee John approaches them with a clipboard. “Sorry to do this, lads,” he says, “but if you’re joining up, I’ll have you fill out the direct debit form. Or you can pay in cash, if you prefer. Just need an account number and a billing address.”

“Right!” Stede says, “Oh, damn. I haven’t gotten all my cards swapped over just yet. The billing address is in London. That won’t be an issue, will it?”

“Can’t see why it would be. Everything’s online these days, isn’t it?”

Ed zones out while Stede fills out the form and makes small talk with Wee John.

Lucius plonks a couple of chairs down behind where they’re sitting, and leans forward to clap a friendly hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Good for you, Eddie,” he says, “You got him to come back.”

Ed shrugs. “The key to recruitment is just looking cool and letting people flock to you, I guess,” he says, aiming for nonchalant.

Lucius snorts. “Right, because no one can resist your aging leather daddy charms.”

“I think you’ll find,” Izzy says, appearing at Ed’s side and plonking down a folding chair of his own, “That leather daddies are, by definition, aging.”

“Takes one to know one, Jizzy,” Lucius says with a sweet smile. “Anyway, I’ve got something you’ll be interested in, I think.” He pulls out a manilla folder, but at that point, Wee John clears his throat and steps to the front of the room.

“Settle down,” Wee John says. “Settle down, everyone.”

If ever a hush managed to be somehow both sincere and sardonic, it’s this one, as the DMDC comes to self-consciously ridiculous order.

“Welcome, new and old members of the DMDC,” Wee John intones solemnly. “For the record, it is Tuesday the,” he checks his watch, “eighth, and we are commencing our meeting at exactly fifteen minutes past seventeen hundred hours.” He shoots a look at Frenchie, who gives him an encouraging smile and makes a small note on his phone.

“Members in attendance: all of them. Including our newest member, Stede,” he checks his clipboard, “Bonnet, who recently moved here from London. That’s nice. Welcome Stede.”

There’s a small cacophony of muttered hellos. Ed elbows Stede and grins at him. Stede blushes, looking pleased.

“Our finds table, as always, is available to display any notable finds from the past week, should any of you be so inclined.”

There’s a pause, and then Buttons stands up, chair scraping lightly across the floor, and walks over to the table. He digs into his pocket and dumps out a small handful of metal, taking a moment to rake his fingers through it, spacing it out.

As he ducks his head awkwardly and makes his way back to his seat, Swede stands as well, and shuffles over to the table, depositing his own clanking handful.

“Lads,” Wee John sighs, “Just. Everybody go at once. We don’t have to– Whatever. Um. In other news,” he checks his clipboard. “Do Izzy and Ed have an update on their permissions for the farm they’d like to share with us?”

Ed turns to look at Izzy with a shrug, and Izzy nods, and stands.

“We’re, um, still negotiating with the landowner,” he says, brusquely. “But we’ve learned that there was a dig there before. Couple of trenches. Couple of decades back.”

There’s a general murmur of excitement.

“We don’t know if they found anything yet, but–”

“Actually,” Lucius cuts in, “They did.” He raises his eyebrows at Izzy, who nods, and sits, gesturing at him to continue.

Lucius stands and adjusts his kerchief to a jauntier angle, before continuing. “So the land where Spanish Jackie’s farm is currently used to a Roman monastery, like, a couple thousand years ago, when the Romans were, like, colonizing Essex, or whatever, and trying to get all the pagans to stop doing their weird sex rituals and what have you. So I did some digging into the public records looking for old permissions, and I found plans for two separate excavations in the area surrounding the farm. One of them, as we know, was more recent: the police investigation when Jackie’s, like, tenth husband went missing. They didn’t find anything. That permission was for the area immediately surrounding the house.”

There are some scoffs.

“Not where I’d bury a body,” Pete says, rolling his eyes.

“I know, babe,” Lucius says. “They’re obviously buried further afield, but they didn’t know that back then, so they didn’t bother looking anywhere else.” Izzy coughs, and Lucius clears his throat and continues. “The earlier excavation, though, was in what’s now the west field, and as far as I can tell from their papers, they were looking for, like, some kind of treasure that the monastery was protecting? Ostensibly from the hordes of angry pagans that were like, you know, ‘Stop killing us, you bastards.’”

“And they found something?” Swede asks, eyes going huge and childlike.

“Yeah,” Lucius says, pulling a bunch of xeroxed pages out of the folder and passing them around for them all to see. “I went back through the newspaper archives around the date that the permission went through, and I found an article about it.”

It definitely looks old, though that’s partially the poor image quality of the copy. It’s a newspaper headline, “Amateur Local Historians Strike it Rich!” with a grainy image of two blokes, side by side, holding… something in between them. It’s hard to make out.

“According to the article,” Lucius continues, “They found some kind of ancient relics, the purposes of which have been lost to time, but seemed vaguely religious in nature, and they found an absolute fuck-ton of, like, crowns and sceptres and shit. Gold ones.”

An excited murmur goes up from the group, collectively.

“Shit,” Ed says under his breath leaning over towards Izzy. “So much for keeping the farm on the long finger, huh?”

Izzy just grunts.

“Well,” Wee John says, sounding impressed. “I guess it’s just even more important that you secure that permission from Spanish Jackie, isn’t it? Do you want me to come along with you?”

“I think Izzy’s got it covered, John,” Ed says pleasantly, “Seeing as he’s such a ladykiller. Actually, Iz, you should probably watch out. Jackie might want to make you her next husband if you don’t reign in the old charm.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy says.

“Language, gentlemen!” Wee John cautions. “Frenchie, remove that from the minutes, would you?”

“Frenchie,” Lucius says, “The club minutes are supposed to be an accurate representation of the content of our meetings. I insist you keep them as accurately as possible, warts and all.”

“The club by-laws,” starts Wee John, seconds before everything descends into chaos.

A cheerfully vulgar thirty minutes later, they’re all folding away their chairs when Izzy raises his voice to get everyone’s attention.

“Actually,” he says, “the open mic is this Thursday, everyone. Don’t forget to come down to the White Horse, if you can. Ed and I have been practicing.”

“Is that true?” Stede says, coming up behind Ed with a broad smile.

“God help me,” Ed says, resigned, “It is.”

Stede laughs, full-bellied, and Ed can’t help smiling along with him.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Stede says, once he’s recovered. He’s absolutely gorgeous when he laughs, Ed notes. Just unguarded and unbridled.

“Coming to the pub?” Ed asks lightly.

“I will, yeah,” Stede says. “Thanks.”

“Ed,” Stede says, as they walk, lagging behind the rest of the group again, “I wanted to get your number, if that’s alright.”

“Oh yeah?” Ed grins at him happily. Alright, then. That clears that up.

“In case I need advice about which metal detector to get?”

Nope. Something in his stomach turns leaden.

“Oh,” says Ed. “Yeah,” says Ed.

Stede grins, and holds up his mobile.

Ed takes it. It seems new, like his boots. Like everything about Stede, honestly. He punches the numbers in, and hands it back over.

“Thanks.” Stede takes it, brushing Ed’s fingers with his own, and types in “Ed,” followed by an emoji Ed can’t quite make out from this angle. He tips his head to look while Stede’s distracted, and it’s– is that a sweet potato? What the fuck does that mean?

Ed’s phone buzzes a moment later, a text message from an unknown number that just says, Hi :)

“That’s me,” Stede says, quite unnecessarily.

“Yeah, cheers,” says Ed.

“Anyway, I’ll text you,” Stede says. “If I have questions.”

He’s staring at Ed looking… what, exactly? Hopeful, maybe?

Ed gives him a small smile. “Yeah,” he says, “That’s fine,” although for a moment, he’s not sure it is. “Well, goodnight then.”

“Are you not coming to the pub?”

“Nah, mate, I might just–” Ed nods his head down the road in the direction of home. He’s suddenly bone-crushingly exhausted. It’s been a long day.

“Oh!” Stede looks confused, and worried. “Are you alright, Ed?” he asks, reaching out to touch Ed’s elbow.

Yeah, Ed thinks, never mind. Stede’s clearly just a very touchy kind of a guy.

He gives him a weak smile. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m just a bit fucking knackered, that’s all. You go on. Enjoy the pub. Get to know the guys. You’ll have fun, I’m sure.”

And he’ll make some new friends, and then he won’t need Ed anymore.

Fine. It’s fine.

“Alright,” Stede says. He sounds disappointed. That’s nice of him. “Well, goodnight, then, Ed. And thank you for the lovely afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, “You too.” He tucks his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the wind and starts off.

“And see you on Thursday!” Stede calls out after him.

By Thursday morning, Ed’s starting to feel queasy about the open mic. He hasn’t performed in front of a group of people in years, though it feels like longer.

A couple times during the course of the day, he thumbs open Stede’s contact on his phone and starts to type out a message telling him not to come. So far, he’s deleted five out of five messages he’s drafted.

He’s starting on a sixth when Izzy honks his horn from outside, and he thinks fuck it, and checks himself in the hall mirror one last time– leather jacket, leather pants, hair pinned back out of his face, but cascading down his shoulders, bit of eyeliner– fluffs his beard once or twice, slings his guitar case over his shoulder, and goes.

Stede is running late, which only serves to make him more flustered, which in turn only serves to make him even later. He’s changed his outfit three times, having decided that the first was too outrageous, the second too boring by far, and the third too warm for a night in what was sure to be a crowded pub. He’s settled on a floral romper, which will necessitate getting much more naked than he would like if he needs to use the toilet, but will otherwise allow him to stand out to a degree he is comfortable with while maintaining an acceptable body temperature, and without necessitating pattern-matching of two separate pieces, which he simply does not have time for, at this juncture.

On his way out the door, however, he suffers one last moment of indecision and grabs a loud checkered scarf and slings it around his neck without bothering to check the effect in the hall mirror.

Even though he’s the only one using his car, at the moment, Stede does check the placement of both side mirrors and the rear-view before he pulls out of the driveway, because some rules are meant to be broken, like the rules of fashion, and some exist to keep people safe, goddammit.

He arrives at the White Horse with minutes to spare, but just as he removes the keys from the ignition, his phone buzzes, and he looks down to see Alma’s name, and immediately settles back into the driver’s seat.

“Darling,” he says, picking up. “How are you? Is everything alright?”

“Hi, dad. Yeah, maybe. Listen, can I come visit you this weekend?”

“Of course,” Stede says automatically.

“Cool, thank you.”

There’s a telling pause.

“And you’re sure that everything is alright?” Stede presses. Alma dithers, audibly, on the other end of the line, so he presses on. “Is it something to do with Bonnie?”

“No, dad. We’re fine.”

“Or mum? Or mum and me? Or mum and Doug?”

“Look,” she interrupts, huffing a small laugh into her phone which gets turned into so much fond static on Stede’s end, “It’s nothing urgent, and nothing serious, I think. I just miss you and I want us to talk in person.”

“Right.”

“No big deal, dad.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Stop freaking out. I can hear you freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out!” Stede protests, more squeakily than he would have liked.

“Pick me up tomorrow evening? I’ll take the train.”

“Are you sure? I could send a car, or–”

“No, dad, jesus. You can’t send a car all the way from Essex to London. I’ll be fine on the train. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow. I love you.”

“Love you,” Alma says back, somewhat grudgingly.

There’s a long pause.

“I’m hanging up now. You– you do know how to hang up a phone call, don’t you, dad? Just reassure me that this is you just being sentimental and not a complete luddite.”

“I know how to hang up a phone call,” Stede reassures her, chuckling. “This is just me being sentimental.”

“You’re weird, dad,” she says fondly. “I’m hanging up now. See you tomorrow. Bye.”

Stede listens for another short moment, just to the sound of whatever, okay? Her breath, and the way her fingers fumble her phone a bit before she hangs up.

There’s a very real, very physical ache in his chest at the prospect of seeing Alma tomorrow, like his body somehow forgot how much he misses her and Louis on a daily basis, that he is always missing them, in fact, just as his baseline state of being, these days.

He’s glad, yeah? That they’re doing this. He and Mary have discussed it ad nauseum. It’s better for the kids if they have their own separate lives, and if they can be happy, the kids will be happy.

It’s just that the prospect of seeing Alma tomorrow–

Stede takes a moment to take practical stock of things; he doesn’t have the guest bedroom decorated, yet, but Alma won’t care nearly as much as he cares himself. The fridge is well-stocked, too, although he makes a note that he should pick up some oat milk after his lectures.

He had planned to try and pick up a metal detector tomorrow, after researching extensively online as to which was the superior product, but he can postpone that until after Alma’s visit, certainly. He does feel the tiniest twinge of disappointment that he won’t be able to text Ed about it until next week, but brushes that aside. He’ll see Ed tonight, and possibly get to talk to him more, maybe even about his music.

Right! His music!

Stede bolts up out of the car, and into the pub, and then very briefly back out of the pub again to press the lock button on his key fob, and to hear the reassuring answering beep beep from the Volvo, and then back into the pub again.

It’s a bigger venue than the DMDC’s local, and with some more modern touches, especially in its furnishings.

Further in, Stede sees that a small stage has been set, although it’s really just a corner that’s been hung with black curtains. There’s a solitary mic, and a stool, on which a young man with golden blonde hair is perched, coaxing the most exquisite sounds out of an acoustic guitar that Stede has ever heard.

He tears his gaze away from this siren for a moment to scan the crowd, and spies Jim’s broad-brimmed hat, and then the rest of the DMDC. They’re all as transfixed by the performance as he is. Lucius is batting his eyelids, trying to distract the performer, while Roach looks like he wants to straight-up eat the man. Ed looks downright queasy. Izzy naturally looks sour enough that Stede can’t tell if he’s having any real reaction to this.

Stede begins squeezing through the crowd, trying not to cause a disturbance or distract from the performance, even though he’s late. “Sorry,” he whispers, “Excuse me. Sorry. Sorry. So sorry.”

He’s made it a meager few feet before the song ends, and the place erupts in applause. Stede uses this to make a beeline for the table, and arrives, flushed and panting, just as the announcer says, “Thank you for that, Johnny. Next up, we have– let me see– Blackbeard’s Hole. Give it up, folks.”

“Break a leg,” Stede gasps in excited greeting, as Ed and Izzy stand.

“Oh god,” says Ed, looking pale,“Hi Stede. I think I’m going to be sick,” and goes up.

Stede turns to the rest of the table with a nervous grin. “They’ll be okay, right? Oh, Thanks.” he says to Olu, who shifts in to make space for him. “What does Blackbeard’s Hole mean, anyway?”

Everyone around the table just shrugs.

“I think it’s some sort of reference to the infamous pirate, obviously,” Pete says.

“And something about metal detecting?” Swede chimes in. “Holes?”

“I think they just chose it because it sound fucking filthy,” Lucius says.

“Oh my god,” mutters Olu, glancing up at the stage.

Stede turns in time to see Izzy clambering onto the tall stool and precariously crossing his legs on top of it. Ed is behind him, face pointedly devoid of any expression, pulling out his guitar and–

Holy hell.

Stede hadn’t really gotten a chance to see Ed’s outfit, before, in all the hubbub, and it hits him now like a fucking ton of fucking bricks. Turns out, this romper does not have enough breathability to accommodate how extremely hot Stede’s entire body has gotten in the last five seconds.

Ed, in full leather, is really something to contend with. He’s lean, but broad-shouldered, and the leather really emphasizes that, but also (Stede swallows quite hard) the jacket is a fucking crop-top and as Ed reaches up to pass the guitar strap over his head, he exposes a soft sliver of skin above his waistline and hot fucking damn.

“Fuck me,” Stede breathes softly.

There’s a small, quiet, second, and then he hears Olu badly stifling a snort behind him.

“God,” Stede says, turning back to the table, “Did I say that out loud?”

Lucius arches a pitying eyebrow.

Olu and Jim burst into laughter.

Frenchie smiles placidly and nods, leaning gently into Wee John’s shoulder.

“Um, hi all,” comes Izzy’s voice over the mic, at last. “We’re, uh, Blackbeard’s Hole, and this song is called Lighthouse.”

He resettles on his stool, and, after a look and a nod at Ed, begins to strum.

Admittedly, while not quite as polished as the previous act, Ed and Izzy are… good. Izzy has a surprisingly rich baritone, and Ed, on the higher harmonies, is steady and reliably on-key. The song is sweet and sad, Stede thinks. It’s about looking for love and not finding it, but looking, searching, hunting, knowing it’s out there, somewhere. In the end, the sailor protagonist finds the titular lighthouse, but sails too close, and, blinded by its beauty, cracks up on the rocks and drowns.

Stede feels it down to his bones.

There’s a near-rapturous collective breath as the last chord dies away, and then a heavy round of applause, not quite thunderous, perhaps, but certainly heartfelt. Stede claps until his hands sting.

Izzy carefully unfolds himself from his perch atop the stool and hops down with a small, apologetic wave to the audience. He and Ed bustle off stage and directly to the bar.

“Wow!” Stede says, clearing his throat and turning back to the rest of the table. “They’re really good!”

“Yeah, they are,” Lucius says, and then tips his mouth to Pete’s ear and mutters something that sounds to Stede like, “I thought he was over this.”

Pete shrugs.

Stede catches Ivan and Fang exchanging a knowing look as well.

The hot feeling around his collar returns. He gets the distinct and familiar impression that he’s missed some inscrutable social queue.

“Maybe I’m just easily impressed,” he says, turning, finally, to Olu and Jim, “But I feel like that was great, wasn’t it? Izzy’s got a really nice voice.”

“Yeah,” Olu sighs, “Thing is–” he glances at Jim who raises an eyebrow back and shrugs. “--Izzy’s been in love with Ed for fucking ages, man. It’s clear as mud to anyone with half a brain, but Ed’s just… really dense about these things. We’ve only heard a few of his songs from before, but, like,” he shrugs, “They’re basically all about him being in love with Ed.”

“Ah,” Stede scrunches his nose sympathetically. “I mean,” he says, “Ed mentioned that they used to go out? Ages ago? What happened there?”

Olu shrugs, and looks to Jim, who shrugs, and looks to Lucius.

“I’ve no idea, babes,” Lucius says. “I didn’t know them then, and it hardly would’ve made the papers.”

“I knew ‘em then,” Fang says, nonchalantly, from across the table.

Eleven pairs of eyes lock on to him.

“Yeah, no,” he says, “Disaster. It was all– what was it, Ivan?”

“Toxic,” grunts Ivan.

“Yeah, really toxic, and all. It was kind of just–” he elbows Ivan.

“One-sided.”

“Yeah, one-sided, on Iz’s part. But the clingier he got, the more Edward kinda just–”

“Pulled away.”

“--away, yeah.”

The two of them shake their heads at one another and then simultaneously turn, and take a long draft of their pints.

“Well there you have it,” Lucius says, finally. “And I know that Izzy was the one to break up with Ed, not the other way around, but,” he shrugs, “Izzy’s the one who ended up getting really hurt, in the end, I guess.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Frenchie, vaguely, locking eyes with Stede, “I think Ed was pretty hurt, in the end, too. Imagine knowing, somehow, that you’re not giving your partner what they need, but not knowing what to do about it.”

“Yeah,” Stede says, overcome by a sudden upwelling of emotion, “That sounds like it would be pretty horrible, alright.”

The chatter at the table picks up around them, again, but Frenchie doesn’t drop his gaze from Stede’s. It’s uncanny, certainly, but also, there’s warmth there. Frenchie only seems pretty out of it, most of the time, Stede is realizing, but it’s clear that he listens very closely, and seems to hear more than what’s being said. In the end, Stede wrenches his own gaze away, as his eyes start to water, and busies himself by taking a sip of his pint.

“Budge up,” a friendly voice by his elbow says, and he looks up to see that Ed and Izzy have returned with pints of their own.

It’s a squeeze, but they all squish in around the table, elbows and knees knocking together, and a soft chorus of “Careful!” as drinks are bumped and threaten to spill.

Finally, everyone settles again, and Ed says, “Well, that was fucking terrible. I’m sorry you all had to see that.”

There’s an immediate outcry of dissent, and Ed blushes, which is just lovely, Stede notes, and Izzy tries not to grin down at his glass.

The chat turns to other things, and Stede only belatedly notices that he’s reached out and covered Ed’s hand with his own, on the table, to– what? Reassure him? He didn’t do it consciously, he’s pretty sure, but now that he’s here… Ed’s skin is dry and warm and pleasant to the touch. Stede absentmindedly runs his thumb over one of the tattoos on Ed’s knuckles, but there’s no noticeable difference in texture.

Still pleasantly pink in the cheeks, Ed glances up at him, looking oddly shy under his, god, unusually long lashes, and shoots him a small, confused smile.

It suddenly feels too awkward and damning to remove his hand from Ed’s, so Stede figures he’d better lean into it. He smiles back at Ed.

“May I?” Stede asks.

“Sure, man,” Ed rumbles, though he can’t possibly know what Stede is referring to.

Stede spreads Ed’s hand out flat on the table, and reaches with his other hand to push up the sleeve of Ed’s jacket so he can see the tattoos there more clearly. This close, he thinks he hears Ed’s breath catch, just ever so slightly, but it’s hard to tell over the general din of the pub.

“Let’s see,” Stede says, “I mean, I know this one is a nautical compass,” he says, brushing his fingertips over the tattoo in question, “And these certainly look nautical, as well,” he says, brushing a tentacle curling down Ed’s forearm.

“They’re–” Ed’s voice sounds somewhat strained, “–a metaphor,” he finally chokes out.

“For what?” Stede asks.

“Dicks!” calls Lucius from across the table.

“Oh, fuck off,” Ed shoots back.

But the whole table is looking now, so Stede carefully removes his hands and wraps them back around his pint glass as the conversation merrily moves on without them.

“Sorry,” Stede says, to Ed. “I suppose that’s quite a personal question, really. Didn’t mean to be invasive.”

“You’re fine,” Ed chuckles, a bit more relaxed now. He shakes his sleeve back down, and reclines in his chair. “This is a pretty invasive group, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Stede grins and sips his pint but doesn’t press further.

Finally, Wee John calls it a night, and they all bundle up to go back out into the cold, and then, their separate ways. Ed is pleasantly tipsy, and moves to catch up with Stede, but is arrested by Lucius’ arm linking into his and Pete’s at the same time, steering them away from the door and into a nearby snug.

“Ed-ward,” Lucius says into his ear, “This new fellow you’ve brought along to the club is terribly handsome and terribly, terribly available, is he not?”

“Fuck off,” hisses Ed.

Lucius laughs. “Who are you even talking to, babe? Look.” He tugs on Ed’s arm until he turns to face him, and grins. “You know what’s happening here, right? I know you’re usually sort of clueless about these things–”

“Babe,” Pete says warningly.

“--right. But you know what’s happening here, right? With Stede? Recently gay, soon-to-be-divorced Stede?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘happening,’” Ed starts, indignant, “Or ‘recently gay,’ for that matter, but–”

“Shhh. Shush.” Lucius puts a finger over his lips. He’s drunk, too, his eyes are bright and mischievous. “He likes you,” he says, conspiratorially. “He likes you, and I think you like him too. Think about it.” He smiles right in Ed’s face, and then darts forward and plants a wet kiss on the end of Ed’s nose.

“Ah,” Ed says, “Fuck, Lucius,” and scrubs at his nose.

Lucius bursts into a fit of giggles, and leans heavily on Pete, who wraps a fond arm around his waist to support him.

“He’s right, you know,” Pete says to Ed. “He may be drunk, and kind of a slut, but he’s right, as per usual.”

“You fucking love me,” Lucius slurs, somewhere halfway to the floor.

“Yeah,” says Pete, “I fucking love you. Come on. Let’s get you home. You good, man? You need a lift?”

“‘M good.” Ed says.

He leans up against the wall of the snug a moment longer. Shit. Is Lucius right? He tries to examine his feelings, but all he can get as far as is that something about Stede is definitely making him feel all turned around inside. There’s just something infectious about him. His enthusiasm. His painful honesty. His fucking dimples. Infections can be bad, he has to remind himself. It’s…confusing.

“Whatever,” Ed says, finally, to nobody in particular, and pushes himself off of the wall, and stomps outside.

The club has mostly dispersed, except for Izzy, who’s leaning up against his yellow car, smoking, waiting for him, Ed assumes, and–

“There you are,” Stede says, pushing off the wall where he’s been perched, and Ed’s stomach does another little inexplicable flip.

“Hey,” he says, sounding annoyingly breathy, even to his own ears.

“I was worried I’d missed you,” Stede says, sounding not the least bit embarrassed about it. “I just wanted to say: really well done tonight. The song was great. You’ve, um, got a really great voice, Ed.”

And fuck. Fuck. He’s being fucking flirted with. That’s got to be what this fucking is. Stede’s biting his lip, and he’s standing too close to be casual, surely, and he sounds so earnest, but also, his voice is all bassy, and shit, Ed sways close to him nearly before he can help it.

He’s close enough that he hears Stede’s quick inhale of breath, and that stops him. Recently-gay, soon-to-be-divorced Stede. Right. Maybe it’s. Maybe it’s not that he’s uninterested, maybe this is all just too fast. Maybe they just push the boat out, a bit. Dip their toes in.

“Listen,” Ed says, instead, tilting his head in close, warm, intimate, “If you can grab a detector before then, Izzy and I are going detecting this Saturday. Wanna come? Can show you the ropes, if you like.” He meets Stede’s gaze and holds it long enough that he’s sure his point has been made.

“That sounds excellent,” Stede says, softly enough that it’s nearly a whisper. And, yep, there it is. His eyes dart down to Ed’s mouth again. Yep. Can’t be a coincidence. This is happening. Ed is just reaching for Stede’s waist when Stede hisses, “Oh, shoot,” and Ed freezes. “I can’t this weekend. I’ve. Got a thing.”

What the actual fuck?

Ed drops his hand hastily and steps back. “A thing?”

“Yeah, it’s– augh.” Stede’s face is all twisted, dimples nowhere to be seen. “I’d really love to, Ed. I just can’t this weekend. I probably won’t have time to get a detector before then, anyway.”

Oh, right, so fuck Ed, then, right? Ed’s heart is pounding at this near miss, and his head’s fucking reeling from the fucking whiplash of it all. He’d been fucking moments away from laying one on Stede, so sure that it was– But. Right. It’s not. This isn’t.

He was so sure, and then he wasn’t. And then Stede touched his fucking hand in the pub. And stupid Lucius got in his head about it, saying that he liked him, fuck. Fuck. Ed’s so fucking dumb.

“Yeah. No worries, then,” says Ed, his voice gone slightly wooden. “Another time.”

Stede looks nervous and unhappy. “Sorry, Ed,” he says, “I completely forgot, for a second.”

And the thing is, he does look sorry. And fuck, Ed’s not cruel. He softens.

“Hey,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, “That’s alright. Look. Detectors. Sure. If you can’t find one before then, come out anyway, if you have time. I’ll show you how to use mine.” It’s Ed’s turn to blush, now, the innuendo unintentional, this time. “Just. Play it by ear. You’ve got my number.”

“Yeah,” Stede says, and he relaxes minutely and smiles. “Okay.”

“Well, see you later, man.”

“Oh, right. Goodnight. Unless you need a lift anywhere? I’m just parked–” he gestures to the far corner.

“Nah, I’m good, man, thanks.” Ed nods his chin over at Izzy, who returns the gesture, and stamps out his cigarette.

“Well, goodnight then, Ed,” Stede says, face falling.

“Night.”

“‘Bout time,” Izzy says gruffly at Ed’s approach. “Come on.”

“Yeah,” says Ed. He feels weirdly weak, all of a sudden, and practically sinks into the passenger seat of Izzy’s ridiculous little car. Shit.

He peers back at Stede as Izzy pulls away from the curb, and catches Stede looking back at him, too. Stede raises his fingers in a small wave, but by the time Ed returns the gesture, he’s out of sight.

Stede is waiting at the train station nearly an hour before the train Alma’s on is scheduled to arrive. He’s gone for an outfit he hopes won’t alarm her too much, something that says, “I’m still the dad you remember,” but also does not say, “Oh god, help me, I’m so lonely and depressed out here by myself” (or as much as any one outfit can say those things): a soft, rust-colored mohair turtleneck jumper and a pair of jeans just a smidge on the tight side of dad-style. He combed back his hair after his morning shower, but, checking himself in the rear-view mirror, in the train station parking, he decides that this makes him look too uptight, so he quickly tries to ruffle it into something cooler.

Stede wonders if it’s normal to be this concerned about what your kid thinks of you.

The thing is, Alma is very cool. Always has been. She doesn’t seem to have inherited any of the nervous, blustering qualities he so loathes in himself, by which he is infinitely relieved. He admires her, her moxie, her spirit, and considers it his greatest accomplishment that he doesn’t seem to have managed to traumatize her too greatly, thus far. She’s in her second year at Uni, and she’s got a part-time job, a killer sense of style, and a steady girlfriend that Stede and Mary both actually like. She’s opinionated, and smart, and funny, and a little mean, if Stede’s honest, but not in a way that makes him feel bad, just in a way that makes him laugh, mostly at himself.

He likes to think that they would be friends, even if she weren’t his daughter, but in reality, he knows, she’s far too cool for that.

Finally, finally, the train pulls in, and Stede wipes his clammy hands on his jeans, and pushes himself away from the railing he’s been leaning against for support. It’s only been two months, but he’s still arrested by the sight of her. Alma’s cut her hair in an ear-length bob, and she’s wearing a black turtle-neck and black jeans, and black boots with a heel, and on the whole, the outfit makes her look so tall and elegant and grown-up that Stede almost feels strange, for a moment, approaching her.

As soon as she turns and sees him, though, she’s Alma, again, and she grins as he sweeps her up into a hug.

“Hi darling,” he says, into the top of her head.

“Hi dad,” she says, into his shoulder.

The rest of the passengers part around them, like a wave breaking on a rock, and they just. Stay like that. For a moment or two.

When she finally pulls away, Stede has to wipe some excess moisture from his eyes, but she beams at him, her own eyes a little glossy as well.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says. “Let me get your things for you.”

“It’s fine, I don’t have much.” She hoists her laptop bag on one shoulder and her backpack on the other.

“Fine,” he says, “Guess I’ve been working out for nothing.”

She snorts. “Don’t lie, dad. You’ve been working out to meet guys, haven’t you?” She eyes him slyly, to see how he takes this, a joke on relatively fresh and tender territory for them.

“I’ve actually been meeting some really nice guys at rest stops,” Stede retorts, after only half a beat. He bites his cheek in the failing battle against the grin that’s spreading across his face.

“Ew, dad! Gross,” Alma laughs, “Oh my god, you’re not, are you?”

“Of course not,” Stede laughs. “Who do you think I am? That’s high level stuff. I’m really just novice level gay, you know.”

“Da-aad.” She shakes her head and tucks herself under his arm as they head for the car.

“How was the trip?” he says, as she tosses her bags in the back seat.

“Fine,” she says, “It was, you know, the train.” She slips into the passenger seat, and pushes it as far back as it will go, propping her feet up against the dash, and sticking her tongue out at Stede. “Dad, what? Stop staring at me. Weirdo.”

“No,” he says, scrunching his nose at her. “I’m happy to see you.”

“Sap.”

“Yeah, yeah. Dinner?”

“Ugh, yes, thank you. Finally. I’m fucking starving, here.”

“Language,” Stede says, automatically, but without any real intent, as they pull into traffic.

There are three cafes in the village, but only one that advertises itself as a raw food vegan joint, so that’s where he brings Alma, of course.

“Are you sure?” she asks him, at the door.

“Yeah,” he says, “Definitely. Love this place. Come here all the time.”

He has minor regrets when it comes to actually examining the menu, however. Everything’s terribly complicated and has an awful lot of ingredients in it, the names of which he does not recognize (What on earth is a seitan? he wonders). Alma orders a bean burger and a fresh ginger and lime soda, and, in the end, Stede gets flustered, and orders the same.

Alma picks a table by the window, and Stede slides into the seat across from her, feeling, once again, the faint stirrings of trepidation, as she eyes him seriously. (She’s always done this, looked at him like this, with that little wrinkle in between her eyebrows, ever since she was a baby.)

“How are you, dad?” she asks, staring at him hard, like she can see inside of his head if she tries hard enough.

“I’m fine,” he says, automatically. “It was hard at first. It’s… a big change for me, obviously. I don’t know what to do with myself, still, a lot of the time. I’m still unpacking. But I’m good, darling. I’m fine. Everything is just a bit… unsettled, still, I guess. And I miss you. And Louis, of course.”

“You wouldn’t’ve seen me even if you’d been back home, dad, I’ve been at uni.”

“I know, I know. I just have more time to miss you, I guess.”

“The joys of early retirement.”

“Pretty much.” He gives a self-deprecating little laugh.

She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand, and he looks at her, and she smiles. It’s strained, maybe, and a little bit sad, but god he adores her, it’s absolutely insane that he and Mary brought this brilliant, beautiful creature into the world.

He squeezes her hand, and, on impulse, kisses her across her knuckles, like he did when she was six and got her fingers caught in the car door.

A waitress comes over with their burgers then, and they retreat to their separate sides of the table.

It’s. To call it a burger is, perhaps, an overstatement. It’s certainly patty-like in shape, Stede supposes, and, yes, technically it’s between two pieces of brioche, so it’s, you know, a sandwich, but the texture of it is completely unlike what he’s expecting. Sort of. Floury. Or chalky, maybe? In between the moist buns. It’s.

“Mm,” he says, trying to fake some kind of enthusiasm for Alma’s sake.

“Dad,” she chides, seeing through him immediately, “Why did you get it, then?”

“Well I didn’t know, did I? Obviously I’ve never been here before.”

“Don’t–” she laughs, then sighs. “Don’t try and please me, okay? Just. God, don’t be so fucking weird, dad. Just. Just be normal weird dad, okay?”

“Okay,” Stede says sheepishly.

“D’you wanna order something else?”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’ll eat the side salad.”

The problem is, the side salad doesn’t provide sufficient distraction, really, so once he’s finished, and Alma is still only halfway through her–whatever– Stede can only really sit there and sip on his soda and fiddle with the little paper wrapping from his straw.

“How’s mum?” he asks, finally.

Alma puts her burger down carefully, looking guarded. For that alone, Stede could kick himself.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, “But she’s deliriously happy.”

“Ah,” Stede says. “That’s good,” Stede says. And he means it. He does. It had been such a relief to know that at least wherever he was, he wouldn’t be hurting Mary anymore. It’s really made him feel much more charitable about the ways in which she hurt him, too. It’s better like this. Safe from each other. No doubt about it.

Alma goes tight-lipped when Stede asks for further details though, and, yeah, that’s fine, if she’s not there, yet. He lets the subject drop.

But she’s guarded, still, the whole rest of the evening, until finally Stede suggests that they should probably go back to his flat, since she must be tired from traveling.

He’s kind of nervous about showing her the flat, actually. It’s small, but he’s tried to find spaces for all the things he thinks will make it feel more like home for her. He’s not fully unpacked, so there are a few boxes here and there, but the whole thing has a sort of maximalist vibe, practically overflowing with soft furnishings in bright colors. And he’s got a spare room for her, of course, that he’s rapidly tried to make feel homey. The warmest, softest blankets Stede owns are scattered artfully throughout, and there’s a pile of books he’s hastily curated to suit Alma’s tastes. There’s even a family portrait of them all, from just a few years ago.

“Cute, right?” he says, as she perches on the edge of the bed and picks it up to inspect it. “Your hair was long then. You’d been growing it out, even though mum kept trying to get you to cut it.”

“Yeah,” she says thoughtfully. She studies the picture for a long time.

Stede hovers in the doorway.

Finally, she puts it, face down, on the bedside table, and says, “Dad, if you don’t mind, I’m pretty tired. I might go to bed now.”

“Oh right,” Stede says, “Goodnight, darling. I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

“‘Night, dad.”

He backs out and shuts the door behind him, listening for a long moment, before creeping back down the hall, feeling like an intruder in his own flat. He’s disappointed. He thought they might sit together and read, like they used to, maybe over a cup of tea or even wine. Still, he thinks, this is a new way of being, for them. They’ll have to learn how to relate to each other again. He’s not going anywhere. They’ll try again tomorrow.

He readies himself for bed, boiling the kettle for a cup of sleepytime tea, and loudly brushing his teeth so that Alma will hear him and, whatever, be comforted, or something, maybe.

He finally crawls into bed with his book, and lies there, thinking. His mind drifts to the music the night before. What a haunting song.

Stede’s not positive that he’s ever been in love, although he’s certainly read a great deal on the subject. He can rattle off the symptoms by heart (sweaty palms, a nervous flutter of the tummy) but he’s always figured them for literary embellishment.

He loves Mary. Loves her stubbornness and her steadfastness. But she doesn’t make him feel… well.

For instance, just off the top of his head, the way he’d felt the other night, when Ed had gotten onstage looking like the fucking leader of a biker gang from the fucking 80s. That had been something else, right? Something that, at the time when he and Mary had promised to one another to separate so that they could live their best, fullest lives, he’d only really ever dreamed of.

But then again, has Stede ever had a really good friend, aside from his soon-to-be-ex wife? Not really. Perhaps these things are run-of-the-mill when you enjoy someone’s company but aren’t actually married to them.

Stede sighs, and reaches for his tea before it goes completely cold.

It’s too much to work out in a single evening. He cracks his book, and scans his eyes down the pages, absorbing nothing, until his tea is drunk, and then he flicks out the light and falls promptly asleep.

Ed hears Izzy’s car blocks before it actually pulls up in front of his house, so he’s already waiting in the driveway with his kit when he arrives. Izzy waves at him through the window, and holds up what looks like a greasy bakery bag.

“Fucking brilliant,” Ed says, after he piles his things in the boot and slides into the passenger seat.

Izzy just nods, and hands him the bag, which turns out to have a couple of fresh scones in.

“No jam or cream?” Ed complains, peeking into the bag like he might’ve missed them.

“Fuck off,” Izzy says, companionably, and they’re off.

There’s a little bubble of excitement under Ed’s skin as they approach the farm. A new site. Anything could be there. Probably, nothing is, but until they actually check, there’s always the thrill of possibility.

“Do you think,” Ed says, when they’re making their way towards the outskirts of town, “That we should do the thing properly? Lay out grids and keep track of what we find in each?”

“Proper archaeology style?”

“Yeah.”

Izzy shrugs. “Could be an idea.”

Ed turns to look at him, half-eaten scone in hand. There’s something up that Izzy’s not saying. He’s unusually reticent this morning, and there’s a bit of a weird energy to him.

It’s possible he’s just excited for the dig, yes, but Ed has been detecting with him for years, and is extremely familiar with Izzy’s brand of intense, focused excitement, and this doesn’t seem quite like that.

“You okay, Iz?” he asks, keeping his voice casual.

“Mm,” says Izzy noncommittally.

“Feeling weird about the fact that Jackie almost certainly murdered and buried a load of her husbands in the paddock?”

That does make Izzy laugh a little bit, and he relaxes, maybe, a fraction.

“Nah,” he says, “You’re not going to catch me going anywhere near that paddock.”

“Jackie’s past is Jackie’s business, eh?”

“Something like that.”

They drive in silence another little way, before Izzy says, “I saw him yesterday. That guy. Bonnet.”

Ed tries to ignore the little hiccup of excitement in his stomach at the mention of Stede. “Yeah?” he says, instead, coolly.

“Yeah,” Izzy says. There’s a note of something like regret in his voice, which gives Ed pause, makes his mouth feel a little dry, all of a sudden. Probably the scone. “He was in some cafe in town,” Izzy says, “And not alone.”

“Yeah?” Ed says again. His tongue feels leaden.

“Some blonde woman. At least half his age. They were holding hands.”

Ed stares very hard out the window. The town is giving way to fields, now, and they flash by, nothing more than green blurs.

“Just thought you should know,” Izzy says gruffly.

“Whatever,” Ed scoffs lightly. No wonder Stede had been so dodgy about his weekend plans. Probably didn’t want to commit to anything in case his actual date went well, which it sounds like it did, if they were holding hands. “Didn’t really peg him as the type to be into dating someone so much younger than him.”

“Me neither,” Izzy says, “Doesn’t look like he would be up to it, honestly. Must be rich.”

Ed shrugs, still looking out the window. “Or really good in bed,” he contributes. Not that he’s thought about it much over the last week, or anything. Nope.

It starts to rain.

Ed slumps further down in his seat, not bothered much when he crushes Izzy’s scone. The excitement that he had for the day ahead has been entirely replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. They won’t find anything. They never find anything.

They don’t bother with the grid when they arrive, just shrug at each other, and head off to opposite sides of the field.

They don’t find anything besides bottle caps and crisps wrappers and a single twenty-cent piece minted only last year, but inexplicably two whole feet under the earth.

Ed can’t help but feel a little jealous of it. Sometimes he thinks he would like to be buried deep under the earth like that. The closeness and the dark and the loam pressing on him from all sides until he was just gone.

As smoothly as his visit with Alma starts out, it quickly becomes strained. Stede’s done an enormous amount of research, albeit only in the last twenty four hours, about Things To Do in Essex That Will Impress Your Daughter, but it’s all falling a bit fucking flat. Alma becomes increasingly surly and short with him, each time he recommends something new, even though he’s gone out of his way to choose things he thinks she’ll like.

“Isn’t this fascinating?” Stede whispers to her, about an hour into the walking tour of Danbury Abbey. (It’s not. The docent is rambling on about records that were kept here at various points in time, but, Stede rationalizes, records are close to literature, sort of, so Alma could be interested in this.)

Alma shoots him a look, politely blank, eyebrows raised slightly. “Yeah,” she says, flatly, “Super duper interesting,” in a way that Stede instantly knows actually means fuck you.

It hurts, being on the other end of that look from Alma. It’s a bit like being stabbed in the gut, or so Stede imagines. It’s the kind of look he himself might have shot Mary during a dinner with their parents, or a gallery opening that had gone on far too long.

It actually stops him in his tracks for a moment, falling behind the rest of the tour group as they round a buttressed corner. Alma stops too, about five feet away from him, and turns back to him impatiently. “Coming, dad?”

It’s like there’s a string running from his heart to hers. She tugs on it, and he feels himself wanting to step forward to close the gap between them. He holds his ground, though, tugs back.

For a moment, it works, she takes a step towards him, and the tension between them slackens ever so slightly.

“Dad,” she says again, though it still sounds like you absolute arsehole, “We’ll lose the tour, come on.”

Stede takes the plunge. “Fuck the tour,” he stage-whispers to her, “Let’s get out of here.”

There’s a terrifying moment when he thinks she might say no, might hide behind that polite mask that he just hates seeing on her. His heart thuds painfully in his chest.

Tug. She teeters.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing with his head, tugging, again.

“Yeah,” she says, finally, “Okay.” She gives him a small smile, but a real one, and he sighs, holding out an arm to her as they walk away that she slips under after only a brief hesitation.

“There we go,” he says, “That’s a little better, right? God, what a boring fucking tour.”

“Yeah,” she says, guardedly, glancing at him in her periphery. “I guess so.”

“I just hate these sorts of things, don’t you?” Stede bumbles on, trying to get a rise out of her.

“Yeah,” she says, again, stopping in her tracks, and tilting her head to one side. “And yet this is, like, the fourth tour we’ve been on today, dad.”

“Oh,” he says. Has it been that many? There was the WWII airplane hangar they’d visited this morning, okay, but it wasn’t his fault that the main exhibit, a German fighter pilot that went down somewhere near Colchester, was undergoing some refurbishment. And, technically, the wine tasting he’d signed them up for had included a guided tour of the vineyard. And then there’d been the museum he’d taken her to after lunch, where, yeah, he’d gotten caught up in a conversation with a clearly lonely tour guide that he’d had a dreadfully hard time extracting himself from. So, yeah. Technically, he supposes, this is their fourth tour of the day.

“Right,” he says, quietly. “I guess I was just sort of hoping you’d enjoy them, but I guess I was wrong, darling, I’m sorry.”

And here, quite by accident, he does end up getting a rise out of Alma.

“Dad,” she hisses, furiously, and just like that, it’s suddenly extremely clear to him that she’s about to cry and trying very hard to hold it in, just like she always has done, even when she was small, and there’s something so endearing about that, even as his heart absolutely breaks. “I wish you would just stop–” she grits out, “–stop trying to do whatever you think other people want. It’s just. It’s you and mum all over again, and I can’t–” A tiny sob breaks its way through and she turns, furious, into the circle of his arms to hide her face against his chest.

They are attracting a bit of attention in the small, echoing Abbey, and Stede glares down a couple of the nosier onlookers as he rubs a soothing hand over Alma’s back. Her fists are clenched at her sides, and she’s breathing shakily, clearly trying to reign herself in. It’s. God. It’s a mood that’s so painfully familiar to him.

“Let’s go outside, darling,” he says, “Yeah? Get a bit of fresh air.” She sniffles and nods, head down, and he pulls her close under his arm and leads her out, walking with purpose, head held protectively high, so that Alma doesn’t have to make eye contact with anybody she doesn’t want to.

“There,” he keeps saying softly, “It’s alright.”

He walks them briskly down the small path that curls away from the Abbey and into a small copse of trees, where there are far fewer tourists, and he sees, with some relief, a small bench overlooking a stream.

“Will we sit down for a moment?” he asks, and Alma nods.

They sit, and Alma lets out a few more shaky sobs into Stede’s shoulder before she manages to regain control of her breath, and she lets go of where she’s curled her fists hotly into his jacket, creasing it, and leans away from him and up, still hiccuping softly now and again.

Stede, ever-prepared for an unexpected onslaught of emotions these days, due to unfortunate historical precedence, offers her a small pack of travel tissues, which she takes with a watery sort of laugh.

Then, he just sits, and breathes, himself, and tries to look like he’s listening to the soft noises of the brook instead of miserably hanging on every small hitch in Alma’s breath as she soothes herself the way he wishes he could sooth her instead.

“Darling,” he says softly, once she’s managed to take several steady-sounding breaths in a row. She groans and puts her head in her hands as this seems to spark her off again. “Sorry,” he says. “I just. I’m listening. If there’s anything at all you want to say to me.”

And that must have been at least partially the right thing to say, he tells himself, because she nods and sniffs and blows her nose, and scooches a little closer to him on the bench so that she can lean a flushed cheek against his shoulder as together, they watch as the midge start to rise out of the water in preparation for dusk.

“I feel like,” she starts, thoughtfully and evenly, after a few long moments of this, “you and mum. You stayed together longer than you should have, because of me and Lou, even though it made you both m-miserable.” Her voice pitches a little on the last word, quavering back into something tearful, but she collects herself and continues. “And, like, I’m not mad or sad or upset or anything that you’re splitting up, and I’m not just saying that,” she says, staring at him for the first time in several long minutes, eyes fierce, like Stede’s going to contradict her on that point. (He wasn’t planning on it.)

“It’s just that mum is, like, definitely better off now, you know? She’s got Doug, and she’s painting loads, and she’s got this, like, really strong support group around her, and,” she hiccups, “I just w-worry about you out here all on your own, and I’m w-worried that b-because you st-stayed–” and here she starts crying again, and she makes a frustrated noise and covers her face with her hands.

“Sweetheart,” Stede says, reaching out to her and trying to pull her in for a hug again, but she pushes him away, and looks up at him, face completely red and crumpled, tears and snot and eye-makeup just freely running, now.

“No,” she says fiercely. “I just don’t want you doing things that you don’t like anymore because you think they’ll make me happy, because it was miserable when you and mum were together, and it’s miserable now, thinking that maybe because you kept trying for so long, it’s too– too late.”

It’s so hard for Stede to keep still during this speech, because he’s absolutely itching to take her into his arms and comfort her, but he’d said he would listen, and he does, and it sucks, because he can so easily follow her logic, flawed though it may be, and it’s heartbreaking to think of her harboring this– this guilt, and also, a part of him thinks damn, because he was so sure that they’d managed to get at least Alma through this unscathed, but here they are.

But he’s the adult here, and so he presses his lips together and says nothing, and listens and watches her fall apart completely (his heart) before she finally finishes, and stares at him, lip trembling, and nods to him that she’s said her piece.

“Alma Bonnet,” Stede says, quite slowly and firmly, “Listen to me.” Alma swipes angrily at her face with a tissue, but nods. “You are in no way responsible for the fact that your mother and I stayed together for so long after we knew better. There were so many factors contributing to that, not the least of which was our own stubbornness. But you and Lou are nothing short of the greatest joys of our lives.”

Alma sniffs. “Even though Lou’s turning out to be such an absolute arsehole?”

Stede laughs. “Lou’s a teenager, Alma. He’ll get over it.”

She shrugs.

“Darling,” he says, “I don’t regret any of the choices I made.” And he knows, for the first time, as he says it, that it’s true. “I wouldn’t change a thing. And I’m so sorry that it caused you so much pain, of course, I absolutely can’t stand the thought that I’ve hurt you, but I do, genuinely, think that you are exactly perfect just as you are, so even if those things are painful, if they’re a part of who you are now, then I’m glad that they happened.”

“But dad,” she whines, and she turns to face him on the bench, and reaches over to squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. “Are you happy now?”

“I’m–” Stede wonders how truthful he can be with this impressionable young person about whom he cares an absolutely astronomical amount.

He thinks about everything they have in common, the hours they’ve spent side-by-side in silence reading, the hours they’ve spent philosophizing and cataloging every species of plant in their neighborhood, the hours weaving stories together about pirates and running away, and becoming something bigger than themselves. He thinks of Alma curling up into his side and saying “Dad, I think I like girls, like, like like them,” and the bubble of mixed fear and wonder and awe that had expanded in his chest to hear it. He thinks of her thoughtful gaze on him, in the years afterwards, considering, analyzing. And how when he’d sat her down to have the same, difficult conversation, she’d only laughed and hugged him, unsurprised and sad and happy all at once.

It is important to Stede that she sees him as successful. They are so alike, and he’s worried that he’s failed her, if she cannot see him as a model of the kind of future that he wants her to have.

But then. He thinks about his father. Of the bitter twist of his mouth, and the complete disdain in his eyes, whenever he looked at Stede.

He looks at Alma, whose brows have drawn together in worry, and sees that the time he’s been thinking is answer enough.

“I’m not happy yet,” he says, finally, with a small laugh, “Not completely. Not. In myself. But I do think that I can be, and I know that I am capable of it, because I am, sometimes. When I see you, and when I think about all the good things that you and Lou have in your lives. But that’s just being a parent,” he says, hastily, “I don’t want you to think that you are responsible for my happiness, in any way. The thing that would make me the happiest is just if you would pursue the things that make you happy. When I see that, I just,” he presses an earnest hand to his breast. “That makes me the happiest,” he says. “And as for myself, I’ll learn, like you are, my darling. I don’t know all the answers yet, but I do know that I’m capable of great happiness, because you make me very happy, and I do promise that I will keep trying to figure it out, okay?”

Alma’s lip wobbles, and she nods, and when Stede holds his arms out to her, this time, she shuffles into them, and if Stede weeps a tiny bit into the top of her head, she doesn’t say anything about it, and if she leaves a wet faceprint on his lapel, then whatever. He’s a dad. He’s seen much worse.

“So that’s a no on the walking tour of all the local bridges, then, right?” Stede says, with a watery chuckle, as they finally pull away from each other.

Alma pulls a horrified face. “Did you eat the Lonely Planet guide to Essex?”

“We could… admire some foliage at the botanical garden?”

“Please no more tours,” she groans.

“No more, I promise,” Stede laughs. “I just wanted to make it fun for you, darling.”

“I just wanna. I just wanna see how you’re doing,” Alma says. “I don’t want weird tourist dad, I want normal weird dad. What would you be doing if I wasn’t here?”

Stede rubs his chin and tries to think of something that’s not sitting alone in my flat drinking wine and reading about prisoners of war, because that’s likely to worry her, honestly. And– oh! Of course.

“Well,” he says, slowly, “I’ve been planning to get a metal detector, I guess?”

Alma raises an incredulous eyebrow at him.

“God,” she says, finally. “Normal weird dad. Nailed it. Metal detecting. Seriously?”

Stede shrugs. “There’s a club here. They seem nice.”

“And you were gonna go this weekend?”

“Well,” Stede says, “I was going to try and buy a detector, and then Ed– he’s in the club– said I could text him if I had questions or some spare time, but.” He shrugs. “I mean, if you’re not into it, that’s fine, obviously. I’d rather be with you.”

He looks up at her.

She grins. Her eyes are bright and mischievous.

“Yeah,” Alma says, “Let’s go get you a fucking metal detector. Why the fuck not?”

Stede beams at her.

“Where do you even get a metal detector?”

He shrugs. “Charity shop?”

She rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone. “Nowhere’ll be open now, obviously, but oh, look.” She hands her phone to him. “Here. We can go tomorrow morning, right?”

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. And,” she says a little shyly, “If you wanted to go check out some foliage together, maybe we could do that on the way home now.”

Stede can’t help himself. He reaches across the bench and cups her cheek. “I love you,” he says, sincerely. “I’d love that.”

Ed is bumming around the flat on Sunday morning, trying to think of something to do besides watch TV when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he thumbs it open to find–

Stede has sent an attachment.

His heart flutters ever so slightly. He flicks it open.

It’s a photo of a metal detector. A Garett Ace 200, to be precise. It’s got a kind of raucous and gaudy design, as detectors go. Perfect for Stede.

Before he has a chance to reply, another picture comes in, this one of a Fisher F22.

Then a third picture: an entire row of metal detectors. Where the hell is he, even? The lighting is distressingly fluorescent, and is that– is that an electric blender in the background?

This third photo is at a weird angle, as well, and has a disembodied pair of legs in it. They’re slim. Feminine. They’re not Stede’s (although he does have nice legs) (not that Ed has noticed). Ed’s stomach sinks faster than a fucking stone. Ah. This will be Stede’s age-inappropriate lady friend, no doubt.

Help, says the next text.

Fuck. Well. He did say.

Ed sits up and zooms in on the last picture, trying to make out brand names.

Yep. There we go. The RM Ricomax has the best overall sensitivity and penetration, he texts back, but it’s quite dear, if that matters to you, and the settings can be a little hard to get the hang of. The Equinox 800 is a pretty solid cheaper option as well, if you’re looking for something easy to use, to start.

There’s a brief pause, and then Stede is typing something.

He stops.

He’s typing something.

He stops.

Ed realizes how intently he’s staring at his fucking phone, and flings it away from him. It flumps softly into the corner of the couch. He rubs his temples. He’s got a fucking headache coming on.

His phone buzzes.

As a point of pride, Ed makes himself wait ten whole seconds before he dives for it.

Are you free to chat for a moment? It says.

And then it buzzes again, in his hand.

No worries if not!

Ed takes stock for a moment. It’s not Stede’s fault that Ed’s gone all sappy over him after what amounts to only a few brief interactions, after all. And Stede is still probably someone he’d like to be friends with, at the end of the day, he reckons. Yeah, he types back, after a long moment.

Almost immediately, his phone starts to ring. Stede’s fucking Facetiming him, jesus fucking christ. Ed rushes to sit up, brushes his hair out of his face, checks over the little preview image of himself on his screen and thinks, yeah, fine, okay, that’ll do, before answering.

Stede’s squinting at the phone, when the call connects, holding it a little too close to his face. The angle is pretty unflattering (thank fucking god a small part of Ed’s brain supplies).

“Hey!” Stede says, sounding surprised. “Oh dear, I– I didn’t mean for the video to be on, Ed, sorry. I don’t know how to turn it off. Hang on.”

“It’s fine,” Ed says, and then, “Where the hell are you, man?”

“Computer World!” says Stede, with an enthusiastic grin. “Did you know they sell metal detectors?”

Off screen, a womans’ voice: “Is that Ed? Oh my god.”

“I’m uh–” Stede says, blushing, and squinting at the screen, still. He appears to be poking at it with his finger. “I’m here with my daughter, Ed. This is Alma.”

The camera veers sickeningly to the side, and Ed sees, with a wave of relief he’s not fully expecting, a young woman with a blonde bob and dimples, leaning over Stede’s shoulder. She grins at the camera, and sticks her tongue out, and waves, and then it’s veering away again, back to Stede.

God, of course, his daughter. Fucking Izzy.

“Hi,” Ed says, belatedly.

“Um, anyway,” Stede continues, ignoring the interruption, “Sorry to bother you. It’s just that Kenny doesn’t know that much about metal detectors,” the camera veers again, and Ed gets a poorly-angled glimpse of a young man in a blue and red uniform, looking desperate and uncomfortable, before he’s being whipped back around to Stede. “And it seems like there’s so many options to choose from!”

“Slow down, mate.” Ed’s chuckling. He can’t help himself. Judging by the quick glimpse he’d gotten of Kenny’s expression this has been going on for at least a solid fifteen minutes. Fucking nightmare for the kid, he thinks. There’s some talking off camera, and Stede looks away from the screen for a minute to say, “No, it’s alright, I’ve called a friend who's a detectorist, so– A detectorist? Someone who does metal detecting, yeah. So. No. I’ll be okay on my own now, thank you very much for your assistance.”

He turns back to the camera. “Sorry, Ed. Bit of a kerfuffle over here.” He leans close to the camera. Ed can see up his nose. “I’m embarrassing Alma,” he confides in a stage-whisper.

“He is,” groans Alma from off-screen.

It’s– all of it, the relief, the bustle, the terribly unflattering angle up Stede’s nose– making Ed feel nearly unbearably fond.

“Show me the detectors again,” he says, laughing.

“Yeah, okay,” says Stede, “Let me just–” He squints.

“Bottom right,” says Alma, offscreen, sounding long-suffering.

The camera angle flips, and Ed is looking at the row of detectors in the picture.

“Alright,” Ed says. “Closer. Closer. Yeah. So first of all, ignore anything by Relco. They’re shit. You’ll only be finding crisps wrappers with those. Yeah, that’s. Those first three. Ignore those entirely. Now, from what we have left…”

A cool five minutes later, Stede has decided on a detector. Not top-of-the-line, necessarily, but not cheap, either. Ed notes that Stede doesn’t balk at the higher priced models, so he focuses on directing him towards the ones with the best features. Ed’s not a gear head to the same extent as Izzy, but he’s picked up a lot just by hearing him rant about it constantly, it turns out. (Izzy would tell Stede, for instance, that the real top-of-the-line detectors have to be custom built, not bought on a Sunday morning from a man-child named Kenny at a fucking Computer World.)

“Thank you, Ed,” Stede says, finally, as he’s being herded up to the counter by Kenny, who, whenever Ed catches a haphazard glimpse of him, looks like he’s more and more ready for this interaction to be over.

“Yeah, man.” Ed grins at him. “What else am I gonna do with my morning, huh?”

“Um,” says Stede, “Actually. Now that you mention it. Are you… free today? I know I’ve already taken a lot of your time, but.”

“You wanna take it out for a spin, don’t you?” Ed chuckles.

“Yeah,” says Stede sheepishly. “I do, a bit.”

Ed scratches his head. “Izzy’s out of town today, but. I guess I could take you guys, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Stede brightens, almost comically. “We could swing by and pick you up, if you need a lift.”

“Yeah,” says Ed, “That’d be nice, thanks.”

“Great,” Stede says, “Text me your address. We’ll be there in… an hour?”

“Sure.”

Stede waves a silly little wave at the camera, and mouths the word BYE, and the call disconnects.

Ed flops back onto his couch. He feels so much better than he has all weekend, but there’s no time to think about why. Stede will be here soon.

Ed flicks his phone back open, texts Stede his address, and then hauls himself up and off the couch to go get ready.

“Soooo,” Alma says, as they’re on their way to collect Ed, “You neglected to mention that Ed’s, like, incredibly hot.”

“Alma!” Stede says, shocked.

“Oh my god, dad. Please don’t try and pretend you didn’t notice.”

“I can’t say that I have.” Stede’s cheeks are hot. Curse his abominable lack of a poker face. The number of times that would have come in handy throughout his life…

“Dad. Dad. I’m a confirmed lesbian in a committed monogamous relationship, and even I’d hit that”

“I don’t think I’m comfortable having this conversation with you.”

“Fine.” She pretends to pout for a moment. “Is he single, even?”

“Yes,” Stede says, automatically, and then, “Don’t,” when Alma arches an eyebrow at him. “Please.”

She flops back into the passenger seat and grins. “If you say so.”

They pull up to the address Ed gave them, and Stede is just about to text him, when there’s a flicker of a curtain and then the front door of the second-floor flat opens and Ed slips out, locks it, and starts down the steps. He’s wearing the same detecting outfit Stede saw him in the other day, except his heavy black jacket is flapping open, and. Shit, he’s wearing another crop top underneath.

Stede is suddenly extremely aware of how hard he’s struggling to control all the minute muscles in his face.

Alma gives him one absolutely giddy look before stepping out of the car.

“Hi,” Stede hears her say. All he can see from this angle are their shoulders. “You must be Ed. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you so much for all your help earlier.” She sticks out her hand, and he takes it and gives it a vigorous shake.

“Yeah, no problem,” he hears Ed chuckle warmly. “Nice to meet you, Alma.”

“You take the front seat, there,” she says, “You’ve got to give directions, anyway. I’ll squeeze in the back.”

“Oh! If you’re sure,” Ed says, and then he’s ducking into the car with a wild smile at Stede, who grins back at him like an absolute lunatic, probably, immediately forfeiting all semblance of control. “Hey,” Ed says.

“Hey,” Stede says back. They grin at each other like nuts for a moment. “Thank you for this morning,” Stede says finally. “And thank you for agreeing to take us out this afternoon.”

“‘S nothing,” Ed says, warmly but gruffly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s very kind of you,” Stede presses, never in his life having been capable of not worrying about anything.

“Ah, shut up,” Ed says in a friendly way. “Let’s go.”

“Very well,” says Stede. “Everybody in? Alma?”

“Yep,” Alma says from the back seat, sounding very much like she’s holding in a laugh.

The car ride is exceedingly lovely, as far as Stede is concerned. Once Ed and Alma get past their introductions, they get along like wildfire, and Stede listens to their excitable chatter and focuses on the road. Ed is turned around nearly all the way in his seat talking to Alma, but reaches over to brush Stede’s shoulder every time there’s a turn he needs to make, and… it’s nice.

At one point Ed stops mid-sentence, and points into the backseat next to Alma, and says, “Fuck off. Is that a fucking picnic basket?” with such wide eyes that Alma cackles with delighted laughter, and even Stede has to turn to look at his wondering expression, and runs the car into a hedge just a tiny bit.

“You’ve got this all figured out.” Ed says, grinning, and settling back into his seat, and Stede blushes.

Ed, for his part, seems pleased as punch to be heading out for the day. He’s practically vibrating around the interior of the car. It’s infectious, and pretty damn charming.

They finally pull in at the side of the road down a little lane, and Stede parks and walks carefully around the car, tucking in the wing-mirrors. Then, he pops the boot, and sheepishly pulls out not one but two brand new detectors, still in their boxes. At Ed’s raised eyebrow, Alma blushes lightly. “It just sounded so interesting when you were going over all the specs on the phone,” she says, “And dad’s still trying to buy my love because of the divorce, so.”

“She’s only joking,” Stede says, indulgently. “Locked that down years ago when I got you that pony you asked for, didn’t I?”

Alma snorts.

They free the detectors from the packaging, and Stede triumphantly reveals that he’s remembered to bring spare batteries. Ed shows them how to tweak the settings on their detectors, covers discrimination and notching, goes over the proper technique for the cleanest sweep of the uneven terrain, and how best to dig a plug, and how deep, and how to always fill in your hole afterwards or you’ll be cursed, like Pete was, that one time. Ed and Alma copy Ed as he tucks his pants into his socks, and zips up his parka, even though it’s not overcast in the slightest, and there’s only a hint of a warmish breeze.

Alma gets the hang of it straight away, and heads off on her own. Stede’s got more questions.

“The trick of it is,” Ed says, “to look at the landscape. The dressing might have changed, but the foundations are the same, you see? You’re looking for land that’s likely to have been undisturbed. And you’re looking for places where people would naturally want to gather.” He points towards the treeline. “Your daughter’s got a pretty good instinct in that regard, I think. That copse is definitely ancient. Look how closely those trees have grown together. No idiot with a plow’s gonna come along and try to dig through there. So,” Ed plants his hands on Stede’s shoulders and points him towards the field. “Where’s calling to you, man?”

Honestly, Stede’s at sea. He likes what Ed’s saying, can see the logic in it, but frankly, the entire landscape looks like it’s been untouched for fucking centuries. Millenia, even. The grass is long and untamed, and the ground is so dense it’s practically peat in some areas, by the looks of it. There’s a long, flat sort of runway that curves along the side of a fence that sort of draws his eye, but he couldn’t say exactly why.

“Well?” Ed nudges Stede’s shoulder with his own. “Any ideas?”

Stede bites his lip nervously. “I’m afraid not, Ed, I’m sorry. I just. I think I might not be that great an interpreter of universal human impulses.”

“Huh?”

“I’m too weird.” Stede shrugs, giving a self-deprecating little laugh. “I can never seem to guess exactly what people are going to do.” He nods out at the field. “You pick a good spot.”

Ed tips his head to one side and surveys him with a thoughtful frown. “Nah,” he says, “You’re gonna pick one.”

“Ed–”

“–Look,” Ed interrupts. “There’s no point thinking like everyone else in this hobby, right? The obvious stuff’s already been found. You’re different, Stede. You know who else was different? Fucking Blackbeard, for one. That’s probably why nobody’s found his fucking hoard yet. Their brains don’t work right. Yours might, though. Who knows? C’mere.” He steps up close behind Stede and wraps his arms over Stede’s shoulders. “I’m gonna cover your eyes, okay?”

“O-okay,” Stede stammers.

The world goes dark as Ed gently covers Stede’s eyes with a palm that’s warm and dry and rough-worn in a way that makes Stede draw in a shaky breath.

“Breathe,” Ed rumbles, into Stede’s ear, close enough that his breath tickles Stede’s hair. “Focus. What can you hear?”

It’s hard for Stede to hear anything over the pounding of his own heart, honestly. Ed’s a smidge taller than him, and with his arms wrapped around Stede the way they are, he feels almost completely enveloped. Ed’s warm, too, giving off body heat like a fucking furnace, and Stede fights the impulse to lean back into his embrace.

He breathes.

A small breeze blows by, tickling a piece of Ed’s hair against Stede’s cheek.

“Birds,” Stede says, finally, “Songbirds.”

“Yeah, good. What else?”

“Smells like manure, a bit.”

Ed chuckles, and Stede feels it as well as hears it. It’s intense, having his eyes closed, like this. Everything feels sharper and more exaggerated than usual. Ed is kind of intense, he’s realizing. Stede likes it.

“What else?” Ed says, like Stede might need further encouragement to stay in the warm circle of his arms.

“Does it– does it smell a bit like the sea, or am I just willing that?”

A puff of air against his cheek tells him Ed’s laughing at him again. It doesn’t feel mean, though. Nothing about Ed does.

“You’re spot on, man. Used to be a strait up this way, hundreds of years back. You can still smell the salt, sometimes, after a rain, when the water table’s high enough. Okay, now.” Ed claps his hands back on Stede’s shoulders. “Don’t open your eyes. This is gonna get weird. I’m gonna turn you around a bit– you don’t get dizzy easily, do you? –and you open your eyes and tell me what you see first, okay?”

“I–okay?”

Stede lets himself be coaxed into a gentle spin while Ed keeps him steady with an occasional touch to the shoulder. It’s not fast enough to really throw him off-balance, but Ed’s proximity and the gentle intention behind his touch are heady and affecting.

“Aaaaaand go!” Ed stops him abruptly, with a firm palm on Stede’s chest and one of his back. He doesn’t move them away immediately, either, even when Stede’s still and steady.

Stede allows himself one last moment of sensory deprivation oddly coupled with sensory overwhelm before he opens his eyes.

He’s not exactly sure what he was expecting, but the field looks exactly the same as it did moments ago. Stede’s heart sinks in something like disappointment. When Ed was speaking, it felt like he had been transported back in time, almost, like he could be someone–anyone– else. But here they are. And he’s just Stede, as, lamentably, he always has been.

“So?” Ed says, “Where to, Stede?”

Stede looks at him helplessly, but he sees that Ed’s smiling at him, corners of his eyes wrinkling rather beautifully, and his concerns drop away.

He points at the flat tract of earth he spotted when they first arrived. “There?” he asks.

“Perfect,” Ed says, warmly. “Let’s go.”

Stede can’t seem to quite get the hang of the discrimination, so Ed sticks by him, walks about five feet to his left, smiling encouragingly every time Stede does something right, and gently correcting him when he’s wrong. They both have headsets on, so there’s not much scope for conversation, but they share plenty of companionable looks and little hand gestures.

Stede makes his first find of the day about an hour in: a pretty strong signal off of the detector, and when he looks up to catch Ed’s eye for confirmation, Ed is already grinning at him. Ed pulls down his headset, and Stede does the same so he can hear him.

“Got something, don’t you?” Ed says.

“I think so,” Stede says, grinning.

“What’s the target id?”

“Um. Middle-y. Foil, maybe?”

“Go on, then.”

Ed stands by, hip cocked, and watches as Stede crouches and digs into the earth with his little trowel. It’s wet from the rain the day before, and it’s soft and forgiving under his hands. He levers out the plug of dirt, and Ed wordlessly hands him a pinpointer.

“Thanks,” Stede says. He gets a signal from the left side of the hole he’s dug, and at Ed’s instruction, brushes the soil away there with his hand.

Finally, there’s a glint, and Stede excitedly pulls out a clod of dirt that eventually reveals itself to be a bottle cap.

“Wow!” Stede says, brushing it off with a rag, and holding it up to Ed, who takes it with a small smile and an appropriate amount of reverence, and examines it.

“Nice one,” Ed says. “Looks like, maybe, from the 80s. Lilt? Something sweet, anyway.”

Stede beams up at him. “This is a bit of fun, isn’t it?” he says, and Ed laughs, and hands the bottle cap back, and then sticks out a warm hand to help him up, once he’s tucked it away into his breast pocket.

“I wonder how Alma’s getting on,” Stede says, looking across the field.

“She’s pretty cool, your daughter,” Ed says.

“I know,” Stede says fondly, “No idea where she got it from. Her mum, probably.”

“Yeah, must be,” Ed says, and then laughs when Stede takes a playful swipe at him. “Just joking, man, just joking. You’re cool.”

He isn’t.

“Thank you for this, Ed,” says Stede, more seriously, as he uses his boot to cover up the hole he made in the soil. “It’s really sweet of you.”

Ed positively beams at him. “You keep saying that, mate,” he says, “But from where I’m standing, this is a great deal. Lift to a field. Picnic lunch. Good company.”

“Plus, we might find Blackbeard’s hoard,” Stede laughs.

“Yeah,” Ed chuckles. “Or at least his leftover crisps packets.”

“Imagine.” Stede sighs.

“Imagine the Mad Devil Pirate Blackbeard eating cheese and onion crisps, you mean?”

“Not exactly,” Stede laughs. “Just. Imagine him walking on this exact spot, whatever it was back then.”

“Probably a big empty field,” Ed guesses.

“What was he feeling, do you think?” Stede continues, unhindered by this interruption. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, smelling the grass and the faint scent of manure. That hint of the sea. Ancient smells.

When he opens his eyes again, Ed is regarding him peacefully, head tilted to one side. He smiles at Stede, a soft little smile that makes Stede’s stomach do an odd little flip, and then rumble, audibly.

“Oop,” Ed laughs, “I think Blackbeard was probably feeling quite peckish, actually.”

They hoist their detectors on their shoulders and head for the car.

Alma is crouched down, digging something up from under the trees, but waves at them, as they change trajectory towards the lane.

“Think you’re up for a bit of a hike?” Stede asks, pointing up a small hill to a shady spot under a glorious old oak.

“Yeah,” says Ed, eyeing it up. “Think I can manage that.”

Stede fetches the basket, which is massive and woven from wicker. It’s too clunky to hold both handles at once, so Ed takes one, and Stede the other, and they start up the hill together.

The oak is twisted and magnificent, with roots that burgeon generously from the ground at its base, creating a natural sort of snug at the top of the hill.

Stede flicks open his side of the basket and pulls out a blanket brightly patterned with birds and flowers. He shows Ed how one side is made of plastic tarpaulin to avoid soaking up mud. Ed makes vaguely impressed noises at that, but really, he’s busy peeking in the other side of the basket, as Stede spreads the blanket out under the tree.

Alma joins them, panting up the hill at a lazy jog as they settle onto the blanket.

Stede excitedly lays out the spread.

There are fresh rolls aplenty, and a choice of either savory or sweet toppings: mayonnaise, chutney, marmalade, little gem lettuces and fresh mustard greens, baked tofu and bean sprouts for Alma, liverwurst and ham, pickled beets and onions, ricotta and manchego, both strawberry and blackcurrant jam, and a little pot of clotted cream. Stede also pulls out a small carafe of tea and three cups, a carton of half-and-half, and a tiny little travel sugar bowl he found during his travels and rarely leaves the house without.

Finally, he uncoils a small roll of cloth to reveal three sets of silverware, and pulls out some plastic plates that are decorated to look like fine china, passing them around.

“Fucking incredible,” Ed breathes with a disbelieving grin at Alma, who rolls her eyes.

“Extremely fucking excessive, you mean,” she says, reaching for a roll, “Dad never does things by halves.”

“Yes, well,” says Stede, “Why settle for something substandard when with just a small bit of extra effort you can have something excellent?” He bites his cheek and shoots a nervous glance at Ed. “I wasn’t sure if you have any dietary restrictions, Ed? I hope there’s enough for you.”

“Whoa,” Ed says, going straight for the marmalade, “There’s more than enough, man. I’ll eat anything, especially when it’s all this fucking pretty.”

“Good,” Stede says, and watches the two of them for a while, exclaiming over the selection, planning their second and third rolls, bickering over the cheese knife.

There’s something happening in his chest that Stede doesn’t quite have the words for. He can identify parts of it easily (he’s pleased to have pleased them with the picnic; he’s excited at the prospect of further detecting after lunch; he’s slightly winded from the trek up the small hill), but there’s more to it than that.

Ed is making Alma laugh with some anecdote about a seagull, and her mouth is full of sandwich, and she looks like a little kid again, and underneath that, he can hear songbirds calling to one another, and the breeze tickling the back of his neck, and Ed’s eyes are sparkling, and something inside of him is unfolding and releasing. Stede takes a deep, shuddering breath, and smiles, although Alma and Ed aren’t even looking at him, engrossed as they are in their conversation.

Then, he sets about making himself a sandwich.

All told, between the three of them, they pretty much demolish the entire contents of the picnic basket, including the small punnet of raspberries Stede produces for dessert once they’re done with their sandwiches.

It’s too hot to keep detecting, though, so while they wait for the sun to go back behind the clouds, Stede pours the tea. Ed laughs himself silly at the tiny little sugar cubes in the travel sugar bowl, and then proceeds to put no fewer than seven of them in his little cup with a dollop of half-and-half to boot.

He takes his jacket off and bundles it up behind his head for a pillow as he stretches his long limbs out on the blanket.

“Man,” he groans, once he’s settled his cup of tea against his chest. “This is the life, isn’t it? What’s this blanket made out of? It’s so fuckin’ delicious.”

Stede is too taken by the stretch of skin exposed at Ed’s belly to respond. Before he’s even aware that he’s doing it, he reaches out and brushes his fingers against the puckered scar on Ed’s stomach above his left hip.

“Jesus, man.” Ed flinches, nearly spilling his tea, and Stede jerks his hand back.

“God,” he says, “Sorry, Ed. I don’t know what– sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ed chuckles, “You just startled me, that’s all.”

“What’s– sorry– what’s that from?”

“This old thing?” Ed tucks his chin into his chest to examine the scar from a better angle. “Got it detecting, actually. Tried to dig up what turned out to be an unexploded landmine near the gunpowder mills in Waltham. Happens more often than you’d think.”

“Fuck,” says Stede, appreciatively.

“Yeah, blew me about… forty feet in the air, I think?”

“Jesus. Does it still hurt?”

“Ah, not really. Pulls a little when it’s cold, sometimes, maybe.” Stede’s fingers twitch, and the corner of Ed’s mouth quirks up. “It’s alright, man, you can touch it if you want.”

Stede looks at him for confirmation and then bites his lip and leans forward again to run his fingers over the twisted skin. Ed’s stomach flutters a little under his touch, and Ed breathes in sharply as Stede’s fingers make contact, but he doesn’t move away or flinch, this time.

“Wow,” Stede says softly.

Ed’s eyes are hooded as he watches Stede watch him.

“Oh my god,” Alma says quietly, from the other side of the blanket. “This is happening.”

“What was that, darling?”

Stede and Ed tear their gaze away from each other to look at her.

She’s blushing, but she just buries her nose in her teacup and looks quickly away, saying, “No-thing,” in a bit of a sing-song.

“More tea anyone?” Stede asks.

“Alma,” Ed says, turning onto his side and propping up his head on his hand. “What did you find so far in your bit of the field?”

“Oh!” Alma brightens, and pulls a dirty handful of pieces out of her jacket pocket.

Ed is already leaning over to paw through the small pile.

“Jeeze,” he says, “Good haul. Gotta few nails, there. Those look old, actually.”

“Really?” Alma says, leaning in. “What about this thing?” She pokes it over to Ed and he holds it up for examination.

It’s a funny, twisted thing. Ed turns it in all directions, finds a joint in it that moves, and squeaks it open and closed again a few times.

“You know,” he says, finally, “I reckon this is a piece of scaffolding.” He tosses it back on to the blanket. “Not historical or anything, but kinda cool, all the same.”

“Yeah,” Alma says, grinning. “It is.” She scoops her finds back into her jacket. “What did you find?” she says.

Ed fishes around in his jacket under his head and pulls out a small baggie of pull tops and a candy wrapper.

Stede sheepishly presents his singular bottle cap.

“Well,” Alma says, “I definitely picked the best side of the field, then. Come on, are we done? I wanna find more treasure.”

They pack up the lunch and the blanket and bring the basket back to the car. By silent agreement, Ed and Stede head off in the same direction again, walking slowly, a few feet apart. Step, swipe. Step, swipe.

Stede, in the relative privacy of his headset, is flustered. Ed is– well, he’s very fucking hot, there’s no two ways about it. And there’s something about his behavior towards Stede, that, for lack of a better word, could be called intimate. The little touches to Stede’s arm in the car. And the way he readily accepts Stede’s touch: on his arm, the other night, in the pub; on his stomach. Even the vulnerable way he stretched himself out on Stede’s blanket. The way he’d closed his lips around the raspberries and clotted cream. Sensual. Was that it?

Whatever it is, Stede is absolutely and ravenously desperate for it to continue.

But then there’s the rest, too. Ed is genuinely nice. He’s easygoing with Alma. He teases Stede like they’re old friends. He doesn’t mock Stede for, well, being himself, which, in his experience, is a bit of a hard sell for anyone.

And those things, for some reason, give Stede pause, cool the molten thing at his core that’s telling him, fucking go on, you coward.

Right after he and Mary separated, Stede had gone on some dates. Nobody special. Men he met on the internet, or through dating apps which he then hastily deleted in a post-Bacchanalian shame spiral. It was definitely different having sex with those men. Hell, having sex with men at all. A fucking revelation, if he’s honest. He actually wishes he could talk to Alma about it. Even though she never really seemed to struggle with her sexuality very much, he thinks she can probably relate to the absolute and staggering power of actual physical attraction to another human being. He can never bring it up with her, though.

But another part of him aches for, oh, the small things. The way Mary would fold down the corners of paintings she thought he would like in her big art books, or the way they used to have to dance around each other in the kitchen while they got the kids ready for school, and Stede ready for work. Just the sweetness of the everyday gestures of two people who knew each other exceedingly well. Too well.

Intimacy, he decides, squelching through the mud. He wants Ed. But he also wants to know Ed like that, and for Ed to know him in turn.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he actually has to backtrack two steps when he registers that the detector has been whirring in his ear.

He checks the numbers, which are in the iron range again, circles the spot, like Ed taught him, to try and get a better sense of where the signal is coming from, and then crouches down to dig. The soil is quite soft here. Muddy, even. His own boots sink in an inch or two as he squats, plying the ground with his spade.

Ed, a few feet off, watching him, has sunk into the mud even past the tops of his boots. He gives Stede an excited thumbs up, and settles his headset down around his neck, but doesn’t make moves to approach, given the unsteady nature of their footing.

Water fills the hole Stede makes almost immediately, but he scrunches his nose and sticks his hand in, anyway, feeling around in the muck in the direction of the ping.

There. His fingers blindly scramble through the slurry grasping and twisting out the small piece of metal he finds there– no, he thinks, as his fingers probe further. Pieces.

He grabs what he can, and removes his hand from the mud with a soft schluck. In his hand are three twisted little pieces of metal. They’re definitely not gold; that much is clear immediately.

“What’ve you found?” Ed calls to him.

Stede brushes his headset off, and stands, looking more closely at the buckshot in his hand. “Ah, I’m not sure,” he says. “Take a look?”

He and Ed both start moving towards each other through the mud. It’s quite hard going. Ed, in particular, is in quite deep, and at one point, he goes to pull his leg out, and goes pale and cries out, clutching his left knee.

“Ed!” Stede cries, “Are you okay? Don’t move. I’m coming to you.”

“Fuck,” Ed grits out. “Just my knee. It’s fine.”

“Ed, don’t be silly, you’re white as a sheet. Let me–” It’s absolutely infuriating trying to move quickly through the thick mud, but Stede manages, eventually, to get within arm’s reach of Ed, who’s furiously massaging his left quad.

“Fuck,” he’s muttering to himself, “Fuck off and die, you stupid piece of shit.”

“Um,” says Stede, assessing the situation. “Maybe if you grab my arm? Or put your arm over my shoulders? How bad is it?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Ed says, doing that. Stede slips an arm around his waist, trying hard not to think about how under his anorak, Ed’s wearing that fascinating little crop-top. “S’not terrible, I think. Just. Twisted it. In the mud.” Using Stede for leverage, he pries himself free. They stagger over to a dryer bit of land, careful to keep their detectors out of the mud. Ed gently tests his left leg, here, and hisses painfully.

“Oh shit,” Stede says. “Damn, Ed. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“What?” Ed looks at him, genuinely surprised. “Please explain that to me.”

“You so generously agreed to come out here to teach me and Alma to use our detectors, and now you’ve gotten hurt!”

“You’re a nut,” Ed tells him, warmly, shaking his head through a slight grimace, as they limp along the field back towards the car.

“If you say so,” Stede sighs. “I still feel responsible.”

“Hey,” Ed says, after a minute, “What did you find?”

“Oh!” Stede looks down and is surprised to find his hand still clutching the small pieces of metal. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. He uncurls his fingers and lets the pieces fall into the long grass.

“Hey!” Ed stops, tugging hard on Stede’s shoulders to stop him, too. “What the hell, man? Don’t do that.”

“What? Ed, it doesn’t matter. You’re hurt, and they’re just rubbish of some variety, probably.”

“Stede.” Ed pushes him away for a moment, swaying perilously on his one leg. For the first time since Stede met him, he actually looks deadly serious. “I’m not going another step ‘til you pick those up.”

“Seriously?”

Ed nods at him.

“Oh, fine.” Stede kneels in the long grass and feels around by their feet until he finds them, again. “Look,” he says, petulant, holding them out to Ed. “They’re nothing. Just little twisted pieces of metal.”

“They’re a souvenir of our first day detecting together, you brute. Bring ‘em here,” Ed says with an imperious toss of his head.

Stede does, holding his palm up for inspection.

“See?” he says. “Just garbage.”

Ed surveys them carefully. “Stede,” he sighs, “Do you know what these are?”

“Little twisty bits of metal?”

“No, man. Put the fucking pieces together, come on.”

When Stede stares at him blankly, Ed sighs again, and slings his arm over Stede’s shoulder, nodding towards the car.

“Picture this,” Ed says, as they lurch unsteadily forward across the soggy peat. “You’re the son of a blacksmith, and you’re learning your craft. ‘Make me five hundred perfect nails,’ he tells you, ‘or you’ll get no fucking gruel for dinner’ or whatever.”

Stede stops and stares at him. “They’re nails,” he says. “They’re practice nails. Mistakes.”

Ed grins at him and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “That spot we were on was probably a forge at one point. Or near enough to one. See how that road curves around behind the hill? Your apprentice was probably hiding those ones. Probably felt safe there. I’d guess that there was a little iron age settlement just on the other side there, oh, four, five hundred years ago.”

Stede looks down at the twisted things in his grip. How precious they seem, all of a sudden. How much care and frustration and longing had gone into them. How appropriate that he should find this twisted, failed remnant, and Alma the finished product.

Throat suddenly too thick to speak, Stede slips the would-be-nails into his pocket, and squeezes Ed’s side, gratefully. Ed beams at him.

They continue.

“How do you do that?” Stede asks, when he’s recovered enough to speak.

“Hm?”

“How did you know what they were? Where this used to be? It’s like time travel.”

“Probably close enough,” Ed laughs, “It’s not mysterious or anything,” he continues, “I studied it, didn’t I? Got a degree in archaeology about, shit, twenty-five years ago. Fuck.”

“Really?” says Stede, interest piqued.

“Yep,” Ed nods.

“And did you ever– I mean. Did you travel abroad? Uncover any great treasures? Lost civilizations?”

“Fuck no,” Ed snorts. “I got a job on a commercial building site, straight out of school. Thought I was there to help, you know, uncover and preserve sites of historical importance.” His voice is bitter. ”Turns out, they weren’t interested in ancient history. They just wanted me to clear the site so they could build on it. Made me sick.” His gaze turns wistful. “One time, I found this beautiful old tile work under some flagstones, probably a Roman bath, or something. It was still so bright; all the colors perfectly preserved.” He laughs a little sadly, and winces as he puts too much weight on his injured knee. Stede hoists Ed’s arm further on to his shoulders.

“I would’ve loved to see that,” he says, genuinely.

“Yeah, man, it was beautiful. Showed it to my supervisor. Told him what it was. You know what he said? ‘Never look under flagstones.’” Ed’s eyes are hard. “Next day, they’d covered it up, and the site was cleared for construction.

“They didn’t,” Stede gasps, scandalized.

“They did,” Ed snorts. “Could’ve been the find of a fucking lifetime. Never mind the cultural importance. Got a nice bonus check, of course. Quit the same day. Probably could have reported them, or leaked it to the press or something, but I didn’t. Think it’s a bank, now, or some shit like that.”

“Well that’s,” Stede swallows, “I mean, I think that’s pretty noble of you, Ed.”

“Aw,” Ed uses the hand that’s slung over Stede’s shoulder to ruffle his hair. “That’s nice of you. Pretty sure it was just dumb. Izzy definitely thought so. Didn’t get a reference. Blew my chance at a good career and a comfortable life.”

“I don’t know,” Stede says thoughtfully, “A comfortable life is all well and good, I suppose, but you seem like a man of adventure, to me.”

“Yeah? Here I was thinking I was a sad sack in his late forties, still temping, with no health insurance and bum knee,” Ed says smoothly. The way it rolls off his tongue, Stede can tell he’s said it before. Or heard it. It makes him a little sick to his stomach thinking about someone– in his head, it’s Izzy, probably, for some reason– saying those things to Ed. Lovely Ed.

And the idea that a good career and a comfortable life are the only things worthy of aspiration. Surely, then, to throw such things away would be lunacy. He thinks about the life he’s left behind to be here, now, in this field, arm around this beautiful man, and he thinks how much more open his life is, now, where before it had been so plodding and pale. The thing in Stede’s chest burns to hear Ed say this.

He wants to tell Ed how much worse it could be than this. How he used to wake with a feeling of dread and disappointment before he even opened his eyes. How now, especially the last few days, he’s woken with a feeling of anticipation. The sense that all the time in the world is unfurling before him.

But he can’t say that, so he clenches his jaw against the flow of words that wants to burst its way through, and just says, softly, “You’re not a sad sack, Ed. Please don’t say that.”

Only it comes across too sad and earnest, too much of his real feeling seeping into it, and Ed is thrown by it, he can tell.

“Right,” Ed says, almost equally soft. “Sorry, mate. Yeah.” He clears his throat.

Alma has finally spotted them, and their awkward conjoined gait, and copped on that something’s wrong. She jogs over to them.

“What did my dad do to you?” she pants, as she reaches them.

“Ah, you know,” Ed says easily, squeezing Stede’s shoulder, “Had to fight him for some gold. He won, but I was grievously wounded in the process. Now he’s just helping me to a spot where I can comfortably die.”

Alma laughs, though her canny eyes scan Ed’s form and alight on the way he’s tenderly holding his knee. She takes Ed’s detector from him, with care, and slips under his other arm, wrapping herself around his back, and clasping arms with Stede. “You know,” she says conversationally, as they make their much easier collective way towards the edge of the field, “I always used to think I’d die in the backseat of the Volvo. Dad used to be a way crazier driver.”

“What? I absolutely did not,” Stede objects. “I’m just as crazy of a driver as I was.”

Between the three of them, they reach the car without further incident, and bundle Ed inside.

“I’m all muddy,” Ed protests, as Stede helps him lift his injured leg into the car.

“Ed,” Stede says, “I’ve had not one but two toddlers in this car, okay? There’s nothing you can do to it that it hasn’t seen before.”

“Bet you’ve never hooked up in here, though,” Alma says coyly from the back seat.

“Wouldn’t be so sure of that, young lady,” Stede tells her. “Your mother and I–”

“Ew!” Alma shrieks, covering both her ears and kicking the back of his seat. “Dad, no! Don’t tell me that!”

“Works every time,” Stede whispers with a coy wink to Ed, who chuckles, sending a warm gust of air along Stede’s cheek. “Now,” Stede says, to the car at large. “Arms and legs inside the vehicle. Any death wishes, anyone? No? Then let’s go.”

By the time they make it back to Ed’s apartment, the adrenaline must be wearing off, because his knee is starting to throb. He actually can’t wait to be alone so he can ice it and take a fistful of painkillers.

“Well,” he says, as Stede pulls up, “Thank you for the daring rescue, and all. I hope you two had fun, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit,” he says to Alma, turning to face her in the backseat.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stede says, putting on the parking brake, “We’re not just going to leave you on the curb with a bum knee, Ed.”

Ed flushes hotly with shame.

“I’m fine,” he tries to insist.

“Ed, you live in a second-floor flat,” Stede says. “You can’t walk. We’re obviously going to help you up.”

Ed’s desperately trying to remember what state he’d left his flat in. What if it has a weird smell? Can he possibly sneak ahead of them and open a window or two, get a kind of a cross-breeze going? Did he put away his breakfast things? Are there crumbs on the couch from eating dinner in front of the tv instead of at the table?

His knee twinges.

“Yeah,” he ends up saying, somewhat reluctantly, “Okay, thanks.” And Stede beams and hops out of the car to run around to the passenger side.

Alma puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder from the back seat. “Dad’s very difficult to say no to when he gets an idea into his head,” she says, “Although in this case, I think he might be right. At least let us help you up the stairs?”

It’s not like being a pathetic sad sack (please don’t say that) hasn’t already disqualified Ed as a romantic prospect, here. Or the fact that he’s currently sloughing rapidly-drying mud onto Stede’s passenger seat.

“Yeah, okay,” Ed says again. Alma squeezes his shoulder as Stede opens his door from the outside and beams brightly down at him.

“Let’s get you up,” Stede says brightly, holding a hand down to him, and, when he takes it, pulling with surprising strength, until Ed is pressed warmly against his side, leaning more than half his weight on him.

Just as a test, because, Ed figures, he might as well enjoy this while it lasts, since it’s happening, he leans a little more heavily on Stede’s shoulder. Stede’s sturdy as a rock (though, of course, much softer), and now that they’re out of the mud, Ed’s pretty sure all of a sudden that Stede could just fucking pick him up, if he cared to, which is something he immediately regrets thinking about.

“Maybe,” says Stede, once they’re standing, eyeing the narrow stairs, “If Alma gets your keys, she could go ahead and open the door for us?”

“Yeah, okay,” Ed says. He fishes his keys out of his pocket, and Stede takes them and passes them to Alma.

“If that’s okay with you, Ed,” she says, taking them with a pointed look at Stede, and then looking to Ed for confirmation.

“Yeah,” he says again, feeling like a broken record.

As he and Stede limp up the stairs, Ed watches Alma’s face as she opens the door to his flat, to see if there’s any sign that she’s registering a strange smell. There’s none at all. She only furrows her brow in concern as she watches them make their way up the steps, and looks so like Stede for a moment that Ed laughs and almost unbalances them.

Then, they’re safely inside, and Stede says, “Where will you be most comfortable, Ed?” into his ear, and he finds himself saying, “The bedroom, probably. Down this hall and second on the left,” and then Stede is practically carrying him into his bedroom. That’s gonna be a tough one to get out of his head.

The bedroom’s not too bad, all things considered. The floor is relatively clear of clutter, at least on this side of the unmade but blessedly un-wank-stained bed. Stede flicks the crumpled duvet up before gently depositing Ed onto it. “You’re all muddy, Ed,” he says, when Ed makes vague noises of objection about Stede tidying.

He’s right, of course.

“There’s some crutches in the closet in the hall,” Ed says, once he’s seated, untucking his pants from his mud-caked socks and toeing out of his heavy boots.

Stede goes to fetch them, and returns a minute or two later to find Ed wiggling out of his trousers.

“Sorry,” Stede says contritely, leaning the crutches against the bed where Ed can reach them. His eyes flicker over the tattoos on Ed’s thighs, and then quickly away.

“No, it’s.” Ed flops back on the bed, trousers halfway down his thighs, and gives a helpless laugh. “Sorry I’m not a very good host,” he says.

“Oh please,” Stede says, waving a dismissive hand, “Don’t worry about that for a minute. Do you need help with anything?”

“I’m fine now that I can get myself around,” Ed insists, nodding at the crutches. “You don’t have to spend the whole evening playing nursemaid.”

“I know,” Stede says. He’s hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “Alma just chewed me out for basically barging into your flat without asking, already, so, I’m sorry, and if you want to be left alone for the evening, we’ll go.” He pauses mid-bluster, eyes searching Ed’s for a moment, and appears to steel himself. “I’d quite like to stay,” he says deliberately, then, “Just to make sure you’re set up as comfortably as possible, and also to thank you for treating Alma and I to such a lovely afternoon, and because I quite enjoy your company. You don’t have to entertain us, or anything. I just thought I could get us all a takeaway and we could watch tv or something?”

Ed considers this. The evening Stede’s described sounds… pleasant. Relaxing. He wants that, he thinks, though he can’t help feeling like it must be a burden to Stede, despite his soft words, which worm uncomfortably into his chest and lodge there, with a slight ache. I’d quite like to stay.

He battles it out internally, for a moment, the latent desire he has to just curl into a ball like a wounded animal and be miserable, and the tempting possibility of existing for a little while longer in the warm, familial space that Stede and his daughter create between them with seemingly little-to-no effort.

“Yeah,” Ed says, finally. “Yes, I’d. That sounds nice.”

Stede, who’s been hovering tensely, visibly relaxes, and crosses the threshold again, with a warm smile. “Great,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “Can I, um, get you a clean change of clothes?”

“Please,” Ed says, gratefully. “I don’t wanna traumatize Alma, or anything.”

“I’m sure she’s seen worse,” Stede says, winking, then looking like he regrets it almost immediately, and blushing as he asks, “Which drawer?”

Ed directs him to his softest pair of sweatpants, and a clean black t-shirt, some socks and, with some reluctance, his underwear drawer. Stede’s very clinical about everything, for which Ed is absurdly grateful, and doesn’t offer to help him change or anything, which Ed doesn’t think he could handle right now, at all, just leaves the clothes within easy reach of Ed’s perch on the bed, and goes back to hall, only leaning back in to ask, “Any good takeaways around here?”

“Indian on the corner?” Ed says, pretending to have to consider this for a moment. “There’s a menu on the fridge. I’ll take the Jalfrezi.”

Stede shuts the door behind him so Ed can have some privacy, and Ed flops back on the bed for a moment, and runs his hands over his face, before kicking his pants off the rest of the way and getting changed.

When he emerges again, slightly unsteady on the crutches, he finds Alma in the living room, bent over the table he’d been using to organize some recent finds. He can hear Stede on the phone in the kitchen, ordering what sounds like almost certainly too much food.

She looks up at him with a grin as he enters. “These are cool,” she says. “Where’d you find these?”

He limps over. He’d been sorting his collection of buttons, and they’re splayed out in groups according to age and insignia. He details these subtleties to Alma, who, although she maintains a jocular air about her, does seem to be genuinely absorbing the information.

Stede enters at one point, with a glass of water and some anti-inflammatories he’s clearly rooted around in Ed’s medicine cabinet for (Ed spares a moment to panic about the state of his bathroom) and leans in the doorway, watching them. He doesn’t speak, but Ed can feel his gaze like a palpable thing.

“If you wanna see the really good stuff,” Ed says, “Your dad should get down that box.” He points with one of his crutches at the bookshelf, which, though it houses the few paperbacks he’s collected over the years, is mostly crammed with tupperwares of his finds.

Stede obligingly fetches the box Ed indicates, and brings it over to the table, setting it down with a slight rattle.

“Go on,” Ed nods at Alma.

It’s his box of rare coins, and he watches the realization dawn on her as she opens it. “Wow,” she whispers, and Ed has to laugh.

“The two of you are very easily impressed,” he says, “and I love it. Here.”

He spreads the coins on the table, and points out the differences in materials, in origin, in minting date. There’s a lot there: shilling, thruppence, sixpence, ha'penny. No gold, though.

They look through the coins for a while, and then Stede gets a text that their food is ready, so he heads out to grab it.

Ed and Alma are on the couch bickering over what movie to watch when he returns.

“Look,” Alma is saying, “What’s more fun: watching a good movie and having to pay actual attention to it and feel things, or watching a terrible movie and making fun of it the whole time?” and Ed has to concede she has a point, so once Stede spreads out what Ed correctly assumed would be way too much food on his little coffee table, they settle in to watch Twilight.

Alma turns out to be right. Ed can’t remember the last time he laughed this hard.

Finally, during the closing credits of New Moon, Stede looks at his watch, scrunches up his nose, and declares it probably time to go, so that Alma can catch her train first thing in the morning.

“Do you need anything else before we go?” Stede asks, after he and Alma have done the washing (heedless of Ed’s protests) and packed the leftovers away in the fridge.

“Nah, man,” Ed says, with a weak smile, “You’ve done more than enough. I’m good.”

He’s not lying, but neither is he really looking forward to the rest of the night icing and elevating his knee and desperately trying to distract himself from his immense physical discomfort.

Stede squeezes his shoulder as he goes, and Alma gives him a hug, careful not to unbalance him on his crutches. “You’re awesome, Ed,” she mutters into his shoulder. “Glad to meet you, or whatever.”

“Yeah, you too. Come visit again soon,” Ed says, surprised to find his voice thick with emotion.

He waves them off, shuts the door behind them, and leans against it for a moment, basking in the residual warmth of their presence. Then, he hobbles to bed.

He sees that Stede has, at some sneaky moment and without Ed noticing, relocated his glass of water and bottle of painkillers to his bedside table, swept away the dried mud on the floor, and folded Ed’s detecting clothes and put them in a neat pile on top of his laundry hamper, to boot. Ed feels almost dizzy, for a second, with the amount of simple thought and care in the gesture.

Then, exhausted from the day, full with food and friendship and, yeah, okay, pills, Ed sleeps.

Ed sleeps terribly.

There’s only so much the painkillers can do, and every time he turns, he jars his knee, and it wakes him up all over again.

He’s in a foul mood by the time he decides it’s morning enough to get up (it’s 4:30).

Not giving a shit whether or not he wakes the downstairs neighbors, he crutches into the kitchen and flips the kettle on, and then crutches into the bathroom to belatedly wash the rest of the mud off of himself, where he’s faced with his first dilemma of the day. He ends up just taking the crutches into the shower with him, which, yeah, is a terrible idea, but still better than going without them.

He leaves the mat of grey and black hair in the drain afterwards, because it’s too much hassle bending down to fish it out afterwards, but overall, it does feel better to be clean.

Naked, he crutches back into his bedroom where he balances himself against the set of drawers and, one item at a time, tosses a clean outfit onto the bed.

Between donning his briefs and donning his pants, he does take a moment to examine the injured knee. There’s no bruising, which seems like a good sign, but it is quite swollen and tender to the touch.

He heads back to the kitchen, where the kettle has long since boiled and subsequently cooled, so he flips it on for a second time, and, while waiting for it to boil again, pulls some leftovers out of the fridge for something to do.

All in all, every task takes about twelve times as long as it normally would, and Ed keeps failing to do things in the proper order, so that he ends up making far more trips back and forth than strictly necessary.

At about 6, he finally settles on the couch with an ice pack and his tea and his leftovers, and turns on the tv.

At 9, he wakes to find two messages on his phone from Stede, which he thumbs open and reads without getting up.

The first one is from half seven, and says, Morning, Ed! How’s the knee today? Just dropped Alma at the train station. Thank you again for your excellent instruction and even better company yesterday.

The second is from 8, and says Actually, I’ve only got morning lectures, and I’m feeling a bit lonely. Can I bring you over some lunch? Is two picnic lunches in a row too many?

Well, if he’s lonely. It’s remarkable how much better Ed feels after a couple of hours of actual sleep, he thinks, grinning as he types back a quick response.

No and yes, but not in that order.

Immediately, Stede is typing a response. It comes through a second later.

Noon?

Ed sends a thumbs up emoji.

Ed’s doorbell rings at exactly three minutes past noon, and Stede is there, grinning and waving, and holding about six too many grocery bags.

“Are we expecting the whole fucking navy?” Ed asks, as Stede squeezes through the door.

“I, uh,” pants Stede, “might have gotten a little bit carried away at the shop.”

“A little bit?”

Stede’s eyes are tracking up and down his body, assessing, Ed is sure, his physical health. The swelling has gone down on his knee a bit, but he’s positive his face is still puffy from his morning nap. He can’t be bothered to limp over to a mirror to check.

“How are you feeling?” Stede asks, once he’s completed his examination and is dragging his bags to the kitchen.

“Fuckin’ peachy,” Ed says. Since Stede walked through the door, he’s not even lying, really.

“Sleep at all?” Stede asks, taking this in stride.

Ed makes a non-committal noise and props himself up against the counter.

Stede scrunches his nose sympathetically.

He’s unloading the bags onto the counter, and packing things away into Ed’s fridge. Ed spies another tub of clotted cream, and what he’s sure must be the same marmalade as yesterday, and his mouth waters.

“What’s for lunch today?” he asks, peeking into some of the unopened bags.

“Hey!” Stede slaps his hand away playfully. “No peeking. Go get comfortable, and I’ll bring it in to you.”

“No, really?” Ed pouts. “I wanna watch.” God. What is he even doing? It’s just that everything Stede does is fucking fascinating and he doesn’t want to look away for even a moment, apparently.

So he leans into it, sticks his bottom lip out further, and lets it quiver ever so slightly.

“Don’t Disney princess me, Ed,” Stede warns fondly. “You forget that I raised a daughter. I know all the old tricks.”

“Alma get off okay this morning?” Ed asks. He deftly nicks a bag of wine gums out of one of the bags, and tears them open, popping a couple in his mouth as he watches Stede work away.

There’s every sandwich fixing that Ed selected yesterday, which were mostly on the sweet side, plus two more different kinds of fruit preserves, quince and apricot.

“Yes,” Stede says, “She sends her love. Says she hopes your knee is feeling better. Last chance for lunch to be a surprise.” His hands are hovering over one of the last few unpacked bags.

Ed shakes his head.

Stede pulls out a series of butcher-paper-wrapped packages and opens them to reveal a mouth-water selection of charcuterie, carefully complemented by a selection of dried fruits, olives, and dips. The piece de resistance is a fresh loaf of bread, which Stede smells (rapturously, with his eyes closed and his eyelashes fluttering gently against his cheeks, jesus christ) before slicing.

“And voila,” Stede says, finally, plating it all with a flourish.

“Looks fucking gourmet,” Ed says, impressed.

“Where are you most comfortable sitting, do you think?” Stede asks, casting his gaze about the kitchen. “I, ah, brought a picnic blanket again. Silly of me, I know, but. Obviously if your knee isn’t going to be able to take sitting on the floor–”

“You brought a picnic blanket?” Ed asks, “Here? To my flat? For lunch?”

Stede blushes.

“Mate,” Ed scrubs his face with his hand. Stede isn’t close enough to reach, from here, and maybe it’s a good thing he can’t walk, because if he could, it’s possible he wouldn’t be able to resist marching over and laying one on him. He settles for pinching the bridge of his nose with a pained expression and saying, through gritted teeth, “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah?” Stede’s nose is scrunched up, and his shoulders hunch even further, but he grins at Ed. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s fucking not,” Ed insists. “The floor is actually fine, as long as I prop my knee up. I’ll go grab my pillow and–”

“Oh!” Stede exclaims, grabbing the rest of the bags– and, yeah, hey, he’s finished assembling their lunch, but there’s still, like, three bags left. What the hell? “No need!” he says, and, looking thrilled, bustles into the living room with them.

By the time Ed catches up with him, he’s pushing the coffee table out of the way, and reaching into the bags to pull out – yes, there’s the aforementioned picnic blanket, same as yesterday, looking extra gaudy against the backdrop of what Ed’s just now realizing is his own very stark and minimalist decor, but then– oh, that’s another blanket, and a third, even softer looking than the first two, and what appear to be several large, squashy throw pillows.

Stede arranges everything rather artfully, as far as indoor picnics go in Ed’s experience, anyway, which really just amounts to this one.

“Do you need a hand?” he asks, gesturing down at the pile, and geeze, Ed’s hardly going to say no to that, is he?

Stede wraps his arm around Ed’s waist, and now that he’s out of his detecting gear, and less covered in mud, and in significantly less shock and pain, Ed can really appreciate the warmth of Stede’s arm bleeding through his thin t-shirt, and the feeling of Stede’s fingertips against the bare skin of his waist, where it’s ridden up ever so slightly.

Stede lowers him down so that he can lean back against the couch and fusses to set up the pillows around him until Ed feels like he’s in some kind of fucking harem. “I feel like I’m in some kind of fucking harem,” he chuckles.

“Is it too much?” Stede asks, sitting back on his haunches and steadying himself against Ed’s good leg. “I just. I noticed you didn’t have many soft furnishings about the place, and I have an abundance, so. I thought you might enjoy borrowing some while you recover.”

Ed’s heart aches a little bit, both at how thoughtful this is, and at the thought of Stede living his whole life just swathed and draped in beautiful soft blankets. “At least this way if I go down, there’s less likelihood that I’ll crack my skull open,” he says, swallowing hard so that he does not say please, Stede, take me now, in this ridiculously ample pile of throw pillows.

“Yeah,” Stede says, with a happy smile. “Comfy?”

“Very,” Ed says, although truthfully, he’s willing himself to be slightly less comfortable, thank you very much.

Stede pats him on the leg and goes into the kitchen to fetch the charcuterie board and Ed uses the opportunity to prod his sore knee every so slightly, and, yeah, ow, there we go, that did the trick; his treacherous fucking dick is a lot less likely to start tenting out his sweatpants, now, thank fucking fuck.

“I’m surprised,” Stede says, when they’ve finished lunch, and Ed has slouched even further down and pulled a second blanket over himself, and is rubbing it absentmindedly between his fingers. “You seem like you enjoy soft things, but this place is basically a shrine to metal.”

Ed prepares himself to be defensive, but relaxes when there’s no hint of judgment in Stede’s voice. “I mean,” he says, “It’s not like it was a conscious decision or anything. I’d dig up fine silk all day, if I could, but,” he shrugs, “nothing soft lasts, you know? Not underground. Honestly, it’s amazing that any ancient textiles survive long enough to make it into a museum. Even human remains don’t last as long as the stuff we’re digging up.”

“Yeah,” Stede says, thoughtfully and a little sadly, tipping his head to the side. “I have to hope, though, that softness was still a part of life, even back then. Even if there’s no, you know, hard proof that it was ever there. Oh!” He reaches into a pocket and pulls something out and hands it to Ed. “I wanted you to have that.” It’s one of the twisted nails. “As a souvenir,” Stede says, bashfully. “I know you’ve probably got millions of them in one of those tupperwares, but.” He shrugs. “I gave one to Alma as well.”

Ed takes the proffered nail (or aspiring nail), oddly touched. Stede’s right, of course, he’s got not one but two boxes full of these exact things (or near enough) on his bookshelf. This one, though, deserves some sort of place of honor. He scans around the apartment for an appropriate spot for it. “Hey,” he says to Stede, “Do you think you could put this on the mantelpiece for me?”

Stede beams at him, and scrambles up to do so. “Here?”

“A little to the left. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

While Stede’s back is turned for a moment, Ed pulls the cushion he’d been sitting on closer, because, hey, he’s not above pushing his luck here.

Stede comes back and resumes his perch on the pillow. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that his shoulder and Ed’s are practically brushing, now, but he does sit hugging his knees up to his chest, and, like, Ed’s not an idiot. Stede’s not moving away, which is great, really, honestly very uplifting stuff, but that’s some very fucking defensive body language, so Ed doesn’t kiss his fucking face off like he wants to, just bumps Stede’s shoulder with his own, and says, “You’ll have trouble starting your own collection if you give all your treasure away, mate.”

Stede leans into the touch, which, again, is great. Heartening.

“I’ll start collecting next time,” Stede says.

“Next time?” Ed grins. “I like the sound of that.”

“Of course!”

“Could be a while for me, I suppose,” Ed sighs, rubbing at his sore leg. “Although,” he concedes, “Of course, you can go anytime, now that you know how to use your detector. Kinda jealous, if I’m honest.”

“Ah,” Stede says, “I mean, I can’t imagine it would be nearly as fun without you, Ed. Who would stop me from throwing away any gold I did manage to find, then?”

“Yeah,” Ed chuckles, looking at the nail above the fireplace.

Ed’s phone buzzes as a text comes in, and Ed fishes it out of the couch cushions.

It’s from Izzy, and it says, Jackie’s farm? Tonight? Pick you up at 5.

“Shit,” he sighs, and thumbs it open.

“Everything okay?” Stede asks, immediately. He’s definitely close enough that he could peek at Ed’s screen if he were so inclined, but he very resolutely looks away, offering Ed a modicum of privacy despite their extreme proximity.

“Yeah,” Ed says, “Just forgot to say to Izzy that I hurt my knee. We were going to go detecting later.”

Fuck, Iz, he writes back, Can’t. Fucked my knee.

Fuck! Izzy responds immediately. What’d you do?

Got stuck in some mud. Twisted it.

?? What mud??

Took Stede and his daughter to Jackie’s farm yesterday.

Izzy doesn’t respond immediately, which makes Ed’s stomach twist a little anxiously.

“You okay, Ed?” Stede asks softly, when he looks up, and Ed sees that he’s being watched quite shrewdly. “Should I leave you to the rest of your afternoon?”

“Nah,” Ed says, “It’s fine. Stay, if you like.” Try harder. He takes a deep breath. “Stay,” he amends. Stede nods.

His phone buzzes.

Sounds fucking picturesque.

“Ah, shit,” Ed mutters. He’s known Izzy for long enough to know when he’s being sarcastic (which, in fairness, is nearly always).

“What?” Stede says, sounding small, and–when Ed looks up from his phone– making himself small, physically. His arms hug his knees tight, and his shoulders are hunched. He looks… oddly guilty.

“Fuck, it’s nothing, man. Don’t worry about it. Just Izzy being Izzy.” Ed sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Think I probably should have asked him before I brought you and Alma out to the farm yesterday. We did sort of say we wouldn’t detect there without the other.”

“Oh,” Stede says, scrunching his nose. “Was that Jackie’s farm? You got the permissions? Whoops. Sorry, Ed. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with–”

“‘S’not your fault at all, mate. It’s just Izzy. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him.” Stede looks tense and uncertain.

Ed hasn’t responded to Izzy’s last text, but his phone buzzes again.

I’ll come over in a bit, bring some grub.

“See,” Ed says, looking up at Stede with a weak smile, “It’s fine. He’s bringing over dinner later.”

Stede’s mouth is doing something a little funny and a little miserable, and Ed can’t quite figure out why.

“Do you want to stay? Izzy’s not much of a cook, really, but he usually makes more than enough, which, you know, is good, because you never go hungry, but also bad, because it’s pretty much slop.”

“Yeah,” Stede says, with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “You’re not really selling it, you know.”

Ed tries a chuckle. He’s not sure why everything has gone so fucking tense all of a sudden, and finds himself missing the easy, teasy atmosphere of two minutes ago.

“I guess I’m not,” he says.

There’s an uncomfortable stretch of silence, during which Ed stares hard at the ground, but also watches Stede in his periphery. Stede is frowning and chewing distractedly on his lip, and he looks like he’s working up to something, so Ed selfishly says nothing and waits for him to get up the courage.

“You and Izzy,” Stede says finally, and Ed’s stomach flips.

“Hm?” he says, innocently.

“I know you said that, um, it wasn’t like that,” Stede continues, a little haltingly.

“Yeah,” Ed says easily, keeping his voice light, “It’s not.”

“Right,” Stede says. “But I just mean. Why not? Seems like you two are still close. Why did you–if you don’t mind me asking, that is–”

“Why did we break up?”

Stede gives a relieved little exhale and nods.

“You know,” Ed sighs and leans back even further against the couch. He’s all sprawled out. He’s an expert in making his body respond to a thing calmly, especially when he actually feels like he wants to crawl out of his fucking skin. “Not to get too far into it, but I think we wanted different things. Izzy always wanted us to settle down and have, like, serious, established, grown-up lives.”

Stede hums at that, sounding, Ed thinks, unimpressed.

“And I think I kinda woulda done it, you know? At the time, anyway. We were young, and I guess it felt more important to me that we were—” he stops and clears his throat. “Guess he was right though, ‘cause I never really got my shit together.” He laughs, gesturing at his apartment. It’s not the living space of a functional adult human. He knows that.

Stede doesn’t laugh, though.

“I’m sorry, Ed,” he says, instead. “That sounds terribly difficult.”

Ed just shrugs. “It would have been difficult either way, man, you know?”

“I do.” Stede reaches over and covers Ed’s hand with his own. It’s just as soft as Ed remembers. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think a settled, serious life is all it’s cracked up to be. It doesn’t mean you don’t have your shit together. It just means you’ve got more freedom.”

“Yeah, but for what?” Ed asks.

“To do whatever makes you happy,” Stede says immediately.

It shouldn’t be that profound, or anything, but for some reason, it feels like a dramatic shift in Ed’s world view.

“Wow,” he says, with a small, surprised laugh, “Yeah, I guess that’s it. I just wanna be happy. Even if I don’t quite make it, all of the time. At least I tried.”

Stede squeezes his hand, at that, and Ed finally dares to look up at him.

He’s sitting closer than Ed remembers, and it feels like he’s staring right into Ed’s fucking soul, and there’s this fucking sweet little smile on his face when he asks, quietly, “And what makes Ed happy?”

Ed’s whole chest feels like it might just fucking burst. It’s. Because that’s what it is. He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know what to call it, precisely, but fucking Stede. Makes him happy. With his fucking unhinged sense of fashion, and his complete inability to estimate food quantity, and the way he’s so fucking tender with his daughter, and so fucking tender with Ed of all people. Nobody’s ever been tender with Ed, before, not even himself. Nobody ever gets Ed, it feels like, or understands the kind of life he’s tried to build for himself, but Stede does, somehow. Hears what he’s getting at and says it right back to him like it’s the most obvious thing in the fucking world. And there he is, looking at him now, with those soft eyes, and his soft hand squeezing Ed’s, and this whole soft mess of pillows and blankets that he brought to Ed’s house because he thought Ed would like them.

And he’s here. And he’s not moving away, even though it’s got to be so fucking obvious by now that Ed’s going to kiss him, right? He has to know.

So Ed does it. He leans over and presses his lips to Stede’s, just brushing, just a peck. And when Stede doesn’t move away, Ed brings a hand up to cup his cheek, presses in again. He watches as Stede’s eyes flutter shut, and then shuts his own and loses himself in the feeling of it.

Stede’s lips are soft, obviously, and they’re warm, and Ed can both hear and feel his sharp intake of breath as Ed angles his head. Stede’s hand is gripping his tightly. He thinks Stede might be shaking. He slides his hand down to the side of Stede’s neck to ground him, and Stede moans, and shit, Ed has to pull away for a second, and press his forehead to Stede’s, because he gets fucking dizzy from it.

There are two spots of color high up on Stede’s cheekbones, and his breath sounds a little shaky, and fuck it, so does Ed’s because his heart is beating like fucking nuts. This is. Quite unlike any of the kissing Ed has done, to date. Probably because Stede is quite unlike anyone he’s ever met. Stede’s eyes are shut, even as Ed pulls away, and there’s that wrinkle between his eyebrows that he gets when he’s thinking quite hard about something, Ed is learning.

“Stede?” he asks quietly, and squeezes Stede’s hand. “Is this–?”

The rest of the question gets lost, but also answered, as Stede fists his free hand in Ed’s shirt and reels him back in. Ed laughs, and Stede takes the opportunity to lick into Ed’s mouth, and it becomes a moan, and then a rumble, settling deep in Ed’s chest, as Stede’s hands flutter over Ed’s chest, his shoulders. He’s pressing, but without any leverage, and it’s so fucking good, but Ed knows how to make it even better, so he reaches for Stede’s waist and coaxes him closer, until he’s straddling Ed’s lap, leaning over him and gasping into his mouth. Much better.

“Ed,” Stede rasps, mindlessly, sliding his lips along Ed’s cheek, and behind his ear. “Ed.” Ed arches his neck to give him a better angle. He runs his hands up Stede’s thighs and settles them on his hips and Stede tenses and just breathes hotly into his neck for a moment.

Frankly, it’s all pretty great, as far as Ed is concerned.

Stede’s flushed when he pulls his head up to look at Ed with what seems like considerable and gratifying effort on his part. He’s got a palm pressing heavily on Ed’s chest, and a fist curled loosely in his hair, where it’s partially come out of its bun, and his chest is heaving, but he’s smiling. Ed’s chest feels like it’s being split open by that smile.

“You, um,” Stede whispers, “You make me happy,” and he ducks his head with a little grin.

Ed throws his head back against the couch and laughs at that, because it’s so fucking cute and also it makes his heart ache, and he comes back up to pull Stede closer by his hips and lick into his mouth with only the absolute filthiest of intentions.

Stede gives back as good as he’s got. He wraps an arm around Ed’s shoulder to keep him close and skates the other down his side, feathering light touches there that make Ed shiver, before slipping back up under the hem of Ed’s t-shirt. And he just. Lingers there. Fingertips pressing and stroking the skin of Ed’s waist as they kiss. Ed can’t help but try and arch further into it.

And fucking hell. Ed might have kicked this whole thing off, but he’s adrift now, burning up under Stede’s touch, and unable to hear his own thoughts over the impulse to just dig his fingers into Stede’s hips and coax him into some kind of lazy, hitching rhythm that will get them both off, easy as anything. Hell, he’s so keyed up right now, it probably wouldn’t even take very much.

The fucking doorbell rings.

Stede jumps and rears back, landing somewhat inelegantly on his bottom, somewhere to Ed’s side.

“Jesus,” Ed says, arms suddenly empty, “Are you okay?”

Stede’s eyes are wild, pupils blown, “Y-yes,” Stede stammers. “Sorry. I just. That startled me.”

“The doorbell,” Ed says, wanting to make sure.

“Yeah,” Stede says. “Yes.”

“It’s Izzy,” Ed says.

“Yeah,” Stede says again. “I sort of figured. I just. Forgot.”

“Me too,” Ed says, feeling shy, suddenly. He reaches out and finds Stede’s hand again and squeezes it. “Got sort of. Pleasantly distracted.”

Some of Stede’s visible panic leeches away, and he squeezes Ed’s hand back, thumb brushing over the tattoo on the back of Ed’s hand. The compass. (It makes Ed shiver.) “Yeah,” Stede says, with a soft smile.

Fuck, all Ed wants to do is kiss him again. Damn his damn knee. If he had anything close to normal range of motion, he’d be all over Stede right now, with that soft fucking smile on his gorgeous fucking face. Fuck.

The doorbell rings again. Twice.

“Shit,” Ed says, “I’ll– where’s my phone– I’ll text him to go away. I’ll–”

“Ed,” Stede reprimands firmly, “No. That’s rude. He’s brought you dinner. I’ll. Um. I’ll go. I’ll go get the door and I’ll go.”

He goes to stand up, but something in Ed rebels at that. He pulls on Stede’s hand, refuses to let go until Stede relents and lets himself be pulled back down again until he’s mere inches from Ed’s face.

“Don’t go,” Ed says, softly pleading. “Stay for dinner. Izzy won’t care. Just. Stay. And afterwards we can talk.”

Ed watches Stede’s eyes flick down to his mouth as he lets out a shaky breath and swallows hard. “Yeah,” Stede says, finally, licking his lips in a gesture Ed’s sure is unconscious, which only makes it even sexier, dammit. Fucking Stede.

“Yeah?” Ed asks, quietly hopeful.

Stede’s eyes scan thoughtfully over his face as he stills for a moment, uncharacteristically. Then, slowly and deliberately, Stede leans in, eyes open and gaze boring into Ed’s own, and kisses Ed, just once, at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” Stede says, as though Ed hasn’t completely melted into a puddle of goo at this simple touch.

Ed’s phone begins to buzz and he groans, fishing for it in the couch cushions.

Stede laughs, and stands. “I’ll get the door,” he says, “I want to apologize to Izzy anyway, for being at the farm. And here,” he nudges one of the pillows over to Ed and looks pointedly at his lap. “You might want this in the meantime.” Stede winks at him and leaves.

Ed’s face flushes hot as he grabs the pillow and positions it deliberately over his obvious fucking erection which is painfully apparent in his sweat pants.

Fucking hell. So, Stede’ll be the death of him, it turns out.

“Oh,” Izzy says, as Stede opens the door to Ed’s flat, “It’s you.”

“Yes,” Stede says, with contrition, giving him what he hopes is an apologetic smile. It should be. He’s had practice, after all. “Ed’s just, ah, resting his knee. It’s awfully kind of you to bring him dinner. What, uh, what have you got there?”

Izzy has a large tupperware tucked under his arm.

“Chili,” he says, after staring at Stede for a long, aggressive moment.

“Sounds fab,” Stede says, trying to sound enthusiastic.

When Izzy doesn’t move to enter, Stede steels himself, and gets right down to it. “Look, Izzy,” he says, “Please don’t be mad at Ed for taking me detecting at the farm. I basically strong-armed him into it. My daughter is,” he sends a silent prayer of apology to Alma, “going through a hard time, right now, what with the divorce and everything, and she just needed a bit of a fun day out. Ed was kind enough to oblige me.”

Izzy still looks mildly murderous, and doesn’t make a move towards the doorway, even though Stede is standing aside to make room for him.

“Anyway,” Stede continues, “I guess the point is, I’m very sorry for overstepping on your… your permissions? Isn’t that what you call them? I’ll make sure not to do it again.”

Izzy rolls his eyes at that.

“Look,” he says, holding up a hand to cut Stede off as he draws breath to keep apologizing. “I know you didn’t know any better, but there are common pitfalls that new detectorists can easily fall into. It’s all about territory. A new detectorist blundering into territory he doesn’t understand can do a lot of damage to the infrastructure of a potential dig. There are rules and procedures for doing these things properly, and failure to follow them can result in. Unnecessary confusion.”

Stede’s heart is beating quite fast, like he’s just run a sprint, as he stares down at the angry little man before him.

“Right,” he says, slowly, “Only I’m not sure how that can be the case, when most of what you’re looking for has been buried for hundreds of years. It actually seems pretty harmless to me.” He fights to keep his voice quiet, but steady.

“Well that just goes to show,” Izzy scoffs, “how little you know.”

Stede feels himself getting a little bit riled, and, with a quick glance back towards the living room, he steps out, shutting the door behind him.

“I think,” he says quietly, “You should probably drop the metaphor, Izzy. Let’s speak plainly, shall we?”

“I’ve no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Izzy hisses.

“Very well,” Stede says. “I suppose I could be wrong, but it seems to me that you’re jealous that Ed took me detecting, which is a completely irrational response–”

Izzy growls. Literally growls. There’s no words, even, it’s just a sound of immense, immense displeasure, directed at Stede.

“--unless you’re actually jealous about something else.”

“What,” Izzy grates out, “would I have to be fucking jealous about?”

“You tell me.”

“You pose no threat to me,” Izzy continues, speaking low and menacingly. He even takes a step up the stairs towards Stede, but Stede stands his ground. “You’re an amateur, a tourist. People like you never stay anywhere long enough to make any kind of real impact. You’re flighty. You have no fucking dedication.”

“Right,” Stede says, sounding nearly hysterical, even to his own ears, “Not like you, Izzy. Not like the world’s most dedicated ex, right? If you’re so fucking dedicated to Ed, why did you break up with him? And if you’re so miserable about it, why not simply take him back? You’re clearly in love with him, still. I don’t– I don’t understand.”

Izzy does reel back now, and Stede’s almost worried he’s going to fall back down the stairs, but he doesn’t.

He just gapes at Stede for a long moment, eyes shocked, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Serves him right, Stede thinks.

“I’m not still in love with Ed,” Izzy rasps, finally. And it’s. He looks. Confused. Genuine.

“What?” Stede says, his turn to gape now.

“I’m not. In love. With Edward.” In a moment, Stede believes him. Stede believes him.

“Then–what–?” Stede fully sits down on the top step, wind completely knocked from his sails. “Then why are you always–?”

Izzy scrubs a tired hand over his face and sits down, too.

“Ed is my best friend, okay? We’ve been detecting together for more than fifteen years, right? I’m– you’re right, I’m jealous that he took you out to explore a new promising site without me. I just. This is what we do. And we never find anything. And I guess I thought. If you struck gold on your first time out–”

“–We didn’t,” Stede says, weakly.

“–Right.” Izzy says. He shrugs.

There’s a long pause. Stede is still reeling. Why is it so hard to believe that Izzy is not in love with Ed? Was there a part of him, perhaps, that had trouble imagining, maybe, that anybody could meet Ed and not be in love with him? And if so, then, you know, what the hell is that all about?

Finally, Izzy scrubs a tired hand over his face and glares at Stede. “You haven’t been around long enough to know this, Bonnet, but Ed gets down. Really down. Lower than low. Just. Bored. Lazy. He’s got no fucking drive, anymore.”

Stede frowns, but Izzy ignores him and continues, looking oddly introspective.

“He used to. He used to want so much. It’s what… drew me to him. But somewhere along the way, he just,” he shrugs, “stopped. Wanting things, I mean. Or trying, maybe. I couldn’t get him out of that rut. I wasn’t a good enough reason for him to, you know,” his face does something complex and sad, “keep going.” He lets out a long breath. “And it was fucking miserable. Ed couldn’t see that we’d be better off as friends than–” Izzy waves his hand to indicate, Stede guesses, whatever he and Ed were and then laughs a little bitterly, as he says, “I don’t think he even likes me, really, at this point. I’m just. Familiar.” Another thoughtful pause, and then he shakes his head as if to clear it. “So, yeah. I ended it for the both of us. Because I could see that it was going to destroy him and,” he shrugs, glaring up at Stede meaningfully, “he was going to let it.”

Stede feels like he’s got a rock in his throat that he can’t quite swallow around. “Why stick around, then?” he manages to get out, voice feeling thick and clumsy. “Why keep hanging around if you don’t– if he doesn’t–”

“I really won the lottery the day I broke up with Ed,” Izzy says, quietly, and Stede starts.

“What?” he says. “You mean, like, it was such an amazing thing to be free of him, or something?” He glares.

“Huh?” Izzy says, and then, “No, I won the lottery. I literally won the lottery.”

Stede gapes at him. He sighs.

“We’d fought, and I just had to get out of the flat, so I took a walk through the village. Everyone seemed to be out celebrating one thing or another, and it just seemed so wrong, you know? I didn’t have enough cash on me for a pint, so I got a scratch ticket at the corner shop, just to have something to do, and.”

Izzy shrugs, looking miserable.

“Jesus,” Stede breathes. “How much did you win?”

“One point two mil.”

“Fuck.”

“And I thought, you know. I could go back. Tell him it didn’t matter if he wanted to waste his fucking talent away doing fucking nothing with his life, you know? I could support him. Hell, or he could even just take the money. I’ve never wanted a handout. Or a windfall I didn’t have to work for.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Izzy says. “Because Edward is too fucking good to just fucking stagnate, alright? It is essential that he keeps moving, keeps fighting to keep his head above water. That’s why I–” he clenches his fists. “That’s why,” he continues, after taking a long, unsteady breath, “I don’t think you’re good enough for him. You won’t push him. And god knows he won’t push himself. He’ll get complacent, with you. Soft. He’ll lose whatever fucking fire he’s got left to actually make something of himself, and I can’t let that happen.”

Stede’s fucking reeling. In a handful of minutes he’s gone from being kissed by the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes on to kissing him back to feverishly agreeing to have dinner with him and his asshole ex and now–

Nothing soft lasts. He gets it. Sort of. He can see that the thing he wants– the thing he’s only just starting to be able to visualize in the most private corner of his mind– is probably the worst possible thing for Ed. He is the worst possible thing for Ed. Like he was for Mary. Stifling her. Slowing her down. Getting in the way of her ambition with all of his inconvenient feelings and desires. And it nearly destroyed them.

And it could destroy Ed. He could destroy Ed, he knows, oddly, in a vague, far-off sort of way. They’ve been careening towards something like this.

And he can’t let it happen again.

“Does he know?” Stede asks, finally.

“Know what?”

“About the– the money. The windfall.”

“No,” Izzy says, shortly. “And don’t go fucking telling him, either.”

“I won’t,” Stede says, taken aback at the mere prospect. “Why would I?”

Izzy shrugs, but the implication is somewhat clear anyhow. Homewrecker.

Stede doesn’t defend himself.

They sit on the steps together for a moment in mutually stunned silence. Finally, Izzy stands.

“I’m going in,” he says. “Chili’s getting cold.”

“Yeah,” Stede says, “Okay. I’ll. I’m.” He can’t quite finish the sentence, but he nods down the steps. Away.

Izzy walks past him, and hesitates at the threshold, hand on the door handle.

“See you around, Stede,” he says, and goes in.

Stede sits on the steps for about another thirty seconds, shaking, before he manages to get to his feet and walk numbly down the steps to the pavement, and then numbly to his car.

He gets in, and turns the key, and then he’s driving. He drives away from Ed’s, and down the darkening streets, and then he drives past his flat, and past the village pub, and then it’s dark, fully dark out, and he’s still driving, away, away, away, far enough away that even he can’t ruin anything or anyone.

After a few minutes, Ed gets tired of waiting. He doesn’t know what could possibly be taking Stede so long to answer the fucking door, unless he’s somehow gotten lost in the hallway.

“Stede,” he tries calling, “It’s the front fucking door. You can see the light coming through it from the outside world. The room you’ve gone into is the linen closet, probably. Stede?”

There’s no response.

“Izzy?”

Nothing.

Ed waits a moment and strains his ears, trying to quiet even the sound of his own breath. He can’t hear anything. No raised voices, at least, which is good. Izzy doesn’t seem to be chewing Stede out about detecting at Jackie’s farm.

For fuck’s sake, though. What’s taking them so long?

Ed finally lurches to his feet and balances himself on his crutches. He kicks past the pillows strewn around the floor, nearly unbalancing once or twice, but gets free, and is just crutching into the hallway to see what the holdup is when the door opens, and Izzy steps in, shutting it again behind him. He takes a look at Ed on his crutches and tuts disapprovingly.

“Hey, Iz,” he says, “Where’d Stede go?”

“Left,” Izzy says shortly.

“What?” Ed says, “He literally just left? Didn’t bother to come back in and say goodbye or anything?”

Izzy shrugs, and walks past Ed into the kitchen.

“Made chili. Hungry?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, “Sure man, whatever.”

He crutches past the kitchen to look out the front door.

Stede is nowhere to be seen.

What the actual fuck?

Ed limps back into the kitchen.

“Iz,” he says, “Did you guys talk?”

“Yeah,” Izzy says. He pulls out a pan and plops the chili into it in a single, gelatinous cube, and flicks on the hob.

Ed is staring at him from the doorway to the kitchen. “And?” he prompts him.

“And what?”

“Fuck, man. I don’t know. He said he was going to apologize to you for detecting at the farm yesterday, or some bullshit, even though it obviously wasn’t his fault, and it’s only me you should be upset with.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says. “Well he did, didn’t he?”

“Yeah? And?”

Izzy shrugs.

“Fuck’s sake, Iz. If you’re mad at me for taking him out, just say so. Don’t fucking take it out on Stede.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you are mad at me?”

“Well, yeah, it was kind of a dick move.”

“Right.”

“But it’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Izzy grunts in the affirmative.

He loads up two bowls of chili, opens Ed’s fridge to grab a bag of shredded cheese, and snorts. “Why the fuck do you have six kinds of jam?”

Ed just shrugs, feeling lost. “I like jam,” he says.

Izzy rolls his eyes and gestures to the other room. “Dinner?”

Ed follows him back into the living room. The low lighting and the pillows and blankets scattered around look damning when Ed pictures them through Izzy’s eyes. The whole living room has an air of being recently debauched.

“The fuck is this?” Izzy scoffs. “This is a fucking trip hazard if I ever fucking saw one.”

He sets the bowls of chili down on the coffee table, and Ed watches as he efficiently strips the room bare of Stede’s soft furnishings, piling them away into the corner before dragging the coffee table back to its spot in front of the couch, and plopping down where Ed, mere minutes ago, was having the best fucking kiss of his whole fucking life before it all went to shit.

“Coming?” Izzy says.

Ed lowers himself onto the far side of the couch.

Izzy grunts his approval, and nudges a bowl of chili over to him and flicks on the television.

“University Challenge?” he says, as more of a rhetorical question, as he flips to that channel.

Ed shrugs.

He takes a bite of chili. It’s… fine.

Low and to his far side, Ed slips his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it open. He shoots a text to Stede that just says ??.

“Massachusetts,” Izzy says.

“Huh?”

“Third largest population density in North America,” Izzy says, nodding at the tv.

On it, a student contestant with a neat haircut and an uncomfortable looking suit, says, “Eh, that would be… Massachusetts?”

“See?”

Izzy grins at him.

Ed stares back at him, trying to will himself to smile.

Stede’s body drives and drives, mostly in mindless loops and circles, until it’s darker than dark out, and then, without asking, it drives him to the place that has been home for most of his adult life.

You’ll fucking ruin him. You’ll make him soft. You make people worse. You do that.

It’s a weekday, and it’s three in the morning by the time he arrives, and even London is fairly dark and quiet. This particular street, full of stately residential homes, certainly is.

He pulls up in front of the house he still technically owns, and parks the car, and sits there, for a minute, in the dark, listening to the sounds of the car cooling down.

Very fucking dangerous to drive like this, his brain, recently returned, apparently, nags at him.

He grabs his phone off of the passenger seat, and thumbs into it, ignoring the alerts on his home screen that tell him he has four messages from Ed.

There’s a message from Alma, just saying, Arrived safely. Train was fine. Had a nice visit. Love you, that came in sometime while he was lunching with Ed.

Ed.

“Fuck.” Stede says aloud to himself. He presses his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, and then steels himself and opens his messages. His hand shakes only a little, as he reads.

??

Hey, man, did Izzy say something to you?

Fuck, he did, didn’t he. Don’t listen to him. He’s a fucking idiot.

You okay?

He locks his phone and tosses it away onto the passenger seat, where it lands, face down.

Hours ago, he’d held Ed’s face between his hands and kissed his lips like he’s been thinking about doing since– well, quite frankly, since Ed had first smiled at him, with those warm, deep eyes of his. Since he first looked at Stede like he was interesting and surprising.

Hours ago, Ed touched him, pulled him, held him, like he wanted him. Wanted Stede. Like he didn’t know that being with Stede would wear him down. Wring him out. Ruin him.

Like they wouldn’t eventually stagnate into miserable boredom together.

He’d gone and done the exact thing he’d told himself he wouldn’t do. Ed could’ve been an amazing friend, probably the best friend Stede’s ever had, but he had to go and want more and now.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Stede’s phone buzzes from the passenger seat.

He flips it over. A text has come in from… from Mary.

Stede, it says, are you, by any chance, sitting in your car outside of my house right now? Like, at this exact moment? Or do I need to call the guards?

Stede looks up at the dark house and sees, in the front room by the door, the slightest flick of a curtain.

Yes, he types back. Sorry.

Come the fuck in, you nut.

No, it’s okay, I’m going to go find a hotel, he’s in the middle of typing back, when there’s a knock at his window.

Stede jumps, and then puts a relieved hand over his heart as he sees Doug, clutching his dressing gown closed, lean down into view and wave at him.

Stede rolls down the window.

“Hi!” Doug says, sounding very chipper for this hour of the morning. “You should probably come in.”

“No,” Stede says, “No, I’ll–”

But Doug is speaking to him in a soothing voice, opening the car door and grasping him warmly by the elbow and pulling him up and into the house, and Stede goes. He barely remembers to lock the car behind him as Doug leads him in.

It’s all here, of course. Achingly familiar. The pair of vases by the front door, which, oh, nice, Mary’s put some fresh flowers into. It’s dark, but they look like they’re nicely arranged. The family pictures still line the hallway that Doug leads him down to the kitchen.

And it smells like home. He’s been away long enough to be able to actually smell it as he enters, and it’s. God, it’s the loveliest smell in the world.

Doug brings him into the kitchen, where Mary, who’s just filled the kettle and popped it on the stove, looks up and sees them, and says, “Oh, dear,’ and envelops him in a warm hug.

Ed wakes up lying face down on the couch. There’s definitely a spot of drool under his right cheek, and it’s extremely uncomfortable. With what feels like too much effort, he manages to turn his face to the side. The tv is off, at least. Nothing sadder than falling asleep on the couch with the tv on.

His arm, hanging off the side of the couch, gropes around until he feels the cool surface of his phone, which he scoops up and thumbs on. Still technically morning. That’s good too. Nothing sadder than sleeping past noon on a weekday.

No texts, though.

He thumbs open his messages with Stede and sees that there’s, yep, a tiny tick that says Stede saw his messages at, like, three in the morning. He refreshes the page.

Nothing.

He lets the arm holding his phone go limp, and his phone thumps against the floor.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans.

He lies there, for a minute, feeling. Heavy.

Then, he scrubs a hand over his face, gets to his feet, wincing as he weights his bad knee, and hobbles to the bathroom. At least he can kind of walk without the crutches today. That’s a good thing.

There are so many reasons why this isn’t the fucking worst, saddest morning of his fucking life, see?

He splashes some cold water on his face, and pulls his hair out of the messy bun it’s in, wincing as the hair-tie catches and tugs a knot.

Then, he limps back into the living room, and, after a moment or two of staring at the couch, which is still sort of smooshed up under where his face was pressing into it all night, shoves the coffee table out of the way and grabs the pile of blankets and pillows that Stede had brought the day before and tosses them in the middle of the floor.

He doesn’t have quite the same flair for it that Stede does, but he gets it arranged in what he thinks is an artful way, and sinks down into the makeshift nest.

It’s.

Not.

He sits up with an exasperated huff and tries again. There had been a pillow sort of propping him up against the couch, he remembers, and one under his knee, for comfort, and several others which were sort of, just. There.

He settles back down to test this new arrangement.

It’s fucking rubbish.

“Fuck!” Ed growls. He slouches down until he’s lying on the floor, and that, at least, is fine. There’s a pillow jammed against his lower back, which is kind of hurting his spine, and there’s another sort of half under one of his shoulders, and all in all, it’s extremely uncomfortable and terrible but.

It’s fine.

He finds his phone and thumbs it open again, staring at his last text to Stede.

Knee’s feeling much better today, he types out, even as his knee throbs painfully. Thank you for lunch yesterday. It was great. I had a really good time. I always seem to have a really good time with you. I really want to kiss you again. I can’t get the picnic blankets arranged right.

He stares at it for a moment, and then hastily deletes it. He goes to drop it on the floor, but it buzzes, and he flinches so hard he nearly drops it on his own face instead.

It’s a text alert.

Jackie’s tomorrow morning? Think your knee will be up for it?

It’s Izzy.

Ed stares at it for a moment feeling absolutely nothing but dull dread.

Yeah, he texts back, finally. Think so.

Well, at least he’s got the rest of the day to mope.

Stede wakes up in a bed that is so deliciously soft. Of course it is. He’d tried every single mattress in the store before deciding on this one. He’d forgotten how much he loves this bed.

He stretches luxuriously, unwilling to open his eyes quite yet, and bangs his elbow on something hard that definitely shouldn’t be there.

He jerks upright.

It’s. A tray. A breakfast tray, delicately laden with fruit and a piece of perfectly toasted whole wheat bread and a hard boiled egg and a small pot of tea.

“Good morning,” says a kind voice on the other side of him.

Stede jumps (the tea splashes). “Doug,” he says, “Jesus Christ. Doug.”

“Sorry,” Doug says. “Didn’t mean to alarm you.” He’s perched at the foot of the bed.

“Did you,” Stede says slowly, “Did you make me breakfast in bed?”

“Well, yes,” Doug says, smiling, “But I don’t know if it still counts as breakfast, since it’s past noon.”

Doug doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, so Stede sits up, scooching awkwardly until he’s leaning back against the headboard, clutching the blankets up to his chest somewhat defensively, and reaches for his teacup.

“How are you feeling today?” Doug asks, patting Stede’s foot through the blankets, eyebrows knitting together sympathetically.

“Um,” Stede says, taking stock. “Better?” he answers, finally. It’s… technically true. He clears his throat, “Listen, Doug,” he begins.

Doug holds up a hand to stop him. “Stede,” he says warmly, “it really seems like you’re working up to an apology, and I just want you to know that it’s completely unnecessary.”

Stede’s mouth snaps shut.

Doug smiles. “This is your home, too, Stede,” he says. “You’re welcome here any time. Like, literally any time. Even at three in the morning.”

Stede presses his lips together very hard to avoid releasing the audible sob that’s trying so hard to get out he thinks his ribs might crack. He gives Doug a weak, watery smile that he hopes conveys some fraction of what he is feeling.

Doug smiles back and nods, and pats his foot, and gets up to leave.

“Doug,” Stede manages to gasp, when he’s at the threshold, and Doug pauses and turns back. “Thank you,” Stede blurts, “You’re just. You’re really lovely.”

“Thanks, Stede,” Doug says, beaming. “I think you’re really lovely too. I’ve, uh, got lessons all day, but Mary’s out back in her studio.”

And he leaves.

If Stede has a little cry over his toast and egg, it’s only because he’s exhausted from driving all night in a sort of fugue state, surely.

He does eventually crawl out of bed and brings his now-empty tray downstairs to the kitchen, and, after strolling through the living and dining rooms and running his fingers along all the old knick-knacks and picture frames, he heads out to the studio.

He never really came back here that much, over the last few years. It’s a nice space. It’s large and open and bright, and right now, it’s absolutely full of paintings.

Mary is over in the far corner, and she hasn’t noticed him yet, so Stede takes a quick, quiet wander through, taking in the sights. Mary’s got a fabulous style, really. Like this, with them all laid out, Stede can almost track its progression throughout the years.

Her more recent works are stunning. Free.

Stede takes a second to admire Mary herself while she works. She looks relaxed, more at peace than she had been in the last several years of their marriage, certainly. She’s cut her hair, he can tell, even though she’s got it bundled away out of her face for convenience. And she’s dressed more comfortably than she used to, forgoing the endless layers she donned like armor in favor of a loose, billowing shirt and a comfortable looking skirt.

And there’s something else that’s different. Something beyond the physical. Even in something as small as her stance, as she paints, the casual crook of her elbow cradling her palette.

She looks happy, Stede realizes. It makes his heart ache.

“Good morning,” he says, finally, softly, so as not to startle her.

“Oh!” she says brightly, “Stede! I didn’t hear you come in.”

She’s got a smear of paint on her cheek, and she beams at him, and Stede can’t help but smile back. She’s gorgeous, he thinks, and she looks genuinely fond and pleased to see him. It’s almost enough to make him forget how fucking miserable they made one another.

“These are amazing,” Stede says, gesturing to the canvases all around him.

“They’re not,” Mary says, blushing prettily. “I just. It’s like I can’t stop. It feels–” She struggles to find the words for a moment, and then gives up with a shrug and a laugh. “I just need to do it.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Oh, Stede.” Mary puts her palette down on a high, paint-stained butcher block table, rests her brush in a tub of turpentine, and fusses with the knot in her apron for a frustrated moment, before letting out an exasperated sigh and turning her back on Stede. “Help me untie this so I can give you a hug without getting paint on you,” she says, bossily.

Stede laughs and steps in close to examine the knot. His heart aches at the sight of the little baby-soft curls at the nape of Mary’s neck, and the familiar, warm scent of her.

It’s not. He’s not in love with her. He’s never been in love with her. But there’s an intimacy there. She was never someone with whom he could be his true, full, self, but they were companions, of a sort, anyway, for so long. Most of their lives. In some ways, she knows him better than anyone. In other ways, not at all.

His fingers pick at the knot until it comes loose, and he helps Mary slip the smock off and over her head. It’s somehow everything and nothing like their few early and awkward couplings, and when Mary turns around to thank him, she’s frowning a little in a way that he’s sure means she’s drawn the comparison as well.

But then she hugs him anyway, because she’s generous and kind –qualities of hers he’s always admired– and drags him over to the small sofa draped in silk that she often poses her models on, if the number of luxurious-looking nudes they pass on the way is any indication.

“Sit,” she says, patting the sofa beside her, and Stede does, as primly as he can. “Alma called me,” she says once he’s settled, “After your visit. She seemed… concerned?”

Stede sighs, and reclines back into the couch. “So she said,” he confesses.

Mary laughs a little, reclining as well, so that they’re just staring out together at the sea of bright canvases. “And we thought we’d got her through it all already. Rather foolish of us, I suppose.” She glances at Stede out of the corner of her eyes, “I don’t know if she told you off too, but apparently we’re the worst parents in the world.”

Stede pretends to be appalled for a moment, but then has to laugh. “There’s no way she said that,” he chuckles, “did she?”

Mary laughs too. “I’m paraphrasing,” she says, “but that’s what it felt like.” She sighs. “No. Apparently we just weren’t as good at hiding our feelings as we thought. Sheltering them, Lou and Alma.”

“Ah yes,” Stede says, “that old chestnut. Yes, she mentioned that to me as well.”

It feels good to be able to talk to Mary about this, to feel like they’re on the same team in a way they never could be when they were married.

“She’s mad at me, I think,” Mary says, “For being happy. Or for being– not to sound too presumptuous– but for being happier than you.” She shoots Stede a look that’s… complicated. But Stede thinks he gets it.

He gives a watery little laugh. “Sorry,” he says, “for setting such a low bar.”

“Oh Stede,” Mary winces, “Don’t say that. Is she right? Are you miserable? You had us so worried last night.”

“Sorry,” Stede says again. “I don’t think it’s really as dramatic as all that. Not really. I’m not– I wouldn’t say miserable. Well. Maybe last night. She– she called you about it? I thought we had a pretty nice visit, in the end.”

“She wasn’t complaining, she just said you seemed. Lost.”

Huh.

“Well that’s fairly insightful, I suppose,” Stede says after a moment.

Mary laughs a little, and rests her head against his shoulder for a moment. “Well, I hope you figure out where you are,” she says.

“Thank you,” Stede says, voice breaking ever so slightly more than he would prefer it to. “And,” he adds, “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

“Thank you,” Mary says quietly. “I am. Very.” She grins. “I’m a little sorry about it, too. If I could be less happy to make you feel better, I would.”

“Don’t be!” Stede laughs. “That’s exactly what Alma bit my head off for. I’m sure she doesn’t want that for either of us.”

Mary presses her face into his shoulder.

“Well, if you ever want to talk about it,” she says, “I hope you know I’ll do my best to listen.”

“I’d like that very much,” Stede says.

“Maybe over drinks, though,” Mary says.

“It’s barely one in the afternoon.”

Mary rolls her eyes and then shoots him a wicked little smile, biting her lip guiltily. “I’ve got champagne in the freezer. Is it too macabre to toast to our divorce?”

“I think it’s just macabre enough,” Stede says, grinning back. “I’ll squeeze us some orange juice. We’ll have mimosas.”

You seem to like soft things.

Ed detours from a necessary bathroom visit and crutches into his bedroom. He checks the dresser first, but what he’s looking for is no longer there. He checks his bedside table, and even under the bed, kneeling painfully with his sore leg outstretched– Lucius is always telling him he should take up yoga– but it’s not there either.

He’s just starting to panic when, finally, he finds it tucked into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He’d forgotten it was there when he slipped it on for the open mic the other night. He pulls out the crumpled piece of red silk with a sigh of relief, and takes a moment, just breathing in its familiar scent.

He crutches over to his bed and sits down heavily, putting his head in his hands, for a moment. The silk is soft against his fingertips, and warms so easily to his touch. In a kind of mindless daze, Ed presses the silk against his lips.

His mother’s voice, which he can still recall perfectly, all these years later.

If you work hard enough, you can have fine things like this.

But he didn’t. He’s never been capable of that kind of hustling and climbing and the endless, endless cycle of promotion and grind and promotion and grind.

And here he is. Yesterday, Stede was warm and solid and real in his arms, finer than anything Ed’s touched in his entire life, and now?

Well, now, who the fuck knows, because Stede won’t answer his fucking texts.

But generally, yeah. He can see that he’s not worthy of Stede’s affection, hasn’t earned it. Doesn’t deserve it.

Stede was a reach for him.

Stede was a reach, but he was so tempting that Ed forgot this most sacred of tenets.

He’s not, like, a nut or anything; Ed’s a realist. He’s resigned himself to the knowledge that, because of how he is (the lack of focus, the boredom, the childlike whimsy) he’s going to lead an average life. And that’s fine. He’s okay with that. Because the main thing is, right? The main thing is that if he’s doing just fine, and if he’s leading a mediocre, boring, middling life, then he’s not failed. Not entirely. And that’s just of absolute and crucial importance to Ed.

If he never tries for more, then he never fails to get it.

And what makes Ed happy?

Well, frankly, what makes Ed happy is not being unhappy. And he’s not.

Or he wasn’t, until Stede came along with his picnics and his fucking dimples and earnestness. Until he came along with his soft touches and softer lips, and the needy way he’d licked into Ed’s mouth. That small moan when Ed kissed him.

And Ed absolutely cannot afford to backslide. He’s spent so long just focusing on being stable and fucking functional and Stede fucking Bonnet comes along and tips the tables and now Ed’s practically free-falling, just desperately trying to clutch on to his last threads of fucking sanity, apparently.

If you work hard enough

But what if there was no chance to? If Stede never texts him back…

Ed tries to imagine what he might say. But it’s impossible, because he doesn’t know why Stede left in the first place.

Or maybe he doesn’t know why Stede was even there in the first place. A moment of weakness? Feeling lonely after a visit from his daughter? Missing his fucking family.

Ed’s no substitute for that.

Ed’s got literally nothing to offer someone like Stede. Sure, Stede blushes easily and he’s fun to flirt with, but it could clearly never be more than that. Stede’s done it all, the study, and the work, and the family. By all accounts, Stede is a success. Certainly by Ed’s mother’s estimation.

At least she hadn’t lived to see him crash and burn quite as hard as he did. She’ll always remember him as the promising young student of archaeology. Unless she’s looking down (or up) on him from somewhere beyond, she doesn’t ever have to know what a disappointment he’s turned out to be.

A sad sack, temping late into his forties. No real friends. Just an ex who doesn’t want him any more. Just a plaything for idle divorcees, a rebound.

Ed knows this. Ed is a realist. Ed’s fine.

The trouble is, now that he’s started, he doesn’t know how to stop wanting Stede.

The only thing he normally allows himself to want is gold. Because that’s a dream big enough and impossible enough that he knows he’ll never fucking reach it. And that’s what all of his seeming stability has been based on over the last fucking decade or so. Right? If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t think they’ll ever strike it that lucky. It’s safe to want gold because he knows, in his heart, that all he’ll ever find are ring pulls.

And he’s found fucking thousands of ring pulls. He knows how to look for their identifying marks, knows how to date them from the tiniest chip in the metal or smallest, barest corner of a serial number. He knows that he can reliably find them any time he goes out. Does he want to find them? Fuck no. They’re fucking trash. They’re fucking infuriating. But they’re what he’s got.

And Stede? Stede’s gold. Stede’s unattainable. An impossibility of mythic proportion. There’s nothing in his life that entitles Ed to something or someone as fine and as rare and as good as Stede.

So. She was wrong, his mum.

He looks at the silk in his hands. It’s creased, and it’s stained, and its edges are fraying, and he’s kept it all these years, like an empty promise to her. Like a promise to himself that he was meant to be someone else.

Well.

Ed tucks the silk into his pocket and crutches back down the hall to the living room. On the way, he stops in the kitchen, opens the bin, and drops the silk in. It flutters down into a small pile of discarded Jalfrezi and a new, wet stain begins to bloom over it. Yeah. Fine. Good.

Ed crutches the rest of the way to the couch and flops down, digging in the cushions to compulsively check his phone for what he knows will be no new texts.

He’s right.

He’s got ten more hours to stew before Izzy shows up to collect him.

“So you kissed him,” Mary says, “and then you immediately fled, after you told him you would stay, because his ex-boyfriend told you you were going to make him too happy.”

“Soft,” Stede corrects. “Complacent.” He’s got his cheek pressed against the cool marble of the kitchen island to cool it, as his fifth mimosa has him feeling ever-so-slightly warm in the face.

“And you believe him– why, exactly?”

“Because,” Stede says, “He’s known Ed for so long, and I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks.” He presses his eyes closed with a sigh. “And because I made you so–” he swallows hard.

“Soft and complacent?” Mary lifts an incredulous brow at him. “Stede, I really hope you know that’s not what happened.”

“No,” Stede laughs, even as a small tear leaks from the corner of his eye and onto the countertop. “Because I made you miserable. Because being with me is miserable. I’m a big bloody harbinger of misery. I’m terrible. I ruined you.”

“Okay, first of all, fuck you,” Mary says, reaching over and flicking Stede’s cheek. “Ruined me. Jesus fucking christ, Stede. In your fucking dreams. But more importantly,” she says, folding her arms across the counter top and leaning down to rest her chin on top of them, “you’re giving yourself far too much agency, here, and robbing me of all of mine.”

“How d’you mean?” Stede slurs.

Mary sighs gustily, and Stede can smell the alcohol on her breath. “We made each other miserable,” she says, shrugging. “We’re at least equally to blame as each other. Not to mention your fucking dad and my mum. Not to be too dramatic or anything, but we were doomed from the start. It’s not like we didn’t try. At first, anyway.”

“I did give up towards the end,” Stede admits, “I’m sorry, Mary.”

“Stede you’re not listening,” Mary says, “We both gave up towards the end. But we both tried really hard for a really long time. You’re only hearing the bad stuff. There was good stuff, too, but you’re too hung up on the negatives. You always have been.”

“My dad–” Stede chokes, but Mary cuts him off.

“Your dad was an absolute fucking prick, Stede. Leave it at that. He was a sad, miserable little man, and he needed to make everyone around him miserable as well. You’re nothing like him, thank god.” She shudders. “And I’m glad we both had the guts to call it quits when we did, but I’m not sorry that we were ever married.” Her dark eyes peer into his searchingly. “I hope you’re not, either.”

“I’m not,” Stede says, honestly.

“Good.” She smiles. “I’m not exactly glad that we suffered, but I am so much more appreciative of everything else, now. My life is so much the richer for it. And for the children, of course. Even if Alma hates us right now. And for Doug. Dear Doug.”

“Doug made me breakfast in bed,” Stede says. “You’re a very lucky woman.”

“I am,” Mary says, with a blush and a private little smile that Stede almost feels bad for seeing.

“You’re in love,” he says, shyly.

“I am,” she says, again, meeting his gaze steadily, this time, unflinching.

Love, on Mary, is something fierce. He can see it in her posture, etched in every line of her face. He saw it when each of their children were born, and he sees it now. Mountains would crumble under the weight and stability of Mary’s love.

As for his own? Stede loves Mary. Not like that, obviously, like she loves Doug, or even like either of them love their children. He loves her humor and her practicality. He loves her art. He loves the way that, now that they’ve released one another, finally, he feels so comfortable around her. She makes that possible.

For Stede, love feels something more akin to a soft wonder. He’s gently in awe of Mary, in awe of their children, beautiful and perfect as they are, and just discovering how they want to move through the world.

And.

Yeah.

He thinks Ed is pretty awesome, too.

Ed is funny and interesting and kind. Ed’s a hell of a good kisser. Ed’s beautiful. Ed treats Stede like he’s all those things, too, which is a completely novel experience for Stede.

And Ed’s so fucking startled every time Stede does something even remotely kind for him, and that. That makes Stede feel absolutely crazy. That makes Stede want to spoil him and pamper him until he does get soft and complacent about it. Stede wants him to become needy and demanding, because Stede wants so very badly to give him everything.

Stede. Loves Ed.

And that’s such a fucking revelation. And it’s so clear to him, once he sees it, that he can’t help but gasp.

Mary, who’s no doubt been watching this play out across his features, props her chin on her hand and smiles at him, kindly.

“You too?” she says, “Huh.”

Stede puts his disbelieving fingertips to his lips and nods at her helplessly.

“Oh, Stede.” She reaches across the kitchen island and covers his free hand with her own. It’s something she used to do to him at parties if he was talking too much or laughing too loudly, but now, it’s just… nice. He shifts his hand so he can grip hers more readily, and they hold each other like that, for a long moment, in the kitchen where they used to sit alone together in awkward silence, stunted and stunting.

“You should probably text him,” Mary says, at last, biting her lip.

“Oh my god.” Stede slumps back on to the counter as he realizes she’s right. “Oh my god,” he moans, as he fumbles to get his phone out of his pocket and thumb it open.

There they are. Four unanswered texts from the man he apparently loves. The man he abruptly left, with no explanation. Fuck.

Mary tips back the rest of her mimosa, and slides off the stool to hug Stede from behind. “A word of advice, darling,” she says, into his shoulder blades, “Maybe wait until you sober up.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Stede chuckles helplessly, even though there’s a rising tide of panic in his chest at the thought that Ed might be somewhere, hating his fucking guts because he hasn’t replied.

She gives him one last squeeze and heads for the stairs. “I’m buzzed,” she says, “And I’m going to lie down. Text your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Stede calls after her as she leaves. She waves a dismissive hand as she disappears into the hall. “Not yet,” Stede says to the kitchen cabinets.

The next morning, Ed regrets committing to plans all the way up until Izzy texts him saying that he’s outside, at which point it’s too late to do anything about it except chuck his phone into the couch out of frustration. Probably, he thinks, as he grabs his detector and his knee brace and a cap to put over his hair, which he hasn’t washed, he could just go out and tell Izzy to fuck off, and go back to sulking in his uncomfortable pile of floor blankets.

He could fake an emergency of some kind, or say that his knee hurts too much, which, you know, is at least partially true. Or he could just say that he doesn’t want to go, and Izzy would just have to deal with it.

Ed sighs, locks the front door, and starts down the steps towards Izzy’s car.

“Hey,” he says dully, slipping into the front seat.

“Christ,” Izzy says, “You look and smell fucking terrible, Edward. What the fuck.”

Ed just shrugs, and Izzy rolls down the windows and pulls away from the curb.

Ed realizes about five minutes later that he doesn’t have his phone on him, but, fuck it, they’re already too far along the motorway to head back now.

“So,” Izzy says, as they approach the turn-off for the farm. “How are you?”

“Hm?” Ed has been staring out the window, lost in thought.

Izzy clears his throat. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Ed says automatically. “I’m fine, Izzy. Everything’s fine.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds bitter.

They drive in silence the rest of the way.

When they get to the farm, they prepare in silence, as well, assembling their detectors, lacing up their boots, and tucking their trousers into their socks.

Ed tries not to look up at the tree where he picnicked with Stede.

“Well,” he says, and Izzy nods at him, and heads off to detect along the fence posts.

Ed picks a strip of land midway between the fence and the hill and falls into a near-meditative state. Step, swipe. Step, swipe.

His detector picks up various weak signals. He adjusts his discrimination and keeps walking.

His knee throbs a little, but if he steps carefully and focuses on not twisting it, it can bear his weight.

He’s trying hard not to think about how nice it had been to watch Stede out of the corner of his eye. How transparent his changes of expression were. They had been wearing headsets, of course, but Ed had felt like he heard every whine and blip of the detector through Stede’s eager smiles and wide eyes.

Hell, he probably missed a few promising tones himself because of it.

And it had been so nice to have Stede’s body pressed against his, as he helped him out of the field. His arms, so solid around Ed’s waist. Honestly? Enough to make a grown man feel faint.

And Stede’s fingers on his skin. At the picnic. On the floor in his living room. Stede’s fingertips pressing needily into his side.

Stede’s lips on his.

Fuck.

He knows he’s fucked it up, but he isn’t sure how, because Stede won’t fucking answer his texts. Maybe he went too fast? Maybe Stede wants to wait until the divorce is finalized?

Or maybe Stede is having second thoughts about the divorce, after all. A day of bumming around Ed’s flat might do that to a man. Ed should know. He’s been doing it for years.

Ed’s detector finds a target of some sort, a middling ID number, but a strong, low tone and, though his eyes are starting to water, he kneels down to dig into the ground. His knee twinges slightly as he crouches in the dirt, and he has to use his free hand to swipe a couple of stray tears out of his eyes, as he plies the plug from the earth.

His heart’s not really in it today.

Between that, and the watering of his eyes, it takes him a moment to spy the bright glint from the dirt, but when he does, he freezes.

His mouth goes dry all of a sudden, and his heart beats hard enough to break his ribs, as he leans down and brushes a clump of dirt away.

It’s gold.

It’s a gold disc, roughly the size of a two pound coin.

There’s lettering stamped into it, but it’s been worn soft by the elements.

Ed’s blood is rushing in his ears as he picks it up.

It catches the light.

It’s.

Beautiful.

Ed can’t tear his eyes away from it, can’t stop his fingers from running over its surfaces, like he can memorize them, burn them into his brain.

He hardly hears as Izzy calls his name, once, twice, and then a third time, much closer.

“Edward!”

Izzy drops down into the dirt next to him.

“Did you–? Is that–?”

Ed looks up at him, stunned. Izzy’s eyes are wide and wild, and he’s laughing, and he grabs Ed’s face in both hands and kisses him hard on the mouth.

“Fuck,” he says, “Fuck, you fucking did it, Ed. You found your gold.” Izzy’s crying. His hands are on Ed’s face, Ed’s shoulders, Ed’s neck. “Ed,” he’s saying, sounding choked up. “Edward.”

It’s been, shit, more than fifteen years. Probably closer to twenty. They’ve been looking, and looking, and they’ve never found anything, and now. They have.

Ed keeps looking at it, there, in his hands. This is it. This is something precious that someone once held like this before. Pressed it to their skin. And then lost it. Or left it.

His heart is beating a harsh tattoo in his chest, and his head feels like it’s spinning. He’s here, in a field owned by a madwoman, holding the very thing that he’s been searching for for over a third of his life, and.

And.

He suddenly realizes.

It’s nothing.

Ed gets to his feet, and kicks the plug back in the hole, and, after a brief pause, reaches down to grasp Izzy’s hand and pulls him to his feet as well.

“Ed,” Izzy is saying, still, “Ed,” only now, he looks faintly worried.

“Iz,” he says, “We can talk about this later, I promise. We can. But right now, I need you to drive me to the train station.”

He tugs on Izzy's arm, but Izzy doesn’t budge.

“Come on,” Ed whines. “Come on, Iz. I have to go. Now.”

“Ed,” Izzy says, “Slow down.”

“I can’t,” Ed says, “I can’t, and I don’t want to talk about it now, Izzy, I need to go, okay? I need to–”

“Is this about him?” Izzy asks, disgust evident in his voice. “Is this about fucking Stede? For fucks’ sake, Edward, you’ve known the man for about five fucking seconds. You’ve been looking for gold for twenty fucking years. Can you not just–slow the fuck down?” He’s shouting by the time he finishes.

Ed stops trying to pull him, and drops his arm, turning to look at him.

Izzy tenses, and Ed watches expressions flit across his face. Confusion, disappointment, anger.

Well fine. They’re doing this now, then.

“Look, Iz,” he says, “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I’m not–what you want me to be.”

“That’s not–”

“I can’t do this any more.”

“Ed, you’ve–” Izzy’s eyes bulge, “You’ve only just done it, this is just the start for you, for us. It’s everything we’ve been working towards for years, don’t you see that? How can you–”

“Here.” Ed takes the gold piece and holds it out towards Izzy. “Here, Iz. Take it. I don’t want it.”

“But–” Izzy looks furious and devastated. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for the gold.

“Izzy,” Edward practically cries in frustration. “Jesus. Alright. Come here.”

And Izzy’s mad and he’s fucking stubborn, but he goes, when Ed hooks a hand around the back of his neck and reels him into a hug. It’s a lot easier to talk about this when he doesn’t have to look at Izzy’s crumpled, disappointed face.

“You always say that I don’t know what I want, and you always say I never do anything,” Ed says, “And you know what? You’re right. I’ve been fucking drowning, man. For ages. Okay?”

Izzy mumbles something into his shoulder.

“Shut up and listen for a sec, and let me get this out,” Ed says, squeezing him harder. “Something about Stede makes me better, okay? I could have all the fucking ambition in the world, all the fucking drive you’re always talking about, and it wouldn’t matter. We could find a million hoards, right? And it wouldn’t matter to me. Not if he wasn’t there.”

“Yeah, but him?” Izzy pushes him off.

“Yeah, Iz, him. He–” actually might want me, he doesn’t say, actually might want me as I am, not some fucking imaginary version of me from the past that no longer exists.

But he doesn’t say it. Can’t, really, because what if Izzy comes back with well why did he leave you then? Ed doesn’t have an answer for that.

So Ed just lets him look, lets Izzy examine his face and lets the truth of it show there. How much he’s been struggling. How much he wants something better.

There’s a long moment where they just hold each other’s gaze, here, in the middle of a fucking field in fucking Essex.

And then he must see it, because Izzy sighs, and his face goes slack, and resigned. “Let’s go. I’ll give you a lift to the train station.”

“Thanks, Iz.”

Izzy shrugs, and hoists his detector over his shoulder and nods towards the car.

“Oh,” Ed says, “I also need you to spot me a tenner for the fare.”

Izzy gives a long-suffering sigh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can probably manage that.”

Stede is perched at the breakfast nook with a pot of tea that he’s slightly more than halfway through and his favorite copy of his favorite book (which he’s not taking in much, not really) when the doorbell rings. He’s so engrossed in his own thoughts that it takes him a moment to remember that both Doug and Mary are out, today. Doug’s teaching, and Mary is painting al fresco with her women’s group.

“Take the time you need,” Mary had assured him, both last night and this morning. “Stay as long as you want. Sort out your thoughts.”

He’d thanked her, grateful for the ease with which they could now slip into friendship, having released one another from the marriage that had made them both so miserable for so long.

And it’s been kind of nice having the house to himself this morning. He finally acknowledged, walking through the empty rooms, that it no longer feels like the place he wants to call home, although a part of his heart will always be here, will always cherish the fruits of the life he once had: his beautiful children, and two new, dear friends.

And as for the future? He’d spent the whole very drunk afternoon and evening composing a text to Ed, but, at Mary’s insistence, waited until the sober light of morning to send it.

Dear Ed, it had started, (rather formally, for a text, perhaps, but also true in the sense that Ed was dear to him), I know my actions in the last twenty-four hours have been completely inexcusable. I only wanted to say, in explanation, that I received some well-meaning, if misguided advice that confirmed my own darkest fears about myself, chiefly that I am selfish and that my dogged pursuit of my own desires leads those I love to ruin. I’m only saying this because I think you already know me well enough to know my penchant for dramatic flair. I have since been reassured by my family that I may not be as bad as all that, but that means that I have only hurt you rather needlessly, for which, dear Ed, (purely affectionate, this time around) I am endlessly and abjectly sorry. I meant what I said: you make me happy. It is my dearest wish that upon my return to Essex you might continue to do so, but if not, then please allow me to thank you for what has been the most illuminating, affirming, and arousing period of my life thus far. Ever yours, Stede.

So he gets needlessly eloquent when he drinks. What of it? He’d read it back in the sober light of morning, and, finding it all to still be true, sent it.

Was he crushingly embarrassed about it almost immediately? Yeah. Yes. Very much so.

He’s reached a sort of place of Zen acceptance of it now. It’s been hours, with no response from Ed, and he’s trying to resign himself to probably having to move again. Right? That seems like the polite thing to do. Leave Essex. Just go away and not inflict himself upon any of them ever again.

He’s not devolving into his normal cesspool of anxiety, though, somehow. Or, at least, not to the same extent. It’s almost as if (you make me happy) he knows he can do it, now. And there’s a pang, of course, because he’s never quite felt anything like what he felt with Ed, but he’s new to this, right? And if he’s capable of that level of. Sentiment. Then who’s to say he might not find it again, someday?

Even if Ed never wants to see him again. Which would be his absolute right.

All of this is what’s going through Stede’s mind when the doorbell rings.

He places a careful bookmark to save his page, and sets the book down, mindful not to bend its spine overmuch.

His family smiles at him from the framed photos that line the hallway to the front door, and Stede smiles back, even though he is alone, even though there is no one here to see.

He opens the door.

“Ed,” he says, in complete wonder, like he might have somehow summoned the man here just by thinking of him.

“Hi,” Ed says, sounding a little breathless.

He’s in his detecting gear, and he’s got dirt smeared on his face, and he’s sweating like he might have jogged here, and.

He’s the most beautiful man Stede has ever seen.

“You’re here,” Stede says, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Ed says, “I sort of. Had to talk to you. And I forgot my phone. So.”

Stede feels his mouth curling into a smile.

“Come in,” he says, “It’s just me at the moment. Mary and Doug are out.”

“Who’s Doug?” Ed asks, and then moves on with a shake of his head. “I think you’d better come out,” he says, “I don’t want to muck up your front hall.”

“It’s a foyer,” Stede says, graciously, but he steps out, carefully shutting the door behind him, and walks a few steps closer, shivering at the feeling of the morning-cold pavement under his bare feet.

“Listen,” Ed says, coming to meet him, fumbling in a pocket of his jacket. “I just. I wanted you to have–” His eyes are doing something complicated and incomprehensible and deep, but he reaches for Stede’s hands and folds something cool into them, and then presses both his hands over Stede’s for a moment, as if to seal them shut. His hands are dry and caked in dirt, but his touch is gentle.

“Ed?” Stede says, confused. This all feels like a dream.

Ed just nods at Stede’s hands, and Stede looks away from his beautiful face, finally, and down into his own palms, where he sees–

A glint of gold.

“Wow,” he breathes. “Oh, Ed. You did it.” He beams at him.

Ed is watching him with an intense gaze.

“It’s yours,” he says, a little gruffly. He’s blushing. “I want you to have it.”

“What?” Stede gapes at him. “Ed, no. You can’t be serious. It’s. I can’t–”

“Stede.” Ed steps in close, and Stede’s breath catches in his throat. “Take it. Please.”

“Ed,” Stede says, softly, staring up at him, “What– what am I going to do with this?”

Ed swallows hard and looks down at the coin in Stede’s hand. “Thought you might, I don’t know,” he mumbles, looking shy, all of a sudden. “Melt it down, or something. Maybe into a ring.”

Stede suddenly feels like a stiff breeze might knock him flat on his arse.

“Ed,” he says carefully, “Just so we’re perfectly clear, are you– are you asking me to marry you?” And is it nuts if Stede’s not completely against the idea? It’s– objectively, that is– yeah, nuts, for sure. Complete lunatic move. One hundred percent bonkers.

But also.

“Shit,” Ed says, with a surprised little chuckle, “Guess I am. Um.” He goes to kneel and winces, and Stede grabs him by the front of his dumb camoflage jacket and pulls him back to his feet.

“Don’t do that,” he says, “Your knee.”

“Right,” Ed says. “I mean. I guess– Is that something you would– Do you want to marry me?”

What is Stede’s life, even?

Ed, his Ed, is staring at him with those deep, spectacular eyes, and he looks so hopeful and kind and warm. It’s.

Legally speaking, they can’t, even, until the divorce is finalized. But, further to Ed’s question, does Stede want to?

Stede has spent his entire adult life feeling like there was something wrong with him for not being able to appreciate the objective bounty afforded him by the circumstance of his birth, terrified by his inability to connect with Mary on even an emotional (let alone physical) level, longing to feel like he might belong anywhere or with anyone.

And yeah, as recently as a few minutes ago, he was resigning himself to never seeing Ed again, trying to convince himself that whatever he felt when he was around Ed was the same thing he’d feel around any impossibly attractive (kind, fascinating, brilliant) human man, but. Sifting through the evidence of his years of existence, Stede can’t think of a single person who’s made him feel even a fraction of what he feels in Ed’s company, brief though his experience of that has been.

So maybe it’s not so crazy after all? Maybe the only really foolhardy thing is to ignore the fact that in his gut or his heart or his balls or whatever you want to call it, Stede really very clearly and definitively, thank you, knows that he wants to be in Ed’s company as long as humanly possible.

He reaches out to cup Ed’s cheek, and watches his eyelashes flutter. God but they’re improbably long, aren’t they? Ed presses into his palm. Stede breathes in, long and shuddering.

And Stede kisses him. Just a simple press of lips, but imbued with all of the years of longing and– it’s. Yeah. It’s home.

“Is that a yes?” Ed breathes, when Stede finally pulls away.

“Ed,” Stede whispers, caught up in the moment. But then, in a rush, reality catches up to him, and, answer on the tip of his tongue, Stede throws back his head and laughs, “Ed, we’re not even dating–”

Ed pulls him in for another kiss, this one deep and needful.

Stede is clinging to Ed’s jacket when they come up for air. “Stede,” Ed says hoarse and low and serious, “Will you go out with me?”

“Yes,” Stede says, immediately, emphatically, with every fibre of his being, “Yes.”

A playful twinkle. “And will you marry me?”

Stede laughs again, and throws his arms around Ed’s neck. “Ask me again in a year,” he says.

“Done.” Ed says.

“In five years?”

“Easy.”

“Ten years.”

“Whenever you want.”

Stede pulls back just far enough to look into Ed’s dear face. Ed’s eyes are sparkling, and he’s grinning, and there are lovely little wrinkles at the sides of his eyes, and Stede can see that he was just built for this kind of rapturous joy, and Ed is smiling down at him like he’s something cherished and precious and.

“Come on,” Stede says, “Come in.”

Stede takes Ed by the hand and, laughing, tugs him into the house that was his past, but as he does, he’s only thinking about the future. It glints like gold.

“Do we have to?” Ed groans, covering his head with his pillow and using it to dampen the insistent sound of Stede’s alarm clock.

He feels, rather than sees, Stede leaning across him to hit the snooze button. He snakes an arm around where he knows Stede’s waist will be, even without looking.

Stede chuckles, soft and warm.

“Darling,” he says, settling against Ed’s chest, “we invited them. Of course we have to go.”

Ed knows, in an abstract sort of way, that he could die exactly like this, and die perfectly happy. Stede’s chin is digging sharply into his sternum, as he observes Ed’s pillow-covered-head. Ed knows his eyes are bright and playful, this early in the morning. His dick is also already half hard, and nestled into Ed’s hip, and that’s. You know. Fucking excellent.

He takes a moment to just feel all of these things fully. Stede’s sturdy weight atop his body. The warmth of their limbs tangled together under the sheets. Yep. Perfectly happy.

“I packed a picnic lunch for us,” Stede says, stroking a fond hand over Ed’s side, thumb brushing against Ed’s nipple, making him hiss.

He lifts the pillow and Stede’s smiling face comes into focus. His hair is mussed from sleep, and he’s smiling at Ed like Ed is his favorite thing in the world. He’s so fucking gorgeous.

Ed tightens his arms around Stede’s waist and pulls him up for a kiss. It’s early, and they’re both tired, and they just melt into one another for a time, Ed’s hands rubbing soothing circles over Stede’s back, Stede’s combing through Ed’s hair.

“Good morning,” Ed rumbles happily, as they finally separate.

“It is,” Stede says, with a tiny, cheeky roll of his hips. He’s fully hard, now, pressing insistently into Ed’s belly. Ed himself is not… unaffected by this state of affairs.

“We’d better get going,” he says to Stede, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “We wouldn’t want to be late.”

“I mean,” Stede says, thoughtfully, “We could be a little bit late.”

Alma lifts her hand in a cheery wave as she descends the train station steps at a gentle trot. Ed and Stede wave back as she approaches the car.

“Hi darling,” Stede says, hugging her and kissing the top of her head.

“Hi dad,” she says, “Hi Ed.”

Ed grins and scoops her up into a massive hug, lifting her off the ground.

“Hey, now,” she laughs, swatting at his shoulder. “Your knee, Ed.”

“‘S’fine,” he rumbles, grinning at her. “Good to see you, kiddo.”

The drive out to the farm is all easy chatting, mostly catch-up.

Ed sometimes selfishly thinks that Alma and he get on so well, she very well might prefer him over Stede, which is something he imagines Stede could definitely choose to be jealous over, if he were so inclined.

Stede, however, remains characteristically un-self-conscious about the whole thing, and only ever sits there with the small, peaceful smile on his face that Ed knows means he’s absolutely blissed out about the whole situation.

It’s just one of the many ways in which Stede is an absurdly generous partner to him, he thinks, fondly.

At the next intersection, Ed reaches over and squeezes Stede’s hand where it rests lightly on top of the gear shift, and Stede, broken out of his momentary happy trance, squeezes back, automatically, and grins over at Ed. His eyes are so obviously and casually full of love that it takes Ed’s breath away.

The car behind them honks, once, impatient, and Stede jumps slightly, and breaks the lingering eye contact with Ed in order to drive on.

“Oh, gross, you guys,” Alma complains from the backseat, “Come on.”

Stede sticks his tongue out at her in the rear view mirror.

The rest of the afternoon is a happy blur that Ed processes in a series of warmly-tinted snapshots. There’s Alma saying, “Oh my god, get a load of that car,” as they pull up to the farm, and the bright yellow TR7 comes into view, parked up by the fence. Then, there’s a moment where he and Stede watch Alma and Izzy sniff each other out like cats, trade a few choice barbs, and immediately take a savage, joyful liking to one another. Then, there’s Stede showing Alma the string grid they set up around the spot where Ed found his gold coin, and how they’ve carefully excavated the whole area. Ed and Izzy jump in to explain the more technical terms.

The site hasn’t yet yielded any more gold.

Now, Ed is stretched out under the grizzled old oak, at the top of the hill, propped up on his elbows on a soft, pink picnic blanket, looking down the hill at the bent heads of everyone in the world he holds dear as, in their various corners of the field below, they step, and swipe. And step. And swipe.

Almost as if he can feel Ed’s gaze, Stede pauses, and looks up at him, and even from this far away, Ed can see happiness suffuse his features. When he starts up the hill towards Ed, his hair catches the light, and glints.

Ed watches him coming, and feels the steady beating of his heart, and thinks, yes. If he really were a time traveler, this would be it: the moment he would choose to live in above all others, maybe forever.

Maybe he’ll bury something here, someday, so that someone else might find it, and know that, for a time, he was here and he was happy.

He digs his fingers into the soil at the base of the tree and smiles.

1718.

Blackbeard, or a man who currently answers to that name, is bleeding as he staggers up the hill in the dark, but he’s pretty sure, even as the blood oozes weakly through his fingers in time with every frantic pulse of his heart, that this won’t kill him.

Not for lack of trying, he thinks.

He’s got a small but heavy chest tucked under the arm that’s not keeping pressure on his wound.

There’s a grizzled old oak at the top of the hill, and he thinks, if he can make it there, it will provide him with sufficient high ground and good visibility that he can at least pass a portion of the night here, sheltered from his enemies, before he returns to his ship before dawn.

The air smells of smoke, when the breeze hits just right, and he fancies he can hear the sounds of his crew pillaging the nearby settlement.

Blackbeard climbs. It’s harder work than he expected to reach the summit of the small hill, and when he gets there, he collapses into the welcoming embrace of the tree’s sturdy roots, which wrap around him almost like arms.

He breathes, there, for a minute, the air, fresher up here than down below, burning into his lungs, and listens for the sounds of pursuit.

There’s nothing, only the rustling of the night breeze in the branches of this magnificent tree, and the low rattle of his own breath. He props himself up against one of the sturdier roots, bark pressing gently into his back, and stares down the hill in the near-complete darkness.

The quiet is peaceful, here, in a way that it is not when he sits, similarly crouched, in his bunk, with only the slapping of the waves to distract him from his darker thoughts.

Maybe that means it’s finally time, he thinks. Time to leave the sea.

What would that even mean?

For the first time in a long time, he tries to picture a life for himself somewhere like this. He could change his name, his identity. Buy a farm, maybe. A straw hat. Work the land.

And why not here? Given the current activities of his crew, of course, it’s likely to be a very different sort of place, come morning, but here, this hill. This tree.

He pictures himself here in the daylight. Only, he’s different. He’s not Blackbeard any more.

He could just be–

well.

Another man that he hasn’t let himself be for a while. A name he can’t say, even inside his own head, without thinking about it falling from other, softer lips.

He closes his eyes and leans back into the sturdy embrace of the tree and thinks, yes, yes, he could be that man here, and in that moment, he resolves to do so.

He knows that he has no way of knowing if he will ever return to this exact spot, but in this moment, with the promise of this life ahead of him, he chooses to believe that he might. He’ll leave something here, for himself, he thinks. This tree can be a landmark. A beacon. A lighthouse. It will remind him that there is something waiting for him beyond the darkness he sometimes feels he might drown in.

Here, on a hill, the bright flash of gold, promising him a better life. Happiness, even, maybe. Someday.

He reaches out, with one bloody hand, for the chest he’s let fall to the ground beside him, and with the other hand, he begins to dig.