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Ed went home walking on air. He probably looked insane, whistling to himself and smiling at strangers, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Last night had been great. Fantastic. Transcendent. And not just because of the sex – good as it was, this wasn't just some extended post-orgasmic high. It was because of Stede, soft and sweet and far too good for Ed, but somehow still interested in him despite everything. It had Ed believing that he could shrug off his past as easily as Stede made it out to be. It needn't define him, like Stede had said. He could be something else, something more than a glorified thug.
He was still humming when he unlocked the door and let himself in the cramped one-bedroom he shared with Izzy. He stopped humming when he saw the blood.
Just a smear, a trail of fingerprints on the wall like someone had tried to steady themselves. Ed pulled the switchblade from his jacket and flipped it open, ice creeping through his veins as he stalked forward into the dim apartment.
The apartment was quiet but for the sound of ragged breathing and muffled cursing from the bathroom. He toed the door open. “Iz?”
Ed swore and folded the knife closed. Izzy lay in the bathtub in a sprawl of limbs, bare chested and clutching a bloodstained rag to his shoulder. Shit. Shit shit shit. “What the fuck happened, Izzy?”
“The fuck you think?” Izzy shot back, blinking up at Ed, his gaze unfocused and glassy. A jumble of first-aid supplies lay strewn across the floor, like he'd started trying to patch himself before giving up.
Ed moved on autopilot, clambering into the bathtub and kneeling over Izzy, framing his thighs. “Let me see,” he growled, prying Izzy's hand away from the wound.
Blood pulsed, and Ed quickly put pressure back on it, considering his options. Gunshot wound. They ought to go to the hospital, but that would end with the police being called. That would mean questions they couldn't answer. It could mean arrests made.
Nope.
He made a split-second decision, and snatched up the bottle of cheap booze they kept with their supplies. He doused a needle and thread with it, then held it to Izzy's lips. The man took two grateful swallows before tipping the bottle away and removing the blood-soaked rag so Ed could get at the wound, moving in synch with him like they'd done this a hundred times before.
They had. From scraps in the foster home, to scuffles in the streets after they'd run, to gang-fights and enforcement, they'd spent their lives cleaning blood off of each other. Ed knew Izzy's scars almost as intimately as his own. The long, jagged slash over his abdomen. The sharp puncture on his thigh. The ragged burn on his hand.
So, the way Ed's heart was pounding was uncalled for. Experience steadied his hands as he sloshed more clear alcohol over Izzy's shoulder and began carefully sewing the wound closed, but his gut was churning with something that felt suspiciously like fear. It'd been a while since Izzy had come back this rough, Ed reasoned. Maybe he was out of practice, distance making him squeamish. Or maybe it was the contrast to his sun-drenched morning, filled with soft kisses and gentle touches. A world removed from here. Even the memory was starting to feel far away, like something Ed had dreamed.
“Hornigold know about this?” He asked in a low voice, his fingers moving in a steady pattern.
“Course,” Izzy replied, eyes screwed shut, jaw set in concentration as he tried not to flinch away from the needle piercing his skin.
Ed huffed a growl. “He should have fucking had you patched up, then.” Hornigold wasn't careful with his toys, but Ed knew full well Izzy was one of his best. He ought to know better than to let him drop dead in the street.
“Told him I had it handled.”
Ed clenched his jaw hard enough that it popper. He had half a mind to go after Hornigold and use his knife to explain to him why he shouldn't be so careless as to let a man that had been shot just wander off. He tied off the thread and snipped it, then stood and made Izzy scooch forward so he could crouch behind him to get at the exit wound. At least it was a clean pass, no bullet to dig out. He began the process over again: cleaning the wound with the alcohol, cleaning the needle, beginning the stitches. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Yeah? You were going to sew up your own back, bright guy?”
“Thought you'd be here,” Izzy rasped back. “Where you belong.”
Ed quietly finished the stitches and poured another measure of alcohol over them, a twisted sort of satisfaction shooting through him as Izzy flinched. Where he belonged. He'd thought that was here, at one time, here by Izzy's side. Causing chaos, sticking it to the fucking man, to the fucking system, to the fucking world. They'd had each other's backs so often, it hadn't been unreasonable for Izzy to think he could count on Ed this time. But his tone suggested something sharper, suggested ownership. Ed bristled at it. “Forgive me for not being at your fucking beck and call,” he growled.
He tugged the bandage over the wound maybe a little harder than necessary, and Izzy hissed. “You owed me.”
It was Ed's turn to flinch, fumbling the gauze. “Beg your fucking pardon?”
Izzy tried to turn to face him, wincing as he did. “I cleaned up your mess, when that upstart asshole got one over on you and wrecked your knee. I dragged your ass to the hospital, kept the cops off your back, tied up the loose ends. Preserved your reputation.”
“Fuck my reputation,” Ed said almost automatically, a mantra he'd been repeating for the last two years. “And fuck you, you did that so you could hold it over me? A fucking debt to be paid? I thought you were my friend, Izzy. That's what friends do, they fucking help each other. They're fucking there for each other.” Izzy raised an eyebrow at him, and Ed realized he'd circled back on his own point, biting his own tail. He scowled, then sighed. He hauled himself out of the bathtub and grabbed the bottle of booze again, sagging against the tiled wall with it. “I've been a shitty friend lately, haven't I?”
He took a long draw, then coughed. Fuck, that was terrible stuff, burning all the way down in a poisonous scald. He coughed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, then froze.
Oh, fuck, Stede was going to flip. Ed was still wearing his clothes, the grey trousers and the pretty lavender sweater he'd sent Ed home in now painted with Izzy's blood. Fuck. Fuck, Stede would never want to see Ed again.
Did he want to see him again, anyway? Ed shouldn't assume, but shit, he realized he'd been hoping so. And they'd made plans, hadn't they? They said they'd see each other Tuesday, for laundry day.
Laundry. Right. Ed could fix this. He could handwash the clothes, and Stede would never have to know, would never have to face the reality of what Ed was. Used to be. Fuck. He forced himself to take a deep breath.
“You're here now,” Izzy sighed, startling Ed out of his thoughts. His head tipped back against the rim of the tub, eyes slipping shut as he sagged against the porcelain.
Ed peeled the sweater off and dropped it in the sink, flooding it with cold water to soak as he studied Izzy. He was pale – ghostly almost under the shitty bathroom light. The fluorescent bulb casting into sharp relief the shadows under his eyes. Fuck, what if Ed had been even an hour later?
“You didn't even fucking call me,” Ed pointed out weakly.
Izzy cracked open an eye. “Would you have picked up?”
Ed slumped. He wanted to believe he would have, that he would have seen Izzy's name on the screen and known something was wrong, but the truth was he would have hit decline, if he'd heard the call at all. He would have assumed Izzy was calling to ask where he was (no where he wanted to tell Izzy about) or asking him to meet him somewhere (no where Ed wanted to go). He would have ignored the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket wherever he'd discarded his clothes, and curled up tighter in Stede's warm embrace.
Where he belonged. The conviction hit him, even as he immediately tried to dismiss it as ridiculous. There in Stede's arms – in his bed, in his world – he'd felt like he belonged. Like he was safe. Ed looked back at Izzy, his chest aching. He wanted that for him. Wasn't that what they'd been looking for, when they'd run away together? Before Ed had followed Jack, and Izzy had followed Ed.
Izzy was right, Ed owed him. He owed him help, but he owed him safety, too. Not that that was something they'd had before, but it was something they might have had a better chance of finding if Ed hadn't gotten them involved in that whole mess.
Maybe this would be the catalyst for him, Ed thought, taking in Izzy's pale face, the way Ed's knee was for him. The thing that pushes him to get himself out. The last fucking straw, Ed thought to himself with a smile.
Ed would be there for him, every step of the fucking way.
“C'mon,” he said, stopping over Izzy, hooking his arms around his waist and lifting. “Let's get you to bed. You're going to regret it if you pass out in the fucking bathtub.”