Chapter Text
Maybe Stede wasn’t a brave man.
It’s not a hard thing to consider, not when he’s standing outside his own lecture room, feet cemented to the ground while his legs refuse to move. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe whatever happened last year had been nothing more than a foolhardy, last-ditch effort at some semblance of freedom.
Stupid, he supposes. But effective, all the same.
Stede had always had a flair for the dramatic, and apparently that had manifested into a particularly messy bout of angsty decisions. Not many finance professors pivot to teaching History of Architecture halfway through their careers—especially not with tenure already secured. And they especially don’t have affairs.
The divorce that followed was surprisingly amicable, considering the fact that it had been splashed across faculty gossip like a tabloid scandal. It didn’t help matters that the affair had been with a man. One who still worked here. On the same campus he now shared with his ex-wife.
So yeah, safe to say he was bold in all the brash and thoughtless ways that made it obvious, but he certainly couldn’t call it bravery.
Because there he was, not ten feet in front of him behind a door he swore he had locked. He’s not sitting, he never does. He’s just leaning on his desk with this half crazed look in his eye, like he’s spent all morning chasing down some ridiculous thought and now must share it with Stede immediately. His sweater is purple. An unremarkable observation that his brain can’t seem to let go of.
He turns. The moment their eyes meet, he grins. Wide. Self-satisfied. A look that says I caught you, old man. Then he lifts his hand in a too-casual wave
Stede could pretend he doesn’t see him. He could turn right back around, interrogate the kid later about how he broke into his office—preferably in a hallway, with witnesses. But it’s already too late.
He’s seen him.
He always sees him.
He sighs, already reaching toward the door. Stede wasn’t dumb—he knew that the reckless, self-inflicted disasters of the past year were bound to come with transitions and strange situations. But for all his preparation, a personal stalker hadn’t exactly made the list.
A very pretty stalker.
A very pretty, very young stalker who, on top of all that, happens to be a complete brat.
“Ed,” is the first word out of his mouth once he’s finally able to force himself past the threshold of the doorway, and he can’t quite keep the delight out of the faux stern voice he attempts to put on.
“Took you long enough,” Ed shoots back. Jesus christ this kid can’t even attempt to be sorry for breaking in.
Stede sighs. “It’s 7:30. How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” He says with a shrug.”Would’ve been sooner. Your door was locked.”
“Yet here you are.”
Ed beams like he’s been waiting all morning to tell him.
“Oh, Mrs. Bouchard let me in,” he says, pushing off the desk and hopping down lightly, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Sweet lady. She said you’re ‘too particular about locking your door for a man with nothing worth stealing.’”
Stede sets his messenger bag down with a thump and sighs, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves slowly and deliberately, and he doesn’t miss Ed’s eyes tracking every movement. “Mrs. Bouchard,” he repeats flatly. Well, now that woman is certainly not getting her muffin tin back.
Ed ignores the tone completely, warming to his story now, hands moving animatedly as he talks. “Told her I left my notes in here. You know, said you’d kill me if I didn’t get them back before class.” He flashes Stede an innocent grin. “I even looked appropriately panicked and everything.” He finishes, like Stede is supposed to be impressed with this kids half-baked scheme. Not even a particularly clever one at that.
Stede pulls out his chair and sinks into it heavily, rubbing his face. “To summarize, you terrorized a sweet old woman into helping you break into my office.”
Ed perches on the corner of the desk, way too close, grinning down at him. Whatever he’s wearing is flowery and sweet, and the bad thoughts trying to break down the barricade of professionalism are begging him to lean in.
Ed pretends to be taken aback,“ wow , okay. You really are dramatic. I would say charmed.”
Stede gives him a weary look. “Please,” he says, voice dry as sand, “no more terrorizing the tenured geriatrics.”
Ed’s grin only widens. He leans in, voice low and conspiratorial. “So just you, then?”
Stede gives him a long, slow blink. “Well, this particular tenured geriatric is very busy.”
“At 7:30?” Ed echoes, incredulous.
Stede leans back in his chair, utterly unfazed. “At 7:30.”
Ed stares at him, like he’s trying to decide if he’s impressed or just deeply, deeply appalled. Probably a little of both.
“Must be wild being so popular,” Ed says, tapping his fingers against the edge of the desk. “All these papers to grade, lives to ruin.”
“You’re romanticizing it,” Stede says, reaching for a stack of folders and thumbing through them, more for something to do than out of actual need.
Ed watches him for a beat longer, amused, before kicking his foot lightly against the leg of Stede’s desk like he physically can’t exist without demanding attention.“You know, you could at least pretend to be a little glad to see me.”
Stede looks up at him over the rim of his reading glasses, deadpan. “Thrilled, Mr. Teach. Positively overjoyed.”
Ed smirks, satisfied. “Good. You should be.”
Ed looks way too pleased with himself. Stede pointedly ignores it, flipping through the same page of grading rubrics he’s read four times now without absorbing a single word.
"You know," Ed says, voice syrupy-sweet, "if you actually trusted your students, you wouldn't have to keep your office locked like Fort Knox."
Stede raises an eyebrow without looking up. "Trust is earned, Mr. Teach. And you, frankly, are bankrupt."
Ed laughs, an easy, delighted sound, and taps the toe of his shoe lightly against Stede’s chair. “Tough words for a man who leaves his syllabus on public record. Pretty sure I could’ve hacked your whole life if I really wanted to.”
"Good to know," Stede says, voice dry. "I’ll add ‘cybersecurity breach’ to my growing list of concerns."
"You’re welcome," Ed says brightly.
Stede sighs through his nose, resisting the urge to smile. "You are alarmingly pleased with yourself."
Ed leans forward just slightly, grinning. "Come on. You missed me."
Stede opens his mouth, fully prepared to unleash a very dry, very cutting response—
—when he sees it.
Ed’s hand, reaching out.
"You have a, uh-- here, just let me get it."
A lazy, thoughtless gesture, fingers flicking toward his shoulder like he means to brush something off. Like it’s normal. Like it’s allowed.
Stede falters.
He bolts his own hand out, instinctive and unthinking, catching Ed’s wrist mid-air before he can make contact.
And why did he think this would be better?
Ed freezes, and to his credit finally gets a little sheepish. The widening of his pupils and whatever he sees in Ed's eyes isn't actually there, it's surely just the last of those bad thoughts seeing their way out of Stede’s wildly unhelpful brain. Whatever words Ed had left die on his lips as he watches with baited breath, blinking slowly.
Stede feels the flutter of Ed’s pulse under his thumb.
He could let go.
He should let go.
But instead, he carefully, absurdly, walks Ed’s hand back down to his side. Guides it there, slow and stupid, like he’s escorting it home.
What was actually wrong with him?
The second Ed’s hand brushes against the side of his own hip, Stede lets go, fingers snapping back like he’s touched something hot.
Ed just watches him, quiet now, all the earlier cockiness gone, replaced with something breathless and waiting.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Stede clears his throat sharply and pushes back from his desk, reaching for the nearest folder with a little too much force.
“Well," he says, voice sharp and bright and fake as hell, "as thrilling as this little invasion has been, Mr. Teach, I do actually have quite a lot of work to get through tonight."
Ed blinks, a little slower this time. His mouth tugs into a smirk, but it’s softer around the edges now. “I get it. Busy man. 7:30 and all.”
"7:30," Stede confirms, pulling a red pen out of the desk drawer like it might save him from himself.
Ed shuffles back a step, hands deep in his pockets, but he’s still grinning. "See you around, Professor," he says, voice lighter now, teasing and warm and entirely too familiar.
He turns sharply, black curls bouncing behind him.
Then Stede’s alone with a stack of grading, a wildly uncooperative heart, and the distinct, unwelcome memory of the one time his father took him fishing.
He had hated it, of course. Not the brief, fragile peace of the water, short-lived as it was under his father’s wonderfully snide commentary, but the aftermath. The so-called "dressing" of the catch.
A cruel word, he’d always thought. There was no neatness to it, no dignity, only the ripping open, the messy exposure of everything hidden inside.
And now, standing in his office with the door swinging shut behind Ed, Stede understood for the first time what it must have felt like.
Not just caught. Gutted.
A sharp, brutal awareness twisting through him: he was in far deeper trouble than he thought.