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It’s next-to-perfect, this life of theirs. A little slice of paradise they’ve carved out for themselves.
The inn was never going to work, and they both knew it. But they were able to use one of Jackie’s more discrete connections to find a nice little home up the coast. Still secluded and off the beaten path, but not far enough out of the way that they can’t trek to town for supplies.
It’s a beautiful little bungalow, built of sturdy coquina brick to withstand the temperamental Caribbean weather, and just a stone’s throw from the beach. Stede gets to work painting the shutters a bright, beaming cerulean to match the crystal waters outside their doorstep. Ed clears a path through the dunes and inlays a trail of smooth stones, cutting back the nettles and burrs. The walk to and from the water’s edge becomes smooth and clear, even by just the light of the stars.
It takes time, the ease and comfort. But, as Ed is coming to learn, the best things do. He’s never been more happy to be patient with something than creating this life with Stede.
Certain things have to be negotiated—who likes to sleep where, and does Stede know how badly he snores? Can they leave the shutters thrown open at night for the soothing sounds of the ocean without Ed spending the entire night fearing that someone will slip in through the window to murder them? Exactly how many pillows on the day bed is too many pillows, I mean, really, mate, we’ve got to have a place to sit as well, and, do we really need another black candelabra? I thought those stone inlaid ones were rather fetching, and I think the dark is sort of messing with the general vibe around here. Perhaps we can compromise on a jewel tone?
In the end, they find an incredibly happy medium that suits them both just fine. Turns out living with someone else is easy as breathing, when that someone else is the person you’ve waited your whole life to find.
They take it easy and slow. After a lifetime of running and fighting and hiding and brooding, it’s nice to just take the time to just be. Just be them. As a couple, but also as themselves. Ed is finding out, once and for all, what it’s like to just be Edward.
There are languid evenings spent on a hand-braided hammock, Stede nestled into the crook of his arm, his fingers tracing the softness across Ed’s belly. There are days spent chasing the tide, footsteps lining the surf in search of treasure. Windowsills and tables and every available surface start to accumulate it—softly weathered green seaglass and shells of every color and size, little bits of bone and barb and teeth. Ed shows Stede how to look for that perfect sand, the kind that looks orange from a distance, where the shells are not too big and not too small, shows him how to look for the shiniest, blackest thing amid the array of colorful shapes.
“Sand tiger shark,” Ed announces, holding up an impressively long and fang-like tooth.
Stede takes it from him, holding it up against the glow of the setting sun. “Wow, that’s a beauty,” he says, genuinely impressed every single time. “Nice find, love.”
When they get home, they empty their pockets onto the table and share their findings with one another, giggling like boys with pockets full of silver. Eventually, Ed builds some special shelves wrapping around their front room and kitchen, just wide enough for dried starfish and sand dollars, for bits of coral and empty crab shells and many, many teeth. They arrange the glass into a beautiful mosaic tabletop that Stede thinks would make Mary proud.
They start a garden, which is much harder than expected. The sandy scrub outside their home isn’t great soil. But Roach gives them a tip about coffee grounds and vegetable scraps, and before long they’ve got a lovely compost going. They save up the seeds from papayas and watermelons, tomatoes and cucumber and peppers. Stede scatters wildflower seeds, knowing they’ll be good for the bees. They lay sturdy beds and plant little saplings, and before long, they have a proper, self-sustaining garden. Ed brings two of their armchairs out, despite Stede’s protests (Darling, they’re damask,) and the pair sit in the sunshine, drinking damn fine tea and watching the birds.
“That cardinal was back yesterday,” Ed says, and Stede raises an eyebrow.
“Really? I’d thought you chased him off last time.”
Turns out cardinal calls are really fucking annoying, especially right outside your bedroom window at the crack of fucking dawn.
“Yeah, well. S’pose it’s his home as well as ours.”
Stede smiles, that slow, warm one that melts Ed’s heart into a pool of honey, and takes Ed’s hand in his own. “Our home,” he says, and even after all this time, it still hits Ed right square in the fucking sternum. Home. Their home.
Every few months or so, when the crew come to visit, Roach teaches Stede a thing or two about cooking and baking, and fuck if it’s not the best thing that’s ever happened to Ed in his whole goddamn life. He’s always been delighted by Stede’s penchant for fine dining (it was pageantry, after all), and settling down hasn’t dampened his theatricality one bit. With regular supply drops and stops at the market, Stede is soon serving meals that would make those French party boat fucks shed a tear. And Ed doesn’t even have to use the proper cutlery for it.
It’s… odd. And a bit overwhelming, honestly. Just allowing himself to enjoy things without fear of the consequences. Ed could never enjoy a good meal without thinking about whether he should be saving some in a pocket for later, because who knows when their next meal would come, or how long it would be until they had something fresh that wasn’t fucking fish. He could never lavish in the flavors, or hell, even afford to have much of a variety of flavors without his crew accusing him of being soft or spending their resources on frivolous shit. But Stede… Stede’s whole thing is frivolity. And not in a bad way. Ed loves this about him, that he’s never had to go without, never had to worry about waste or want. But it’s hard to let that go sometimes. He’s learning, though, from Stede; slowly relaxing into the gentle embrace of languorousness.
“You’re worth all of this and more, darling,” Stede reminds him, time and again. He takes Ed’s hand in his own, brings it up to his lips, placing a kiss on the knuckle next to his emerald ring. “You’re kind, and generous,” he whispers, kissing up the length of his arm. “You’re the smartest, cleverest man I’ve ever known.” He reaches Ed’s ear, giving him gooseflesh right down to his toes. “You’ve fought harder than anyone should ever have to. And it’s high time that you just relax and let me take care of you,” he whispers, and Ed is powerless to disagree.
He’d thought that Stede’s expensive tastes would die down once they put down more modest roots, especially given that he’d renounced his familial wealth. But, after paying a hefty amount out to the crew and anonymously donating a significant amount to some local families in need, the spare coin they save for themselves is quite enough to be sure they’ll be comfortable for years to come. It’s not long before Stede contracts an entirely new wardrobe for them both, in the finest silk brocades and premium sea island cotton. Pink-bronze and topaz and sea greens for himself; royal purples and blood reds and rich, night sky blues for Ed.
Ed is measured, unsurprised to find that he’s gained quite a few inches to his waistline in the year since they’ve settled down. Stede has as well, of course, and the softness suits him perfectly, his shapely body filling out his new outfits like some kind of God of plenty, and Ed finds it absolutely irresistible. And if Stede’s hands all over him, over his hips and thighs and his pronounced belly are any indication, Ed thinks his own newly-acquired curves might be equally as enticing to Stede. He makes Ed feel like the silken trappings are just an added bonus, just a teasing prelude to be unlaced and unwrapped, savored like the gift that he is.
“When will I ever need a suit,” Ed asks, though he can’t take his eyes off the way the fabric hugs his every curve, tailored exquisitely and inlaid with mother of pearl detailing. It sparkles in the low evening sun. He’s paired the jacket with a skirt in the same dark, lush fabric. It’s soft as rabbit’s fur and lined with satin. Probably cost a fortune, and Ed has to admit that he looks every bit of that fortune in it.
Stede comes round and frames him in the mirror, strong arms wrapping around him to presumably get a feel of the fabric, but really just to slide his hands along Ed’s waist and pull him close.
“I don’t know, might need it for something,” Stede says. He sweeps Ed’s hair to the side and kisses his cheek. “Do you need an occasion for it, though? I think you’re occasion enough.”
They can have this, Ed reminds himself. He can luxuriate in softness and not have to worry about why, or how, or at whose expense. He can have a closet brimming with far too many clothes, and he can build another shelf just for little frivolous trinkets. He can lay back and let the love of his life feed him another lush bite straight from their garden.
They can both live this way, lavished and loved, for the rest of their days.