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It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
The thing is, it’s not that Stede is a bad cook. In fact, he’s quite a good cook… with a very specific repertoire.
He’d been brought up being told that he was “fussy” and “picky,” and had been left with no doubt that these were bad things to be. It was inexcusably impolite to not eat what your host served you—even if, in the case of his parents, you tore the menu selection apart the second you were driving home—and if there was one thing that was drilled into Stede from an early age, it was manners.
So, he had developed tricks over the years, for eating things he didn’t want. The cut it up into small enough pieces that you can’t feel the texture anymore method generally served him well, as did hold your breath and swallow it with as little chewing as possible. When all else failed, he’d employed the fill your mouth with enough water to turn whatever you’re trying to eat into a kind of stew, and then choke it all down in one gulp technique, though that one was harder to conceal, and he’d gotten in trouble for it more than a few times.
When he and Mary had gotten married, he hadn’t even thought to mention his inconvenient preferences, simply eating whatever she prepared with a vague compliment and a hard swallow. Worst case scenario, he’d claim an unsettled stomach, and sneak down in the night to eat something more to his tastes without Mary being any the wiser.
It wasn’t until after the divorce, as he stood in his kitchen glumly following the intricate instructions on some pre-prepared meal kit he had ordered, that it had occurred to Stede that he could eat whatever he wanted.
The meal kit and its contents—peppers and mushrooms? In one dish? That was overkill for sure—had gone decisively into the garbage, and the pile of pancakes he’d made himself for dinner had perhaps been the best meal he’d ever eaten, made all the more satisfying by the knowledge of how appalled his parents would’ve been at the syrup-laden sight of it.
The process had involved a fair amount of trial and error, with boxes of kraft dinner featuring prominently as a replacement for failed experiments. But eventually the KD became homemade mac and cheese, and he discovered the dark sorcery of roasting vegetables, and he found a bolognese recipe that didn’t have any chunks in it… And Stede Bonnet started to actually enjoy cooking.
Sure, it was plain, but it suited him just fine. There were no complaints from the children when they came to stay with him either; Louis in particular seemed to enjoy the simplicity of Stede’s meals. When Alma got old enough to start wanting “some flavour and texture, please” Stede happily bought her any and all cookbooks and kitchen utensils she could name, and watched with pride as his teenage daughter surpassed his cooking repertoire in leaps and bounds.
Yes, it had all been working fine for Stede, until—
Well, you see, he has this friend.
He’d met Ed earlier that year, when the man had walked into Stede’s newly opened store, eyes sparkling with delighted surprise, exclaiming over the chandeliers and the curtains and the… just, well, everything that Stede had worked so hard on that no one else had noticed. They’d spent the next several hours talking—Stede pointedly ignoring the glares from his staff as he neglected the other customers, because honestly, what did he pay them for if not to work—and it wasn’t until Ed had handed over his card as he left, a clear look of regret on his face, that Stede realized that his new acquaintance Ed was in fact the Edward Teach, at which point he had needed to sit down briefly and remember how to breathe.
It had taken him days to send that first message. Stede’s exasperated assistant had assured him it would be fine, but none of the openers Lucius had suggested would be at all suitable, so Stede wasn’t entirely sure he could trust the other man’s advice. Stede is, after all, a man of class and dignity, who would never stoop to such salacious introductions.
(Those kinds of thoughts were between him, his hand, and occasionally the still-slightly-intimidating, rainbow dildo that he kept in his bedside cabinet, thank you very much.)
The initiation of their friendship was neither here nor there now, though, as far as Stede was concerned. Because sure, he’d only known Ed for four or five months, but god , it felt like forever. Like he couldn’t even remember what he’d done with himself in the B.E.T. era. Couldn’t remember what his cupboard looked like without the half dozen flavoured coffee syrups Ed had gradually accumulated in there, or when he’d last worn the teal robe that he’d first lent to Ed after he’d gotten caught in the rain on the way over, and which had by unspoken agreement become Ed’s robe, waiting for him on a hook by the door.
Still, though. He’s always had that uncomfortable voice in the back of his head—which, to be fair, sounds an awful lot like his childhood bullies—telling him that he’s tricking Ed into being his friend, somehow. Like the fact that he’d thrown his entire old life away on a whim makes him seem far more interesting than he actually is, and that eventually Ed will figure out his mediocrity and be on his merry way.
Frankly, he’s painfully aware that Ed is out of his league (friendship-wise, of course), made all the more obvious by the ongoing credulity of his staff. “Right, yeah, your ‘good friend’ Ed,” Lucius had said to him the other day when Stede had mentioned the impromptu trip they’d taken out of town the previous weekend, because Stede had been reminiscing about the butterfly conservatory and Ed had admitted that he’d never been. And, well… Stede knows that their friendship is unlikely and inexplicable, but he could practically hear the quotation marks in Lucius’s voice, which he felt were entirely uncalled for (and which he probably shouldn’t be tolerating from an employee, but heavy-handed management has never really been his style).
Somehow, though, whether through trickery or pity or sheer, dumb luck… Ed has stuck around, acting for all the world like he really finds Stede as compelling as Stede finds him, in spite of, well… the general Stede-ness he regrettably brings to most of his social encounters.
Hell, Ed has never even given Stede a hard time about what others have variously referred to as anything from “pickiness” to “toddler palate.” And sure, Ed hadn’t exactly stood up for Stede when one of his more unpleasant friends had used that particular phrase, but Stede’s been called worse by worse, and it’s not like Ed has any idea what a sore spot it is for him—Stede has done his best to keep that particularly pathetic aspect of his personality to himself, thank you very much.
It’s sort of fascinating, though, the way Ed seems to feel about food. To Stede, even the things he actually enjoys eating are more like… friendly acquaintances, rather than actual friends. Learning to cook food that’s more to his taste has made eating feel less like a chore, but it’s never carried any particular meaning to him.
Ed, on the other hand… Ed loves food. Stede has heard him wax eloquent about everything from honey coated bugs to lobster bisque (nothing more than sea bug soup, in Stede's opinion). In the early days of their friendship, Ed had offered to cook dinner for the two of them several times, which was very sweet of him, Stede thought. He had always politely declined, of course—just the thought of explaining all his various preferences and restrictions made him feel queasy with embarrassment—but it was the thought that counted.
As their closeness had grown and Stede had come to cautiously trust that maybe this wasn’t all just some elaborate practical joke, he’d started to cook for Ed, every now and then. Meals that weren’t dinner were easier. It took less work to hide his pickiness when he made pancakes for breakfast after another night of Ed sleeping on the couch, for example. And a grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of soup on a cold, rainy day were always welcome (even if Stede did his best not to let Ed see that the sandwich never actually went into the soup, which he’d been informed as a child was the “right” way to eat this particular meal).
And the funny thing was, Ed always seemed so grateful, when Stede made his little toddler meals for the two of them. He’d never been able to understand why someone so good at cooking made such a fuss over something so simple… until one particular night.
They were done eating their meal (takeout from an Italian place that Ed particularly liked, and that had a perfectly serviceable alfredo for Stede) and Stede was just pouring the last of the bottle of wine into both their glasses, when Ed had broken the silence.
“My mum used to be great at cooking eggplant,” he’d said, and it had only taken Stede a second or two to follow the leaps that had gotten Ed there (Italian food to veal parmigiana, which Ed had contemplated ordering and not chosen, to eggplant parmigiana, which Stede knew some people inexplicably ate) in order to be at the same point in the conversation they seemed to be having.
“Parmigiana?” Stede had asked, and felt a little flush of pride at the startled appreciation on Ed’s face.
“Yeah. Absolutely incredible. Even you would’ve liked it.” Stede had given a half-hearted chuckle, silently doubting the assertion with every fibre of his extremely fussy being.
“Well—” he’d said, but Ed was continuing, buoyed along on a current of wine and nostalgia.
“She was never much for talking. Dad didn’t…” he’d trailed off, and Stede had waited silently, knowing from experience that Ed never wants sympathetic looks and there there ’s when the topic of his reprehensible father comes up. “Anyway, never really heard anyone use their words a lot, growing up. And we were too fucking broke for gifts or trips, even with her working around the clock just to keep us afloat.”
Stede had nodded, once again reminded of the vast chasm between his childhood and Ed’s, for all that they had both come out of them with emotional—and, in Ed’s case, some physical—scars, and a lifetime of hefty therapy bills to show for it.
“But when she actually had the time and energy to cook, and the money to make something a bit more special, she was a fucking genius in the kitchen. Loved just standing there and watching her, helping where she needed. Once I was old enough, she started teaching me some of her recipes, or at least the stuff she actually used recipes for.” He had paused again, then finished quietly: “Never got around to asking her about the eggplant, though.”
“Ed—” Stede had begun, unsure of what he was going to say but feeling moved to say something about this deeply intimate confession.
But Ed had just waved him off. “Any more of that wine?” he’d asked, and Stede had stood (slightly unsteadily) and gone for another bottle.
The next morning, many of the memories had been hazy, but that one had remained crystal clear. Another piece of the puzzle that was Edward Teach had fallen into place for Stede, and finally it was one that he thought he just might be able to do something about.
“...or maybe I’m just an idiot,” Stede groans to himself, scraping burnt eggplant skins off the baking sheet for the third time, dumping the blackened aubergine into the garbage and tossing the tray unceremoniously into the sink.
What had he been thinking? That he could make something like this for Ed? Because it’s something his mother had made? The bar would have to be impossibly high for him to enjoy it, surely. So why—
Even within his own mind, his stream of consciousness collides heavily with a solid, undeniable, unavoidable wall.
Because his mother loved him, Stede thinks. And he loved her. Even if neither of them could say it.
Stede can’t change the past; he can’t fix Ed’s childhood or take away the hurt. But maybe he can bring him back to one of those few, shining, positive moments. Because…
(Why is it so hard to say, even in the privacy of his own mind, he wonders.)
Because Stede loves him.
He loves him so much, in fact, that he goes to the fridge and grabs the last of the needlessly (or so he had thought at the time) large eggplant he’d bought. Fourth time’s the charm, or however the saying goes. At least he’s still got a couple hours before Ed—
Stede jumps as he hears the front door open.
“Stede?” Ed’s voice echoes in from the hall, and for the first time, Stede curses himself for telling Ed to just walk in whenever he wants.
“Yes, hello! In the kitchen!” Stede calls back, mind racing furiously. Then, because he’s a little frustrated and more than a little panicky, he adds: “You’re here early. Thought I’d said seven.”
He doesn’t mean anything by it. Nothing important, anyway. But the words come out a little sharper than he had intended (or maybe a lot sharper), and he sees Ed freeze in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Oh, I…” Ed falters, looking unsure, and the guilt of it strikes Stede clean through the heart. “Sorry, you’d just said— never mind, I’ll come back later. My bad.”
“No!” Stede’s voice is louder in the silence than he’d expected, but he plunges on. “Please, Ed. Don’t go.”
Don’t ever go.
Ed still looks unsure, still half-leaning towards the front door as if the harshness of Stede’s greeting is physically pushing him out of the house. Stede crosses the kitchen, gripping Ed’s arm, and feeling the muscles tense under the sleeve of his soft purple sweater.
“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to pour all his sincerity into the two simple words. “I didn’t mean— I’m just having a frustrating afternoon, is all.” He gestures around the kitchen with his free hand, encapsulating the mess of burnt tomato sauce and over-crisped eggplant in the garbage, and the ever-growing pile of dishes spilling out of the sink and across the counter.
“Fuck,” Ed murmurs as he looks around. “What happened in here, man? Looks like a culinary bomb went off.”
Stede bites back a sarcastic reply, because he does kind of deserve it, and there’s no reason Ed should know what this is all about. In a perfect world, he never would. Stede would be able to just keep it a secret, maybe practice in private for a month or two, then surprise Ed with eggplant fucking parmigiana another time.
But this isn’t a perfect world, and Stede figures he should probably come clean.
“I was trying to cook dinner,” he begins. He sees Ed’s mouth open in response—probably to say something infuriatingly observant about how Stede never cooks with some of these ingredients, or that Stede’s dishes always come out well because he only makes about half a dozen of the damn things—and presses on. “I was trying to cook something special for dinner. For us to have together.”
Ed’s eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a second glance around at the chaos. Then he blinks, looking back over at Stede with a slow smile. “Eggplant parm,” he says; a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Stede says softly. “I wanted to make it for you.” The because weighs heavy on his tongue, but whatever he might say after that— because I knew she was important to you, because I wish I could go back in time to fix it all for you, because I’d do anything for you, because I lo— would only embarrass him right now.
Ed looks around the room a third time, his gaze moving slow and deliberate like he’s trying to commit this scene of domestic chaos to memory. Then he nods once, decisively, as if terminating some unknown, internal conversation, and pushes up his sleeves.
“Right then,” he says, turning back to Stede. “Where do we start?”
It goes easier with two of them. Stede’s almost affronted when he finds that Ed is already quite adept at the arcane art of breading and frying eggplant, removing them from the pan with a small but confident flick of the wrist that inexplicably latches its claws into Stede’s brain and burrows somewhere into his core memories, never to be removed.
“I thought you said you never learned to cook eggplant from your mother,” he says, a little grumpily, as Ed slides the perfect rounds back into the oven. After all, wasn’t that the whole reason Stede had gotten himself into this? To make Ed something that his mother had made for him, something that he never got to eat anymore.
“I didn’t,” Ed says with a chuckle. “But I’ve spent a long fucking time trying to make up for it, y’know? Probably tried about half the recipes on the internet, at this point.”
(He diplomatically doesn’t mention whether he’s tried the one Stede’s got them using, though given that it was the third search result on google—and the one that had the prettiest picture to go with it—Stede assumes that he probably has.)
“I doubt that this will be anything to write home about, then,” Stede says, once again questioning the wisdom of this plan. After all, the only thing worse than trying and failing to surprise the man you l— care about a great deal with a meal is trying, failing, and having the meal be an unmitigated disaster.
“Dunno about that,” Ed says, giving Stede an odd little look out of the corner of his eye that Stede can’t quite parse, particularly not while he’s wrist-deep in tomato sauce.
“Oh?” he asks, unsure what else to say as his heart speeds up in his chest and a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispers that maybe Ed understands what Stede is trying to tell him.
Ed doesn’t respond for a moment, and the silence hangs in the air, quivering like a plucked string. Then he shrugs. “Looks pretty good,” he says, with a nod down towards the window in the oven door, beyond which a frankly quite appetizing meal sizzles.
Stede nods, giving Ed a smile that he hopes hides his disappointment. Of course Ed wouldn’t pick up what this is supposed to mean . It’s not supposed to be a cryptic crossword or a magic eye puzzle or a treasure hunt. It’s…
…it’s just food.
Stede takes a deep breath, then turns himself back to the task at hand. He’s being silly. Even if it doesn’t mean anything, it can still be delicious. That’s goal enough, isn’t it?
(Or at least, he hopes it can. He’s been doing his best to ignore the strangely spongey texture of the uncooked eggplant, and the way the grated cheese feels sticking to his damp fingers. It’s fine. He just needs to not think about it.)
Before he knows it, the food is ready, and Ed is serving up two gooey, dripping plates of cheese-smothered vegetables. Stede had made sure to put extra cheese on it when Ed wasn’t paying attention, on the theory that the taste of cheese can cover a multitude of culinary sins, but Ed doesn’t seem to notice the unsanctioned addition.
“Bring these to the table?” Ed asks, handing Stede the plates. “I’ll grab cutlery and napkins and stuff.”
Stede carries their meal into the dining room, glancing back over his shoulder to see if Ed needs any help, but he seems to have it all under control. Stede does his best not to think about the warm feeling he gets seeing Ed navigate confidently around his kitchen, opening all the right cupboards and drawers, as if he liv—
He tears his gaze away, seating himself at the table with a murmured thank you as Ed hands him a knife and fork, then sits down across from him.
Lifting the first mouthful to his lips, Stede does his best to sniff it surreptitiously. It certainly smells good. Salty and savoury, with a slight sweetness that's making his mouth water. Perhaps, he thinks, the secret to enjoying complex meals was to cook them himself. Maybe the very process of cooking can make the ingredients... safe, somehow. More palatable. Or, possibly it's the context in which the food is made that matters. Because he's been told things taste better when they're made with love, and, well…
Just… well.
Across the table from him, Ed is already digging in, with noises of evident approval and enjoyment. Stede hesitates for one more moment, the fork mere inches from his lips, then he takes a bite.
He's not sure what he's expecting, exactly. Some kind of epiphany, maybe? Some kind of life-changing, world-shaking, complete reversal of all of the dietary preferences cultivated over his 45 years of life so far. Maybe he'll see fireworks burst behind his closed eyes, like that rat in the frankly unhygienic movie his children loved so much when they were younger.
What happens, in fact, is that he takes a mouthful of food that tastes… well, it’s quite good, all things considered. The flavors are unfamiliar, true, but they're not actively unpleasant. He's all but convinced himself that this will be fine, actually. That this meal will be great, and Ed will enjoy it, and Stede will enjoy it, and they'll enjoy it together. And after that, who knows. Maybe—
Stede feels more than hears the squeak of something between his molars. Feels it, not just in his mouth, but through his teeth and into his skull. Through his skull and into his brain. From his brain right down to his very soul.
It's all he can do to not drop the fork and grab for his napkin. He's just got to... pretend, that's all. He certainly grew up doing that often enough. The offending food is already in his mouth, true, which is not the ideal scenario. But perhaps...
He forces himself to smile, lifting his water glass to his lips, and taking a large mouthful. With a few seconds in a great deal of willpower, he's able to wash the squeaking monstrosity he's made for dinner down his throat.
“—absolutely fucking delicious,” Ed is saying. “Don’t know how the fuck we managed it, but it tastes so much like hers it almost feels like the same recipe.”
Something warms inside Stede at that; a deep, hot flush of pride that even the horror and embarrassment of his current situation can’t extinguish. Maybe he was right. Maybe love really is the secret ingredient, or whatever all those tacky dish towels and wine bottle holders all say.
“See? I told you. Pretty good, right?” Ed continues, and fear wraps its icy grip around Stede’s stomach again.
He can’t bring himself to reply, can’t bring himself to lie to his best friend. But he also can’t stand the thought of telling the truth.
“What, did you just remember that you’ve got a set of fucking… I dunno, eggplant forks in the kitchen that we should be eating this with?” Ed asks.
Stede does his best to paste a smile across his face, anything to hide the rising dread he’s feeling as he realizes the particularly untenable corner he’s backed himself into.
Why no, Edward. I don’t like the eggplant parmigiana that we made together with our own two hands, just like your beloved mother used to make. Frankly, I’m not sure I could swallow another bite without throwing up.
That will go over well, he’s sure.
“Stede?” Ed is looking at him with an expression of concern, the easy smile gone along with the jokes about cutlery. “Is something wrong?”
Stede wracks his brain, desperately searching for any kind of acceptable answer to the question, then gives up.
“I don’t like it,” he says quietly, not looking at Ed.
“Don’t like— what, the food? Really? I mean, if you don’t like it, more for me I guess. But how is this not the best eggplant parm you’ve ever had in your life?”
“I don’t like eggplant parmigiana,” Stede replies, his voice a near-whisper.
“Then why—” Ed begins, but Stede can’t bear to go to the logical conclusion of that particular sentence right now, thank you very much, so he keeps talking.
“I also don’t like peppers, or mushrooms, or bacon unless it’s burnt to a crisp. I don’t like… any salads at all, really. I don’t like toppings on my burgers, and sandwiches as a whole culinary category are iffy at best. I can’t stand anything on my pizza other than cheese, and even then, if the sauce is wrong I can barely choke it down. I…”
He falters for a second, trying to think of more things he hates, just so he can make it really, truly clear to Ed what he’s dealing with here. If this is when Ed finally realizes what an uncultured child Stede is—someone who will never be able to share his love of food with him or appreciate a complex meal—he’d rather rip the bandaid off in one go.
“I don’t like the way carbonation makes my tongue feel, and I’ve got about three minutes after putting milk on my cereal before it turns into inedible mush. I like my soft cheese unconscionably firm. And I really, really hate the texture of eggplant.”
Stede runs out of breath, bringing his litany of confessions to its inevitable conclusion. He forces himself to look at Ed (kind of, out of the corner of his eye while he focuses on the view out the window, which feels safer somehow) but Ed is expressionless, staring at him intently.
The silence lingers for a couple seconds, which might as well be a thousand years as far as Stede is concerned, then:
“Okay. And…?”
Stede blinks, unable to parse the apparent confusion in Ed’s voice.
“And what?” he asks.
“And why are you acting like it’s such a big fucking deal?” Ed shakes his head, a quizzical half-smile on his lips. “I know you’re kinda picky, man. We’ve been friends for how long?”
“Well—” Stede falters. He hadn’t really thought about what would come next, if he’s being honest. In his worried imaginings, the moments following his big confession were blurry with embarrassment. At their worst, Ed stormed out of Stede’s house for undefined but surely deserved reasons. Almost all of the scenarios he had run involved Ed laughing at him. But the half-chuckle Ed huffs out at Stede’s dumbfounded silence isn’t at him. Not really.
“What, did you really think it’s a coincidence that every restaurant I’ve taken you to since that one deep ocean seafood place has had something you’d like?”
“I—” The idea that Ed had noticed Stede’s preferences had occurred to him. It was one of the best-case scenarios that he’d imagined. But he had never considered that Ed might… actually be doing something to accommodate it. Inexplicably, he feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them away hurriedly before Ed can see him crying about food of all things.
“Stede?” Damn. He always was more perceptive than most people gave him credit for. “What is it? Talk to me, man.”
Stede swallows hard, doing his best to answer around the lump in his throat that has nothing to do with eggplant or parmigiana.
“No one has ever done that for me,” he says reluctantly, the thickness in his voice audible even to his own ears.
“Done what?” Ed tilts his head, and Stede can see him cast his mind back through the conversation as if he’s not sure what he’s said that might’ve been remarkable. Stede is hit with the previously unimagined thought that maybe it isn’t remarkable at all to Ed.
“Any of it.” Stede waves in Ed’s general direction, attempting to encompass the Ed-ness of him, and how it makes Stede feel. “No one has noticed what I’m like and not made fun of me for it. Barely anyone has ever made an effort to accommodate it before, and never without making it abundantly clear to me what an inconvenience it is. So I kind of just…” He trails off, ending the sentence with a shrug that he hopes encompasses the entirety of what he just.
“You know that’s bullshit, right?” Ed’s voice is sharp, though Stede doesn’t seem to be the target of his ire. “No one should make you—should make anyone—feel like saying what they need is fucking… inconvenient. Especially not a kid.” Stede hears the deeper hurt in those words, and he knows enough about Ed’s own childhood to know where it’s coming from.
Stede opens his mouth to… what? Disagree? Protest? Speak out in defence of all the people who have made him feel like a problem for his whole life? He can’t do that now, not when it’s about Ed’s own childhood too.
“Yes,” he says instead. “I suppose.” He hopes Ed will hear all the unspoken words in the seemingly lukewarm agreement and understand that it’s the biggest step Stede can take on this right now.
(He really does need to find a therapist, doesn’t he?)
Fortunately, Ed just gives him a nod, and a soft, slightly sad smile. Yeah, me too.
They sit without speaking for a few moments, the silence full but not heavy. In fact, quite the opposite. Stede feels lighter than he has for as long as he can remember. As though the confession had been weighing him down without him even realizing, and now Ed has helped him let it go.
His relief is so great, in fact, that he almost forgets the other big Thing about this meal. Namely—
“Okay, but like I asked before… Why did you make it if you knew you wouldn’t like it?”
Ah, yes.
“I made it for you,” Stede says simply, the relief of Ed’s easy acceptance making him bold.
“Yeah, I figured as much,” Ed says. “But why? ”
Stede stares at him, marvelling for a moment that someone so insightful can be simultaneously so oblivious. Because he can see now, with the blessed curse of hindsight, just how obviously the answer is. How obvious it has been, and for how long.
“Because she made it for you. And you loved her. And I—” he stumbles, not quite ready to lay his heart quite that bare without a hint of a safety net to fall into. “And I wish I’d gotten to meet her, because you’re very important to me, Ed. And I know I can’t change or fix the things that happened back then, but I wanted to try to give you some tiny piece of the good parts back, because you deserve it.”
Ed shakes his head, an automatic denial that Stede has seen before, and Stede realizes: there’s no getting around this one. There’s no getting out of the scary part. The eggplant parm has shouted its message as loud as it possibly can, but Ed still needs to hear it from Stede.
Sometimes, he thinks, you just have to take the leap (at least when it comes to emotions, if not food) and trust that things will turn out okay.
“I did it because I love you,” he says, and the words come out so much easier than he had ever imagined they could. “I’ve loved you for months. Maybe since the first time we met. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I just… didn’t know how.”
“So eggplant means ‘I love you’?” Ed asks, his voice warm and a little hoarse. It should bother Stede, maybe, that he doesn’t say it back right away. But somehow, it doesn’t. Because he can see it in Ed’s eyes. Has been able to for a while now, he realizes. He just didn’t know what it meant until now.
“Eggplant means ‘I love you,’” he confirms with a smile.
Ed reaches out, taking Stede’s hand and squeezing it tightly. He lifts it to his lips, brushing the back of Stede’s knuckles with a kiss, and Stede can’t help but shiver at the feeling of Ed’s short beard scratching against his skin.
“I love you too,” Ed murmurs, and Stede squeezes his hand in return, heart so full it might burst.
“Though, you know…” Ed lifts his gaze to meet Stede’s again, his eyes sparkling with amusement, “if you’ve wanted to give me an eggplant for so long, you could’ve just asked.”
“If I— oh.” It takes Stede a moment, but the months of friendship with Lucius were apparently good for something, because the innuendo falls into place in his mind, and he feels himself flush. “No, that wasn’t—”
“You don’t want to give me an eggplant?” Ed’s brow furrows, his lower lip sticking out slightly in a frankly adorable pout that’s mostly ruined by the giant smile he can’t seem to suppress.
“I do, I just— That is, I don’t— If we—” Stede takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then, before Ed can speak again, Stede leans forward across the table and their abandoned plates and kisses him.
The little huff of surprise he lets out is warm against Stede’s lips, and he reaches out almost immediately to wrap a hand around the back of Stede’s neck, keeping him from pulling away (as if Stede would ever want to do such a thing). Stede takes this as encouragement to deepen the kiss, and feels Ed’s pleased hum reverberate through him as Ed’s lips part to the gentle press of his tongue.
Stede leans in closer, and, unwilling to let go of Ed’s hand for even a moment, puts his other hand down on the table to steady himself…
…directly into his barely touched plate of eggplant parm.
Stede recoils instinctively, every cell in his body crying out in a unified voice of horror. Ed pulls back, face a mix of concern and fear.
“Stede, what— I’m sorry, was that too much? I didn’t—”
He follows Stede’s gaze down to the table and the offending plate in question. There’s a moment of silence, held taut as Stede lifts his dripping hand from the abandoned meal, and then Ed bursts out laughing. The sound is so infectious that Stede can’t help but join in, even as he grabs a napkin and begins furiously scrubbing all the sauce off his hand.
“I need to not be at this table anymore,” he says when he catches his breath, dropping the soiled napkin onto his plate. “And I think I need a shower. I still feel sticky, and my hair smells like eggplant, and…” He trails off, suddenly realizing that perhaps it might be weird to choose to go take a shower when the man he loves is right in front of him and eminently kissable.
“Yeah man, I don’t blame you,” Ed says, immediately laying Stede’s fears to rest. “Although… Maybe I could, I dunno. Join you?” Ed winks hugely, but Stede can see apprehension warring with excitement in his features.
“Yes,” Stede says immediately. “But... maybe give me a five minute head start? To actually, you know, clean myself properly before any... other activities.” He can feel himself blushing, but he trusts Ed to understand. “If that's okay?”
Ed smiles at him, his expression so sweet and so soft and so full of fragile hope that Stede can barely look at it. “Yeah,” Ed says. “Reckon I can do that.”