Chapter Text
It’s a rainy Sunday. One of those grey, muffled days where even the birds seem to sleep in.
Stede’s reading in the living room, glasses low on his nose, wrapped in a ridiculously soft throw. Izzy’s at the window, watching the rain collect on the pane, arms crossed, a half-cold cup of coffee in his hand.
It’s quiet. Safe. Domestic. And then, Izzy started speaking.
“There was a time Ed wouldn’t let me leave the apartment. Not for days.”
His voice is even. Not bitter. Not shaking. Just... deliberate. Stede looks up, gently sets the book aside. Waits. Izzy doesn't turn to face him. Just keeps watching the rain like the words are written in the rivulets.
“He said it was because I wasn’t ‘fit for public.’ Said I’d embarrass him, or myself. That I was unraveling, and that no one in our unit wanted me around anyway. So he... locked the door. And I believed him. Every word.”
Stede’s throat tightens. He wants to go to him. Wrap him up. But he doesn’t move. He’s learning. Let Izzy lead. Izzy takes a deep breath.
“The worst part? It wasn’t the hunger. Or the smell. Or even being alone. It was realizing, at some point, I agreed with him. That I was—grateful. Grateful he didn’t drop me from the team and leave me behind like dead weight.”
Silence settles for a moment. The kind that feels like fog—thick, low, sacred. Then, Izzy used his small “I'm embarrassed” voice…
“I tried once. After that. Had a knife. Got as far as the first cut. Then I stopped. Because I realized even that wouldn’t be mine. He’d make it about him. Somehow. Like I owed him my death, too.”
Stede’s eyes are wet, his knuckles white around the armrest. Izzy finally turns. His expression is calm. A little distant. But steady.
“And then there was the times he fucked me without asking. Just... took. Because he needed to feel powerful. And I needed to feel like I meant something to him.” A harsh laugh. “Wasn’t even the worst sex we had. Wasn’t even the worst thing he did.”
Stede stands then. Not to interrupt. Just to be closer. Not quite touching. Izzy sets the mug down. Walks up to him.
“I’m not telling you this because I want pity. Or because I’m trying to shock you.”
He looks him in the eyes, dark and steady.
“I’m telling you because you’re the only person who’s never asked me to be anything but what I am. And I want you to know what that includes.”
Stede swallows hard. Steps forward. Slowly.
“I’m honored,” he says softly. “Heartbroken. Furious. But above all—honored.”
He finally let himself reach out. Places his hand on Izzy’s chest, right over the steady thump of his heart.
“You survived all of that. And you’re still here. Still—bloody magnificent.”
Izzy presses his forehead to Stede's chest.
“Still fucking learning how to not flinch when someone’s gentle with me.”
“We’ll keep learning.” Stede promises. “Together.”
….It doesn’t happen all at once.
The rainy Sunday was the crack. What followed was the slow pouring out—stories slipping out during breakfast, over laundry, while brushing their teeth at night.
“He once took my dog. Said it was shedding on the uniform too much. Took it to the base gate and left it there. Said he tied him up so he would starve. When I went to search for him, he wasn't there. Maybe someone helped him. I don't know…” Izzy doesn’t cry when he says it. Just folds his towel with precision, like that somehow makes the memory neat too.
“He tracked my steps. Literally. Put an app on my phone without telling me. Said it was for safety, but every time I stopped at a grocery store too long, I’d come home to a fight.” He says this while unpacking groceries—casually, like it’s a comment on the weather.
“He made me delete all my friends on social media. Said if I didn’t, he’d ‘accidentally’ send my nudes to my mum. I didn’t even have any on my phone, but I didn’t want to test him.” He says this while scrolling Instagram, double-tapping on a video of a pug in a bow tie.
“He told me no one would love someone like me. That I was ‘high maintenance’ and broken. And I believed him. For years. Even said ‘thank you’ after he cheated, lots of times. I don't really know why, felt like I’d deserved it.” He says it when they’re both in bed. Lights off. Staring at the ceiling. Stede pretends he’s breathing evenly. But his fists are clenched in the covers.
Izzy isn’t trying to dump trauma. He’s not trying to do anything, really. He’s just talking. Like he’s finally remembering that someone will listen.
And Stede... tries. He nods. He touches. He pours wine. He cooks too many things. He reads articles on trauma bonding at 2 a.m. with a tight jaw and an even tighter chest. But slowly, guilt starts to sour everything.
Because no matter what he does, it doesn’t feel like enough. He doesn’t fix it. He cannot fix it.
And so, one day, when Lucius drops by with a batch of lemon bars and a knowing eyebrow, Stede snaps. Just a little.
“How the fuck am I supposed to compete with years of that?” He hisses the words in the kitchen, barely above a whisper. Izzy’s in the garden, trimming the lavender. “How do you help someone when every new anecdote feels like a punch to the chest?”
Lucius blinks. Then blinks again. Then calmly sets down the Tupperware and leans against the fridge.
“Oh, honey. You think this is about you?”
Stede opens his mouth. Closes it. Lucius goes on, voice sweet and sharp as the lemon bars.
“Izzy isn’t trying to make you feel bad. He’s finally starting to feel safe enough to talk. And you—you, you glitter-dipped goose—are making it about how you’re uncomfortable?!”
Stede flinches like he has been gut punched. Lucius sighs, softer now. “You love him, right?”
“More than anything.”
“Then shut the fuck up, listen, and be proud of him for surviving long enough to even have these conversations. And maybe get help to check your savior complex at the door next time. This isn’t a play you can direct. It’s a life. His.”
There’s silence. Stede’s eyes are wet. Lucius softens completely now, resting a hand on his arm.
“You’re doing better than you think. Just... let him be. He’s still learning how.”
From the garden, Izzy calls in: “You two bitchin’ about me or can I come back in?”
Lucius rolls his eyes, smiles and shouts back “You’re lucky he loves your moody ass.”
“I’m irresistible, lad. Ask anyone.” Stede chuckles, wiping his eyes before Izzy notices them.
Lucius heads for the door, tossing back over his shoulder: “Just be his harbor, Bonnet. Not his compass, not his anchor. Let him dock when he’s ready.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A page from Stede’s Journal. Thursday, 10:42 p.m.
I haven’t stopped thinking about that... brute.
Not in the way I used to—not as a curiosity or a myth or some looming legacy to outrun. But as a man. A deeply broken, deeply cruel man who caused the person I love more pain than I can comprehend.
We saw him at the gallery. It was months ago now, but it still lives somewhere under my ribs. He just… appeared. Smooth, smug, as if he’d been personally invited to destroy Israel’s peace. As if the world hadn’t moved on without him.
I was polite. I hate that I was polite. But I also didn’t move from Israel’s side. Not once. I remember standing there, shoulder to shoulder, while Ed tried that awful charm he wears like an old suit—ill-fitting, still dangerous. And the way his nickname came out of that disgusting mouth! It made me feel like it was somehow a tarnished word now. Israel doesn't seem to find any difference between his god giving name and the nickname that stuck. But I haven't been able to go back to that nickname again.
And Israel. God. He was glorious! He didn't even flinch. He didn’t let it undo him. Quiet, composed, rooted. I could see the effort behind it—how he was holding himself still, piece by piece—but he did it. He stayed upright.
Never been prouder. Not of how brave he was, but of how he didn’t have to explain it to me. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew. I just knew.
But now that the adrenaline has really worn off, now that we’re back to rainy days and quiet mornings and dishes in the sink, I can see the tremors under the surface. The way he withdraws slightly more. The way his hands hesitate before reaching for mine. The way he sometimes seems startled that I’m still here.
And now, the stories (Oh my God, the stories that amazing man has survived too!) keep coming. Not in a flood—he's not like that—but in trickles. A comment here. A memory there. Each one darker than the last. I try not to react too much. Not because I don’t feel it— I do—but because I don’t want him to shut down again.
He’s not testing me. I know that now. He’s showing me what survival looks like. What it costs.
And sometimes, I feel like a child trying to build a house on top of earthquake rubble, all bright colors and throw pillows and fresh flowers, when the ground itself still shifts beneath our feet. But I’m not giving up. And neither is he.
We’re not broken. We’re just… rebuilding.
Even if he does still tease me about my snoring. Which is frankly a low blow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Text Exchange:]
- Lucius: hey u done spiraling yet or should i start prepping the emergency cheese plate
- Stede:…How do you always know?!?!?
- Lucius: you have therapy on thursdays and you go quiet for 2 hours and then i hear a phantom sigh echo across the astral plane
- Stede:That might have just been me breathing dramatically after crying. There was… a lot today..
- Lucius: yikes Emotional hangover vibes?
- Stede: Yes. - Also—I talked about the gallery again. And the guilt. And the part where I keep wanting to fix things for him, and I know I can’t, and I hate it.
- Lucius: Baby steps. You’re not a contractor. You’re just a guy with a glitter pen and a heart too big for your own ribcage
- Stede: That was almost poetic. Thank you?
- Lucius: don’t get used to it. you are deeply exhausting. And also i love you and you're doing fine. Now go kiss your terrifying boyfriend and tell him you’ll help clean the emotional bloodstains off the carpet tomorrow. metaphorically.
- Stede: Right. Metaphorically. (…mostly.)
- Lucius: jesus christ get a grip Also i’m invoicing you for at least three sessions of unpaid emotional labor this week..
The kettle whistles. Rain taps gently at the windows. Izzy’s sitting in his chair—their chair now—one leg tucked under him, holding a book he hasn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes.
He’d told Stede something awful three nights ago. And something else the next morning. And again over lunch the following day. He hadn’t meant to, it just… slipped. The words kept coming. Like bruises rising from under years of pressure.
And now, he feels wrung out. Exposed. Ashamed. Maybe he’s said too much. Maybe he’s made it too real. So today, he hasn’t said anything. Just a few half-smiles, the usual dry comments. When Stede kissed his temple on his way to his Zoom therapy session earlier, he didn’t lean into it.
Later that day. Lucius arrives with coffee in hand, drops onto the couch uninvited, like a cat that’s claimed the spot for a nap.
“Alright, emotionally constipated cowboy, what’s eating you?”
Izzy doesn't even blink. “I’m fine.”
Lucius sips loudly, judgmentally. “No, you’re ‘pretending to be fine’ which is your least convincing impression.”
“I’ve said too much.” Izzy sighs
“To who? Stede?” He nods once. Sharp and short, like saying it aloud might make the shame grow teeth.
Lucius softens. “You know… he’s not scared of what you tell him.”
“He should be.”
“He’s not,” Lucius says, leaning forward, resting his chin in his palm. “He’s a weirdo, sure. But you’re his weirdo too.”
“Doesn’t mean I need to unload every fucked up bit of me on him. He’s not my therapist.” Izzy says eyes pierced to the floor.
“No,” Lucius agrees. “Bet your therapist is thrilled you’re finally talking to someone who isn’t on a payroll.”
Izzy snorts, the first real sound he’s made in hours. Lucius leans back, triumphant.
Around the same time Stede comes out from his therapy session. He looks tired, but grounded. Lighter somehow. And Lucius takes the "opportunity to leave".
“You alright?” Izzy asks.
“I think I will be,” Stede answers honestly. “Kevin says I’m finally learning to listen without trying to make things go away.”
“Congratulations,” Izzy murmurs, half teasing, half aching.
“Only took me fifty years and two breakdowns.” says Stede puffing out his chest with pride. They both laugh. Quietly. But it’s real. And Stede walks over, cups Izzy’s jaw gently and kisses him.
“You haven’t said much today.”
Izzy shrugs. “Didn’t want to keep peeling layers off if it was getting too much.”
“I want to know you,” Stede says, simple and sincere. “Not the polished version. The whole of you. And if it hurts sometimes, I’d rather hurt with you than never hear it at all.”
Izzy doesn’t answer—not with words.
But he leans into the touch. And breathes.