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Ed doesn't want to call Stede.
No, doesn't want to call her ex who left her for a husband she didn't even know existed, doesn't want to call the only woman Ed ever cared about enough to break Ed's heart, doesn't want to call the person who left her so devastated she crashed face first into the most obvious con-man in the book, only her mascara was running so constantly she couldn't see it, and that crash-out dominoed into five years, nine months, and 12 days of prison time.
Unfortunately, Ed has spent every minute of those five years, nine months, and 12 days of prison time planning this heist, and that's how she knows there's no way to run this and get everything she wants without calling Stede.
And she could give up the job.
She wanted out even before that fucking disaster with Izzy Hands, even before prison, there's just nothing about a con that gets her going anymore, it's always make a plan, execute the plan, make another fucking plan and never a single moment to enjoy it.
Except—
Not that it matters, that's a closed fucking door, and, besides, this plan, it's not for fun, it's not because she wants to work with Stede again, it's because—
Look, it's hard to do asset management in prison, and her fat chunk of retirement money is looking a little thin, at least for her champagne taste, and more than that, she wants fucking revenge. Partially for the satisfaction, partially for her fucking dignity. For her to go away for almost six years because of some no-time nobody like Izzy Hands all because of a pathetic little thing like a broken heart? For that to be the end of the career of the infamous Edward Teach? For her to go out with a sobbing little whimper?
Hell fucking no.
She was going to do this job, she was going to send a very pointed message that you cannot fucking fuck with Edward Teach, she was going to make Izzy Hands sweat and then rot in prison, and then she was going to retire in style and never seen any of these people again, especially Stede fucking Bonnet.
But in the meantime.
"Ed? Hello? Oh my god, Ed—"
"We need to meet," Ed says, cuts straight to the chase because she doesn't have the time or the patience for any kind of excuses or explanations or any old thing. It's been almost seven years. Ed's obviously not over it because she's never gotten over anything once in her life, but she definitely prefers to act like it.
Meanwhile, Stede is stumbling over herself on the line to say yes, of course, any time, where do you— when do you— etc, and that's another thing Ed prefers to ignore, how endearing it is that Stede can act poised and perfect for, fucking royalty or the police or anything, nothing can make her sweat, except, of course, always except for Ed.
Ed cuts her off again, gives her a time, a place, and a terse good-bye, and disconnects the line.
She needs to go shopping.
Find something that says fuck you/miss me?/let's rob the Met.
Shouldn't be hard.
Ed doesn't know why she wasn't prepared for Stede to look different, fuck, it's been long enough, but, yeah, she looks different.
Gone are the dresses and the lipstick and the kitten heels and the long, flowing blond curls, and no, when Ed catches sight of her as she walks into the nondescript cafe she named yesterday, it's fucking—
First of all, Stede has gained weight, and she carries it fucking well, filling out her well tailored suit like she was always built this way, and it was some sick costume that'd been holding her back into her stifling size 8s. And then, then, she still has her curls, but they're cropped much shorter, a perfectly coiffed side part, the kind of shaping you only get as a lady if you go to a men's barber and tip heavy, which Ed knows Stede always does. Also, no fucking makeup. None. And Ed can see her wrinkles as her face breaks into a smile the second Stede sees her, can see her perfect dimple, can see her crow's feet around her eyes, can see everything completely and perfectly and unmasked and Stede, and fuck.
Fuck.
Is this going to work?
Can Ed even fucking handle this?
No, no, yes she fucking can, she just needs to get it together, Ed is a professional, and she's worked with plenty of hot women without fucking them, women she had chemistry with, women who could do the work, she can fucking do this, it's fine—
"Ed," Stede starts the second they're within speaking distance, and then she's sliding into the chair next to Ed, not even across from her, and her arm is hovering like she means to fucking, Ed doesn't know, maybe hug her? And then she's going on, gushing, "Ed, it's so good to see you, oh, how are you?"
Ed gives a bitter laugh, just to spoil the mood, because already, this is so so much. "Yeah, well, pretty fucking shit, aren't I? Since I just got out of prison."
Stede's face immediately crumples in sympathy, and jesus christ, maybe it's the lack of makeup, maybe it's the fact that it's been almost seven years, but Ed feels like she's getting blasted in the fucking face. "I know, Ed, I'm so sorry." And what the hell is that, the remorse, the regret bleeding off of Stede's words, like it's her personal fault that—
"Oh, fuck off with that, you didn't send me to prison, it was—"
"Yes," Stede agrees, soft and small. "But if I hadn't—"
"Nope," Ed cuts her off. "Nuh-uh, we aren't talking about that—"
"But then why did you— Oh." And then she figures it out, says it just as Ed does, that, "This is about a job."
"Yep," Ed confirms. "Nothing to do with us. Not—" and Ed holds up a pointed finger. "That there is an us, will be an us, ever was an us, as far as I'm fucking concerned."
"Ed, if I could explain—"
"Nope, past is what it fucking is, but I want to do this job, I know you're the only person crazy enough to run it with me, so what I want is for you to work with me, keep it cute, make sure we both get paid, and that's it."
Stede furrows her brow. "That's it?"
"That's fucking it."
And then Stede smiles, and Ed does not like that smile, because that smile, well, to be fair, in the past, that smile always came right before Stede would grab Ed's hand and drag her head first into the new best and most insane night of Ed's life, but that's exactly what Ed does not fucking want between them, because it's just a fucking job.
But Stede gives that smile, and she says, "I'm in," and Ed figures, fuck it, she knew going into this she'd be playing with fire.
What's a little more gas?
Now that Ed has Stede hooked, she lays out the plan, blah blah, need six more people, blah blah, expensive jewelry, blah blah Met Gala, blah blah pin it on someone else so they walk away clean—
"Ed, absolutely not."
"What?" Ed says, super innocent, very casual.
Stede stands, strides across the room, strides right back, points at Ed. "You want to put Izzy Hands away for the rest of his slimy life? Absolutely, and I'll help. You want to steal a $150 million necklace straight from the Met Gala? Sure, that's why I'm here. But stealing a $150 million necklace straight from the Met Gala just to put Izzy Hands in jail? Ed—"
"I'm not doing it just to put him in prison, mostly I'm here for the money, call it a perk—"
"A perk you wouldn't compromise the job for? A perk you wouldn't risk the six people you want to hire for? A perk—"
"Oh, fuck you Stede, fucking questioning my judgment like I haven't followed you down a million turns riskier than this one because I do trust your, actually, let's be honest, insane judgment?"
Stede huffs. "Thought we weren't talking about that."
"Oh, what the fuck ever, Stede, since when have you cared about a little risk? About getting a little personal on a job?"
"Ed, I… Look. Do you want to know the truth?"
Ed narrows her eyes, this is dangerous fucking territory, with a woman like Stede, and the look in her eyes. Still, warily, she nods.
Stede sinks back on the couch next to Ed, unlocks her phone, taps around for a minute, and then passes it to Ed, screen on a folder of dozens of other folders. Ed scrolls, taps, scrolls, receipts, invoices, inventory, security footage—
"What the fuck is this?"
"You want Izzy Hands to go down? So do I. But it can't be the decade or so that this frame job will stick him with, can't be a fine he can absorb in his business' books, it has to be everything, has to be forever."
"Why the hell do you have all this?"
"Because I've been working on forever."
Ed scrolls deeper, and yeah, fuck, decades, at this point, evidence of falsified records, manipulated deals, forgeries, all of it saved meticulously since the day Ed was sentenced. This is insane, but it doesn't mean anything, because Stede has always been insane, always hated Izzy Hands just from that one little job consulted on for them, and besides—
"Okay, so, so fucking what, you have it, we pin this heist on him, it cracks the seal on all the rest of this, he does go down forever, we still get away clean, what's the fucking problem?"
Stede sighs, scrubs both her palms over her face. "Look, Ed, you told me you didn't want to hear it."
"If it affects the heist, it's allowed."
"That's the rule?" Stede asks with a wry eyebrow Ed knows instantly she's going to regret.
Still, hasn't stopped her before. "Yes," she agrees. "That's the rule."
"Okay, look, after we— separated—"
"Uh, you fucking left me for your shit ass husband you didn't bother to tell me you had, but sure—"
Stede, like a bitch, smirks, says, "And that's relevant to the heist how?"
"Fuck you," Ed says, though even she can hear how it's softer, less heated than it should be.
"Anyways," Stede continues, heaviness back in her tone. "After, it didn't take very long for me to realize what a miserable fucking idea that all was, plus he was cheating on me with his secretary, so I sued him for divorce and custody—"
"You have kids, Stede are you fucking—"
"It didn't come up!"
"Jesus christ."
"So, after all of that, honestly, my children and I were never very close, and they both went off to college, Alma after the first year, Louis two years after that, and I never stopped working, so, Ed, this is the part I need you to understand. The crew I would bring in for this? They're my family now. And I won't bring them in if there is any chance this thing goes down the crapper because— because either one of us loses sight of the goal for the sake of revenge."
Jesus. Ed is fucking reeling, Stede has kids, has a whole fucking crew ready to bring on, she's divorced, fucking, fucking left her for a guy that she didn't even want to keep, just, just tossed Ed to the side for an asshole who was also cheating, and, what, what, now they're fucking here with Stede's little black folder and a family she's willing to bring to Ed, if only Ed can promise she'll keep her eyes on the prize?
Ed isn't stupid, knew this shit would be complicated, anything with Stede always is, but god damn.
Still, the point of this all, the job, Ed's ticket to fucking off into the sunset, this doesn't change any of that.
And Ed's not afraid to play dirty to convince Stede of that.
"Stede," she says, and scoots closer, takes Stede's hand, and she catches the hitch in her breath when she does. "Look, I hear you, okay? Your crew is important to you. You want to protect them."
Stede nods, eyes glued to where their hands are joined.
"And—" Ed continues pointedly. "You want them to get paid."
"… Yes," Stede agrees.
"And they are, they're gonna get paid so fucking much, and us too, and I promise you, this thing with Izzy? If it didn't make the plan work that much better, I'd scrap it in an instant, you show me something that works better, we'll do it, but I've been running this job in my head for almost six years, and this is it, baby, this is how we do it. I promise." And then she goes in for the kill, big sad eyes, look up through the lashes, asks Stede, "Don't you trust me?"
Stede blinks, and blinks, and swallows, and then she gives Ed her big, wet, puppy dog eyes, squeezes Ed's hand, and breathes out, "Yes, Ed, of course."
Ed coughs, detangles their hands. "Well, great, awesome then. Fucking game on."
Stede shakes her head, looks around, the blueprints spread across the table, the rolling white board with Ed's choatic notes scrawled across them, taking it in like she's just remembering why she's here. There's a twinge of something, something, something Ed is not examining in Stede's voice when she answers, "Game on."
But that's all Ed needs.
Doesn't matter what kind of weirdness is lingering between them, doesn't matter that Ed can still feel her palm tingling from where they touched, doesn't matter that Stede still looks at Ed like that all these years after she left her.
All that fucking matters is the job.
They're on day -32 of the job, so, less than a week in, and Ed is starting to remember why she fuckings hates jobs, and, like, maybe the job doesn't matter anymore, and maybe Ed has a bit of a working retirement, where she goes straight and launders money through a cute little bistro or something to keep her sweet line of zeroes where it belongs, instead of having to draft her third fake identity in a row, because blah blah blah fuuuuuuck.
Ed shoves her laptop out of the way, slumps over on her desk, and lets out a gut deep groan, just as she hears the door to the loft they're renting as an HQ swing open and shut. Gotta be Stede, since no one else has a key yet, and since Ed can hear the clack-clack of her cuban heels making a beeline across the concrete, right towards—
"Ed, darling, what's the matter?" Stede is asking, and then Stede is resting her hands on Ed's shoulders, and then they're pressing down, massaging in, working away tension the way only Stede knows how, and—
"What the fuck, fuck off with 'darling'," Ed grumbles into the table, tries to shrug her off. "I told you it's not gonna be like this between us—"
Stede tuts, tucks a strand of hair out of Ed's face. "And it isn't," Stede agrees.
Ed opens one eye, looks up at her pointedly.
"What was it you said?" Stede asks, and then goes back in with her evil, delicious hands like Ed hadn't said anything. "If it's for the job, it's allowed. Those are the rules."
Ed sighs, feels herself melting, but still has enough fight left to demand to know, "How does this have shit to do with the job?"
"Well," Stede says, and then grabs Ed by the shoulders, pulls her back to slump against the back of the chair, and to really start digging her hands in. "You're the mastermind of this job, and you can't very well be the mastermind with all this stress and tension."
"Mmhmm," Ed agrees vaguely, because, jesus, it's insane what Stede can do with those hands, what the fuck, seven years and she still knows how to play Ed like a fiddle—
Play—
Fuck.
Is that what this is?
Stede didn't want Ed seven years ago, even though she acted like she did, so what good does her act do now? Why the fuck is she even here? That golden retriever act, coming when Ed calls, and she must want something from this job, something only Ed can get her, same as Ed wants from her. And this sweetheart game is just that, a game, playing an angle just as much as Ed is, of course. Stupider people might underestimate Stede as a bit of an affable ditz, too eccentric to pose a real threat, but Ed, now Ed knows better, fuck does she know better, and maybe Ed doesn't know what her game is, but she doesn't intend to let her win.
She doesn't shrug her off, doesn't indicate the jig is up, will do what she said, keep everything cute, run this job, play this game, because Ed's been planning for almost six years, and there's no way she doesn't come out on top.
And if keeping things cute means letting Stede continue to work those broad, strong hands into her shoulders until she's liable to melt down the chair?
Whatever, call it a perk of the job.
Meeting the crew is—
Well.
One of Stede's crew has a live bird, just out, perched on her head, and as Ed starts to give the elevator pitch of the job, she raises her hand to ask, "What will be Karl's role in this?"
And Ed, lost, asks, "Karl's the bird?"
Karl is indeed the bird.
And then Ed is looking at the notes Stede sent her, which for some reason include references, and under Pete's name, she listed "Thee Blackbeard" when Ed knows for a fact she's never seen that woman before in her life.
And then a blond woman— not the bird lady but a different one— is twiddling a pocket knife and manages to stab herself in the palm not once but twice before the broody one with the hat reaches over and takes it.
And then Ed says something about the catering company, and Frenchie interjects to deliver a completely unrelated and incoherent— even given the subject matter— rant about how flouridated water degrades dopamine receptors and makes people more susceptible to Bluetooth based subliminal messaging.
And from there the room devolves into complete chaos, everyone speaking over each other, none of them making a speck of sense.
And this is—
Ed pulls Stede to the side, asks her, "Stede, what the fuck?"
Stede looks back at the crew, smiling fondly, before turning to face Ed with this face she does, it's fucked up, who does this with their face, where she looks both stern and self assured, and yet has the biggest puppy dog eyes, just like she always does. "Look," she starts. "I know that they come off as a bit—"
"Chaotic? Childish? Completely fucking incompetent? Like they couldn't heist their way out of—"
"Enough," Stede snaps, and it's only Ed's incredibly cool and practiced exterior that keeps her from flinching. "What did I say, Ed, what did I tell you when I said I could bring in my own crew?"
Ed crosses her arms, is not about to be cowed by Stede fucking Bonnet, not on her own heist. "You said they're like family—"
"I said they are my family—"
"Yeah, alright, and I'm not saying you don't love them, that they're not great people, but, Stede, this is a $150 million job and—"
Stede lifts her hand up, and before Ed can blink, she's covered Ed's mouth with the tight seal of her palm. "Shut up."
Ed blinks. Stays shut up.
"Thank you. Now—" and then Stede removes her hand and Ed does not feel it like a loss. "Not that I should have to explain myself to you, since you asked me to trust you, and I'd think you'd do me the barest courtesy of extending me the same—"
Ed scoffs, but the scowl Stede levels her has her shifting in her boots, keeps her mouth shut long enough for Stede to continue
"But, my crew, alright, Jim, do you know why I hired Jim?"
Ed dutifully shakes her head no.
"I hired Jim because they lifted my torquise ring, you know the one—" Ed does. Begrudgingly. "While I was wearing it, without me noticing, or even realizing they'd come close enough to do it."
"How the fuck did you end up back in contact?"
"They tried to fence it through Frenchie, and she clocked it right away, called me, I got the ring back, and, well, no harm, no foul, and Jim's been here ever since."
"And Frenchie?"
"I've seen Frenchie fence goods back to the same marks they were stolen off of without even a blink of recognition. Frenchie has moved everything I've stolen since— well, you know— and not a dime of it has been traced back to me or the crew."
"Great, alright, and I'm assuming the rest of them—"
"Just as impressive—"
"And just as crazy?"
"Well," Stede allows with an indulgent smile. "Yes, but I know for a fact you like crazy."
Oh, absolutely the fuck not. "It was a one off," Ed says with a glare. "I know better now."
Stede blinks, and for just a minute Ed thinks she sees her confidence crack, thinks she sees the lost, searching look that always haunted the edges of Stede's gaze, way back when, even in her best moments, but then it's gone. "Fine," Stede says. "But you don't have to like it, do you? It just has to work. And I know your plan, I know how you move, and this crew? I promise you, this will work."
"Fine," Ed echoes, gestures to the curtained off part of the loft where all the plans and schematics and models are blown up big and on display. "Bring 'em in."
It's day -28 and Ed is fucking pissed.
Pissed at Stede, because her crew of muppets are surprisingly adept, and every step of the plan is running smoother than butter, pissed at the crew because despite Ed's best efforts, she's starting to find them charming, but more than that, she's fucking pissed at herself.
Maybe Ed got stupid in prison. Maybe she lost her fucking touch. Maybe she lost her damn memories and her whole mind with it, because if anyone were to take a peek at how Ed's been acting around Stede, they might conclude that Ed has clearly completely fucking forgot the way Stede left her high and dry seven years ago.
Today, for example.
They're buffing out details, little things, what kind of pieces do they want Olu to make with the Toussaint for them to wear out of the gala, and Stede says Jim won't take anything bigger than a tie pin, which leaves a fat chunk of diamonds to redistribute, and Stede leans in, traces her finger over Ed's collar bone, and says, "Well, if it were up to me to dress a dozen priceless diamonds, I know where I'd put them."
And Ed lets her. Fucking lets her, lets her breath catch, lets herself imagine for one fucking minute that this is anything but a game to Stede, lets herself imagine that Stede isn't playing with their chemistry for whatever reason that isn't that she actually wants Ed, because she doesn't, made that mighty fucking clear seven years ago, but fuck, Ed is so god damned stupid, because she just lets it happen.
And then she reaches out, cups Stede's jaw, thumbs at her ear lobe that she knows is double pierced now, because Ed was the one to push in the needle, and there's no fucking play, this isn't because Ed needs something, hasn't got shit to do with the job, when she says, "What, no diamonds for you? Two big rocks, right… here?" and she tugs at her ear lobe, just a hair, a little pinch.
Stede's face does something then, something Ed can't track, and it'd be really fucking handy if she could, because what Stede says is, "Ed, are we doing this?"
Ed pulls her hand away, pushes away Stede's, because the answer, the fucking answer is, "No, no, not doing shit. S'the job. Nothing more."
Stede nods, like Ed was confirming something she already knew. "Right. Just the job." And then she's launching back into the plans she's drawn up, dangling earrings for Olu, a cuff for Frenchie, a pendant for the Swede, a slightly ambitious but still doable eyebrow bar for John, and on and on. Like nothing ever happened.
Because nothing did happen, not really, not in a way that matters, and yet Ed is still turning herself inside and out thinking about it, because she may be the most brilliant con artist in the god damned world, but when it comes to Stede Bonnet?
She's nothing but a stupid teenage girl, pining for a crush that will never like her back.
And she needs to get her fucking shit together, because the heist is looming closer, and she cannot afford to be distracted.
Fuck Ed, though, she guesses, because for all that she tries to minimize distractions, as the heist draws closer, they have to settle on a final mark for their actress role, and what do you know, Stede has fucking opinions on that.
"Anyone but Luci Spriggs, Ed, come on."
"Fuck off," Ed grumbles, sips her dirty chai— extra spice, extra sweet, three shots instead of two, exactly how she likes it, because stupid fucking Stede brought it for her, of course— and barrels on. "I've been watching the news for years, she's the perfect mark, will buy the story, the attention, ego flighty enough for us to push her around, not smart enough to catch on to what we're doing, but high enough profile that they'll actually give us— her— the necklace."
"Ed," Stede says, full on pleading, stupid big puppy eyes working overtime. "We can't use her. She— She'll recognize me."
"Of for fuck's— what, you ran a grift on her already? God damn it—"
"Not… Exactly."
"What, Stede—"
"Look, don't be mad—"
"Why should I care, just tell me—"
"We had a brief affair."
Ed blinks. Absorbs this. Does not react outwardly, because Stede left her, so what the fuck should Ed give a shit if Stede went off and fucked some famous actress who's younger and way less of a felon than Ed. "Okay, fine, I don't give a shit," Ed grunts. "You said she'd recognize you?"
Stede winces. "Definitely."
"Alright," Ed says and heaves a beleagured sigh. Takes another swig of her stupid perfect latte. Shifts some things around in her brain. "Okay, yeah, that's fine, there's no point in the plan where the Actress and the Co-Captain overlap, and it's a minimal risk that she'd see you on accident since we have you back of house until the grand finale anyways. It's fine."
Stede reaches out, puts her hand on Ed's arm, supposed to be soothing, but on a day like today, it just bristles her, especially when Stede says, all solemn and soft, "Is it okay? Are you okay?"
Ed stands from her seat, forcing Stede's touch off of her, rolls her shoulders, and grabs her drink. "I'm fine. Don't give a fuck who you've been fucking. I've got shit to do. Later," and then turns, pointedly doesn't wait to see what's happening on Stede's face before she leaves the room, and then the loft entirely.
Needs a fucking break from all of this shit, and she's not gonna find it with Stede.
Shock and awe, but getting enough of a break from Stede for all that simmering tension and angst and emotional bullshit she always churns up in Ed while they are actively planning a heist together is, actually, basically impossible.
And now's about the time that uninformed outsiders might be saying things like Ed, you're the one who called her, Ed, you're the one who said you needed her for this job, Ed, why did you even say that, it's not like you don't have all the top grifters in the world on speed dial, is she really that special or are you just an idiot?
To which Ed would say: no, and fuck you, and also, yes, a little bit, but that's not why she called Stede.
The thing is, when Stede isn't breaking your heart, she's fucking brilliant. And, sure, there are other brilliant women in the community that Ed has connects with, but Stede is the only one who ticks off all the boxes: US based, works well with Ed, crazy enough to bite on this plot, and has the sort of bona fide rich girl social connects that mean Ed can get an invite to the Met Gala, the Swede can get a hire at Vogue to coordinate the event, Olu and Jim can get hired as caterers, and Pete can get hired as security, all without raising any eyebrows, all within a month of the event.
And Ed had almost six years to plan her one last job, and this was the job she landed on, and this was how she wanted to go out, and she'd just lost 6-46 years of her life not being able to do shit on her own terms, depending on how you counted, and fuck it. Let this be a glamourous job. Let this be glitzy. Let this be over the top. Let this take twice the crew Ed needed for the job in her original plans. Let Ed and Stede pivot last minute, fucking, perfectly in sync, idea coming out from both of them in the exact same breath, to expand the heist and make sure everyone gets paid.
But, yeah, Stede is here, is part of it, is making Ed completely fucking insane at every fucking turn, and it's—
It's the chemistry, yeah, the way Stede keeps touching her, keeps calling her darling, keeps getting up in Ed's space. And other shit, sweeter shit, Stede bringing her a drink for every meeting, never the same, but always the sort of strong-and-sweet Ed likes, yeah, strong and sweet, that's Ed's fucking type if Stede is anything to go off of. And then the job, the job itself, because, fuck, it's been so long, it's been seven fucking years since Ed has been able to run a job with someone, instead of around someone. Since she's had someone who can not only match her beat for beat but reach further, give her a yes and an and.
And, god, they only ever had the one kiss, the one stupid fucking kiss that, as far as Ed can tell, ruined everything, but they were together in every other way that mattered, and more than the kiss, that's what Ed missed, what Ed stills misses, even while she sorta kinda for a little while has it.
If Ed could just tell Stede, let's go back in time, let's forget about the kiss, the love confession where I didn't quite make it to the word love because, to be honest, I didn't think I had to, let's just be—
Except, no. Ed wants out of this fucking life, whether she does it with Stede or not.
And anyways, not like it matters, because while Ed sort of has some kind of daydream idea of what she wants, she has no fucking clue what Stede wants. Stede's nothing but contradictions. Left Ed with not so much as a note to go back to her husband and kids, only to leave him just as fast and go right back to conning, grifting, thieving like Ed was just— Ed has no idea what. Comes when Ed calls without hesitation, and seems disappointed when it's only about the job, but then, all these touches, all these flirtations, if it wasn't Stede fucking Bonnet they were talking about, Ed would think she's being seduced. Except then Stede will paste on some flimsy excuse about it falling within the job, and maybe it is a seduction, but maybe that's all it is.
Stede had alluded to getting some experience, and maybe now that she's had some practice under her belt, maybe now that she's spent some time living her best gay criminal life, maybe she's figured out her tastes. She had called that thing with Luci an affair, and maybe that's what she wanted. Maybe Stede was just the love 'em and leave 'em type, and Ed was the pathetic sap she cut her teeth on.
Because, yeah, for whatever else the fuck is going on that Ed can't figure out, it's definitely, definitively, at least partially about sex.
Because—
Well.
Today's fitting day, yeah?
John had gotten them all measured up for custom, bespoke evening gowns (or suits, as the preference may be), Ed for her attendance to the gala (and her alibi), everyone else for their walk out.
Not really necessary, not strictly, but they were robbing one of the biggest high society events in the country, and it was only fair they got to enjoy it in style, at least a little bit.
And so now John was done, or as done as she could be without marking final alterations on her models, and that was today. Jim had already been squared away in their suit, Olu, Frenchie, the Swede, Buttons, Roach, and Pete in their dresses, and Stede was fussing over her suit while Ed got pinned into her gown.
And then, there she was, looking at herself in the mirror, and—
It was already a compromise, as much as Ed hates to be some bitch who shows up to the Met gala in a basic evening gown, she's running a job and it has to be something she can move in, and the same goes for the rest of the crew, but even so, there's something about it that's just not…
And then of course Stede steps up, John at some point having stepped away and leaving Ed to fend for herself, and slots herself behind Ed, just a bit to the side, her face framing Ed's in the mirror.
"What is it?" Stede asks.
Ed sighs. John does good work, she can't begrudge that, for a slinky evening gown take on a LBD, it's good. Neckline does a good job pretending Ed has tits, shows off her hawk tattoo, thin straps are deceptively strong so the corset lacing up the back doesn't have to be cinched to hell to keep the thing on her, skirt has enough give and movement that Ed can heist in it, it's just—
"Missing something, maybe?" Stede answers for her, and Ed doesn't like giving her anything, but it's true.
"Ffff, yeah, I just feel like it needs— some oomph."
"Hmm," Stede hums, and then places both of her hands on Ed's hips and turns her, steps back barely, only just enough to sweep Ed with her appraising glance. And Ed has barely a second to adjust to that before Stede is saying, "Yes, I think—" and then grabbing her hips to gently, deliberately pivot her back to the mirror, to hook her chin over Ed's shoulder, and to finish— "A slit in the thigh, up to, let's say, here?"
And then she puts her hand here, as in, on Ed's thigh, as in, a solid eight inches above Ed's knee, as in, palm flat and hot through the satin, right there, touching her, holding her.
And Ed doesn't fold, she doesn't back out of a game without winning, even if she doesn't know what she's playing, so she shakes her head, "Mm-mm, no, higher."
Stede matches her, fucking of course she does, slides her hand just an inch higher. "Here?"
"No," Ed repeats. "Higher."
And another inch, another field of skin scorched in her wake. "Here?"
"Higher," she says, like she's not running out of thigh, like she can't feel Stede press her hips into her ass, like this is any way a good idea.
But Stede doesn't give a shit about any of that, follows her gambit, slides her hand up higher, higher, all the way up to resettle her grip on Ed's hip, to pull her back until Ed's body is melded to hers from shoulders to hips, corseted satin sliding across the velvet of Stede's suit, and, fuck—
"Here?" Stede asks, hot and low and directly into Ed's ear, and there's nowhere else to go, and she's sort of starting to forget why she would want to go anywhere else anyways, and so Ed's response, breathy and thin as it is, is just a pleading yes.
And then Stede steps away, leaves her cold, says, without so much as a catch in her breath, "Very well, I'll let John know about the adjustments," and then she's fucking gone.
And that's when Ed knows, this is some bullshit, this is some mastermind, 4D chess, sick ass bullshit, and Ed is putting a stop to it now.
Enough is enough.
They're gonna have to fuck.
Okay, yeah, so the uninformed outsiders may be asking again if Ed is stupid. If Stede is playing some kind of game where she's trying to fuck Ed, how is Ed winning if she just lets Stede fuck her?
Ed's sacrificing her queen here.
Because the undeniable fact is that as long as Stede is around Ed and hasn't fucked her, Ed is going to be thinking about fucking her, whether Stede backs off now or not. Point of fact, Ed has been thinking about Stede fucking her since the day they met seven years, one month, nine days ago, and not even Stede dumping her ass, not even Ed going to prison tangentially because of Stede, managed to knock that particular insanity loose.
So Ed is going to scratch her massive, infectious itch, reset her system a little bit, draw a line in the sand that it's not fucking happening again, and finish planning the job, because they're at day -11, shit is getting close and tight, and Ed is going to pull off this fucking job, but not if Stede is distracted trying to pull her into bed and Ed is distracted trying not to let her pull her into bed.
So they're going to fuck.
Tonight.
Ed's got her leathers on, she's outside Stede's posh little "temporary" apartment she got for this job, and she's got the whole speech planned in her head, how she's gonna lay it out, I know what you're doing, and fine, let's fucking do it, but that's it, it ends tonight, all the boundaries she's going to draw, and she's ready when she finally knocks on Stede's door.
Stede opens the door less than a minute later rubbing her face, curls toussled, and wearing a matching button up butter yellow sleep set, and Ed feels a pinch in her chest, and she blinks, and she steps forward, and she kisses her.
Stede gasps, makes the kiss stutter and slide for just moment, before she tips in and kisses her back, and that's great, but Ed's already moving, stepping into Stede's entryway, kicking the door shut behind her, pushing her up to the nearest wall, all without breaking the kiss, all while deepening it, turning a press of lips into a tug of teeth, a tease of tongues, because that stupid fucking pinch in her chest is the same damn thing that happens every single time she sees Stede dressed down like this.
Because this is the thing, okay— Ed met Stede as a criminal, both of them, Stede's sparky little reputation preceding, and yet in appearances Stede was every bit the laced up, lipsticked, hair coiffed upper class house wife she technically was. And then, now, she's clearly come into her own, jesus christ alive has she, but still, it's the same thing in a different font. Tailored suits. Moussed curls. She wears a fucking Breitling dive watch for daily wear. And tonight, here she is, sleepy, rumpled, probably was already in bed, and just like the last time Ed saw her unbuttoned like this and went in for the kiss like an idiot, Ed fucking melts for her.
Melts against her, Ed's the one holding her to the wall, technically, but Stede's hands are already on her, one in the small of her back teasing at the gap of skin between her t-shirt and her leathers, the other cupping her jaw, and maybe Ed started it, but it quickly turns over until Stede is leading, leading every kiss, every hitch of Ed's hips, every breathy little moan between them, until—
"Ed, wait—" Stede says, gently pushing Ed back, having to, because Ed is starving and she does not want to wait. "I thought— I thought you said we weren't doing this?"
Right. Fuck. The point of this, the whole reason Ed is here, the plan that shattered the second Ed so much as saw her in her PJs. Ed swallows, closes her eyes, drags her shit back together. Opens them, looks Stede in her eyes when shes tells her, "We aren't."
Stede raises an eyebrow (which Ed at some point had noticed has grown out a bit more scraggly and bushy since the old days) (it works for her) and looks pointedly down at where Ed's hips are still questing forward to meet her own.
Ed scoffs. "Yeah, okay, I mean, besides that. We aren't— this isn't a romantic thing. We aren't getting back together, we—"
"Well, Ed, were we really ever—?"
"Don't you fucking dare. Don't even try to go there, because if we start pulling receipts I promise you aren't gonna be the one who looks good here."
Stede nods. "Understood."
"Good. Great. So. Not romance, not getting back together, not even going to happen again after tonight, it's a one time deal, but you obviously want to fuck me, I want to fuck you, that's all this is going to be, so we can get it over with and focus on the fucking job. Is that understood?"
Stede looks at her, long and searching, just looks at her and looks at her and Ed thinks she's going to say no, say that somehow this wasn't exactly what she was angling for, but then she does speak. "I have questions."
"Oh, here we go—"
"I have questions, because— because if this is just— just a fuck— I should know the limits."
"Fine," Ed huffs.
"I can still kiss you?"
"Obviously."
"And touch you?"
"Duh."
"Where?"
"Any— uh— anywhere."
"Everywhere?" and that's with a heat in her eyes that Ed can't hold.
"Yep. Yes."
"And if I call you darling?" she asks, and then Ed realizes Stede's hand has snuck back up to the nape of her neck, because she feels her fingers twining in her hair.
"Ye— fine, yes—"
"And if I tell you what I want? If I tell you what I want from you?" and her fingers tighten in and twist.
Ed gasps, can't hold it back, can't hold it back either when she says, "Yes, Stede, fuck, I'll do it, I'll fucking do it."
"And this is the last time? The only time?"
Ed claws some of her fire back, insists, "Yes, only time, not happening again, not even fucking talking about it if I can help it."
"Hmm," Stede hums, and then uses her grip in Ed's hair to bring her in close, to pour a kiss into her mouth, thick and heavy and full of tongue and promise, before she's pulling her back, telling her, low and whispered like a confession, "Then I want you in my bed."
Ed moves before she even thinks to, unbuckling her jacket as she goes, dumping it somewhere in the hallway, halfway to the end before she realises she has no idea which door in this absurdly large apartment leads to Stede's bedroom, but she barely has a chance to falter before Stede is behind her, draping herself along her back and urging her forward to push her through what can only be her bedroom door.
And then the motion follows all the way through, Stede steering them flawlessly in the dim light until Ed is being pushed forward, bent over her bed, face down in the plushest duvet Ed's ever touched and Stede's hips pressing against her ass and fuck—
"Fuck—"
"Mmhm," Stede agrees easily.
"Fuck, Stede, christ, who are you?"
Stede drags her hand down Ed's back, heat through thin cotton and then searing across bare skin until she hooks her fingers in the waist of Ed's leather trousers and yanks her ass back against her hips, jesus shitting christ. "Stede Bonnet," she answers, and if Ed wasn't about to melt through her insanely cushy duvet, she'd laugh, because that's so Stede, Ed can never really tell with her, whether she's trying to be funny or just earnestly answering the question she chose to read as sincere. And it's not even that Stede doesn't get things, though Ed's seen her do that too, more often it's that she'd rather look a little silly herself than make you look stupid by assuming that surely you have to know the answer to the question, and anything else must be a joke, and it's just so—
Oh fuck no, Ed's not doing this, not here, not now, not falling down a rabbit hole of all the stupid endearing Stede things that made Ed fall in the first place. "Stede," she hisses. "Come on."
"What if I wanted you to let me take me time?" Stede asks, and now she's tracing her other hand up the back of Ed's shirt, the first still gripped in her waistband.
"Fuck, fine, yeah, whatever, just, this position—"
She doesn't even get the rest of the sentence out before Stede slips her hand down under Ed's ribs, pulls her back to stand, turns her around, and picks her up and tosses her into the bed, and the damn thing is so fucking soft it's more surprise than anything else punching a little oof out of Ed's chest. And then Stede climbs on the bed, crawls up over Ed's body, and kisses her.
Ed kisses her back, obviously, because fuck. That first kiss way back when was just that. One kiss. The Kiss. But it wasn't long, it wasn't deep, and if it was intense, it was just for all the feeling behind it, at least for Ed. Stede had kissed back, Ed had gone over every frame of that memory with a magnifying glass, convincing herself and reconvincing herself that she hadn't made that up, that she had kissed back, and so she knew that part for a fact, but still, it had been hesitant, slowly stumbling forward. And this, this is nothing like that kiss.
First of all, Stede is kissing her, and pretty damn insistently, and Stede's body, heavier and stronger than it'd ever been, is pressing against Ed's and holding her against the mattress, barely any give to squirm the way she wants to with how— and this is pretty fucking different too— Stede's tongue and lips and teeth are working Ed over, and Stede's hands are all over her, in one breath tangled in her hair, in another cupping her jaw, and then dragging down her throat, over her chest, to tug at her nipple piercing, to caress her ribs, to drag down and yank at the buttons of her leathers, and then up and over and everywhere all over again, and Ed is starting to feel like she is actually, really, totally out of her depth.
Stede detaches herself from Ed's lips with a final— sucking— tug, only to affix herself just as insistently to Ed's neck, and Ed says the first full sentence that comes to her brain, just to have something to grasp onto.
"Fuck, have you been working out, you fucking lifted me like I was a sack of packing peanuts—"
"Mm," Stede says around a mouthful of Ed's neck, christ, and then, "Working out," and then a sucking kiss, "Eating more," and that's gonna bruise, "Taking testosterone."
Ed moans. Can't really speculate as to how she managed to hold back this long considering the three course meal Stede is making of her neck, but yeah, that fucking does it, it's a moan, and it's low, and it's deep, and it's loud. Still, mess that she is, she should probably ask— "Do you— should I—"
"Still a woman," Stede tells her. "Just a butch one."
"Fuck," Ed says, except it comes out a little more like fuuuuuuuuuuck.
Stede pulls back enough to look Ed in the eye, to give her a full view of her flushed cheeks and her pinkened lips, to cup her jaw in her hand and ask, "Is that what you want, darling? For me to fuck you?"
And look, sure, Ed could save some face here, try to be a little coy about it, but Ed is struggling to see the point when they both agreed about what Ed is here for, so what comes out is, "Yes, Stede, please, please fuck me."
"Oh darling," Stede says, and it's warm, but maybe— just a hint?— pitying. "You don't have to beg."
And then Ed's pants are off. And Ed blinking up at the ceiling. Because either Stede is a wizard, or Ed is already more fucked out than she thought, because how the fuck did Stede do that so quickly, peel Ed out of her— sweaty, probably in need of dry-cleaning— leather pants? And then, another flash of movement, and there goes her t-shirt, and oh— But then, just as quickly, Ed's rabbity brain moves on to bigger and better things, because Stede is unbuttoning her night shirt, unbuttoning, unbuttoning, unbuttoned, and, fuck—
Look, Stede is a pretty high caliber sort of woman. Classy. The kind of poise Ed's millions could never buy, though Stede did also have the millions. And yet, there's really no better way to say it, except that Stede has massive fucking tits. Always did, even back when she wasn't built like a mattress Ed wanted to crawl into at the end of every day, but jesus. They're big, they hang low, they're stretchmarked, and the left one is a little more freckled than the other, and Ed wants to put her face between them and pass out there for the rest of her natural life.
And the rest of her— Stede has a proper belly now, stretchmarked too, and fuzzy with gingery hair all the way up to her belly button and it feels like Ed's won the lottery, because, yeah, she knew, could see that Stede had changed, but up close and personal, it's really sinking in how much more Stede there is for her to touch now, and, god, yeah, she wants to start right away. Surges forward, up off the mattress to do just that, only Stede stops her with one— strong fucking— hand to her shoulder, casually, gently, like it's nothing, tipping Ed right back into the matress, the nest of pillows she keeps in her big fuck off bed.
"Just a minute," Stede tells her, and fuck Ed's leathers, Stede is gonna need her duvet dry-cleaned after this because at this point Ed's the kind of wet that she can feel it. But then Stede takes off her pants, and toss the whole mattress, because—
"Holy shit Stede, is that all from T?"
All being Stede's huge, hard, pink little tdick, yeah, holy shit.
Stede shrugs. "Mostly."
"Fuck off, mostly, okay, okay, I want that inside of me, like, immediately, come on—" and Ed is reaching, grabby hands, needy everything, and she knows it, but she doesn't fucking care, because Stede has always been insanely hot to her, crazy gets her going, y'know, but this, this version of Stede, butch, and fat, and hairy, and just so much Stede, Ed thinks she might actually be drooling. And Stede lets her, lets her pull her in, at least enough for another smear of kisses, enough for Ed to feel the soft pillowy press of her tits against Ed's, enough for Ed to hitch her hips up and get a glancing grind against one thick, hairy thigh, but then Stede is pushing back again, and Ed is whining. Not ashamed to admit it either. Stede wants to top? Maybe dom her a little? Ed is going to be the princessiest bottom to ever bottom, that's her god given fucking right.
And it's not like it's ever happening again, so, whatever, who cares what kind of expectations Ed sets, she can and will do this the most self indulgent way possible.
So yeah, Ed is whining when Stede pulls away, is grabbing back at her hips to try to pull her in, is saying, "Stede, come onnnnnn," to which Stede answers with a placating peck on her nose, and saying, "Darling, I just need a moment to get my strap."
Ed scoffs. "Uh, you do not, pretty fucking confident you can fuck me all by yourself, babe."
(Fuck. Didn't mean to let that one out. Fine, that Stede wanted to use a pet name, Stede is just like that. Ed isn't. Won't be. Can't be. That's not what this is. Fuck. Can't take it back now.)
"Ed, don't be ridiculous," Stede says. "My dick is not that big. You won't even feel it."
"First of all, it literally is, thing is a choking hazard just to look at, second of all, I do not even sort of care, I waaant it," and then, fuck it, she left her dignity at the door the second she decided to come here, and so she bigs her eyes, lets her lashes go fluttery, says, "Stede, baby, please."
Stede rolls her eyes. "Fine, darling, if you insist."
"God, okay," Ed says, tilting her head to look away, feeling a strange bit of genuinely vulnerable. "Don't get too excited about it, might think you actually want me here—"
Stede's hand is on her jaw, quick and firm, not actually a smack, but something nearly as solid as she pulls Ed's gaze back to meet hers, her eyes close and intense, close enough that Ed feels the words across her lips when Stede says, "Darling, make no mistake, I want this. I want you." And then Stede's hips meet Ed's. "It's only, more than that, I want to make you feel good, and I want to make the most of it." And then Stede rolls her hips, and between Ed and Stede, is less a roll, more a dragging slide. "Is that understood?"
"Uh, uh-huh, ye-yep, god, baby, please—"
Stede kisses her, slow and deep, hips moving in time with her lips, and Ed drinks it all in, lets it slide down her spine, melt her further and further into the bed, and she's fully liquid before Stede parts from her enough to murmur a reminder, "What did I tell you about begging?"
"Mmmuhh, uh—"
Stede tuts, and why does that fucking do it for Ed? And then one of her hands is tracing over Ed's tit, snagging on a piercing before fluttering down her side, over her thigh, between her legs, and fuck—
"I said," Stede says, way too casually for someone tracing her finger through the wettest, most sensitive, whiny little cunt anyone's ever had. "You don't have to beg."
But Stede's finger still moves achingingly slow. But she won't even reach up high enough to touch Ed's clit. But— "But I want more—"
"Oh," Stede says, still conversational and easy. "I suppose you can beg. If it makes you feel any better. But I'm going to see to you at the exact pace I see fit. So," and then her fucking finger presses properly in— "You may as well relax."
Ed wants to laugh, fucking relax, when Stede is slowly, methodically fucking her with one single finger, but what happens is like if a really shameless moan belonged to the world's tiniest kitten.
"Ed, darling, does it feel good?" Stede asks, and Ed is probably suffering a brain aneurysm, because it's not possible that Stede actually sounds insecure right now.
Still, just in case, Ed answers. Tries to answer. "Yuh— mmmfuck okay!" is the best she can do, because apparently Stede thinks she needs to juke the stats in her performance evaluation by pressing in a second finger, and christ alive, she might actually kill her. Ed might really forreal die in this bed from Stede's thick fingers, before she even gets anywhere near her fat, beautiful cock.
"Darling," Stede murmurs, and Ed doesn't know if she's saying it just to say it, let something out while her two perfect fingers straight up pet away at Ed's g-spot, but considering the impact of said petting, Ed can't be fucked to worry about it. At this point sound is just leaking out of Ed's mouth, whines, moans, incomplete syllables, and it's all she can do to keep her tenuous handle on even that.
And then Stede finally, finally touches her clit, and the stupid fucking thing that comes out of her stupid fucking mouth is, "Daddy—"
Stede stills.
Ed stills.
And with good god damned reason, Ed has never, not once in her life called someone that, not seriously, she doesn't fuck men, and she's never had a butch do such a number on her that that comes out of her mouth, except, yeah, it fucking would be Stede, wouldn't it, dead in the middle of this one-time, break-up fuck, fingers actively inside her.
"Ed, did you mean to say that?" Stede asks, so even it's kind of eerie.
"No," Ed admits.
"Are you making fun of me?"
"What? No, fuck no, baby, I wouldn't—"
"Can I— can I hear it again?"
"Daddy?" And, okay, yeah, it's kind of a weak attempt, but then Stede hums a little hm, and crooks her fingers back into motion, and Ed gives her a proper, whiny little, "Yes, daddy."
"Very sweet, darling," Stede murmurs, and then her free hand reaches up to stroke a lock of hair back from Ed's face, and, yeah, Ed does feel it, all small, and delicate, and tended to, cared for, the kind of care only Stede has ever given her, the kind of care that makes her feel— fucking— cherished.
And also, to be honest, just, insanely horny.
"MmmStede?" Ed tries, because Stede's fingers, her thumb on her clit, they're so so good, but, yeah, Ed is desperate for more.
"Yes, darling?" Stede answers.
"Thought you were gonna fuck me," Ed says, and it manages to not sound completely pathetic.
"I am," Stede agrees easily. "One more finger first, need to get you ready to take me, since I'm so big," she says with a shit eating grin she shouldn't be able to pull off while smoothly slipping a third finger inside, and, with it, squishing Ed down to a pulp.
Ed can't even defend herself, it's not even words at this point, it's just the sort of warbling echo you might hear from a solitary whale on the brink of extinction, and that sounds melodramatic but it actually is that dire.
Just to look at the facts: Ed is in bed with her ex for the first and only time. Ed can't even tell her she still loves her because she's not actually acknowledging that to her own self right now. Ed called her daddy, and her ex keeps calling her darling. Her ex is three fingers deep. And Ed hasn't even come or gotten fucked yet. Plus, when this is all over, they still have to pull off a nine-digit jewel heist that Ed's been planning for six years.
Ed lets out another lonely whale sigh.
And maybe that's the thing to get Stede to finally, finally take pity on her, or maybe Stede has just arrived at the part of the agenda where she stops torturing Ed, because she leans in to kiss Ed as she carefully slides her fingers free, and then she's nudging Ed's hips up the bed with a sticky hand until Ed is propped more fully in her nest of pillows.
"Spread your legs for daddy, hm, darling?" Stede asks, and Ed's legs just. Fall open. Is that all it takes? Is that all the infamous Edward Teach is good for after all this time? One little daddy?
But then Stede is walking forward on her knees, spreading Ed's cunt with one hand, bracing her cock with the other, and Ed thinks fuck it, yeah I am.
"Breathe for me, darling," Stede murmurs, and Ed's lungs hitch when she realizes that yeah, she isn't.
And then Stede presses forward, adjusts, a little nudge of her hips, a little push of Ed's, and it's slick, a squishy slide of wet, and Ed doesn't feel anything and doesn't feel anything and then Stede is in.
"Oh, fuck, Stede, I can feel you, I can feel you, holy shit, holy shit."
And Stede, Stede has stayed so fucking poised, so reserved this whole night, so focused on Ed, but now, now her chin dips to her chest, and she lets out a deep, low hum of satisfaction that Ed swears she can feel vibrate between them.
And Ed gets a little sneaking hint, something tracing back to Stede wanting to make her feel good, and then even further back to the Stede she knew before she left, the uncertain part of her that would shrink back if you didn't coax it free, and Ed asks her, "Does that feel good, daddy, do you feel good inside of me?", and then Stede moans.
Fucking jackpot.
"Yes, yes, you do, feel so fucking good," Ed promises, and Stede hitches her hips, eyes glassy and still laying right on Ed, and it's not even that Stede's cock is the most stimulating thing she's ever had inside her, Stede was right, it's not a lot, but it's not about that, because it does feel good. Feels fucking good to watch Stede fuck her, to watch her cheeks, her chest flush with the effort, feels good to see how good this obviously feels for Stede, the way she bites her lip to hold back her moans, the way if Ed were any less of a puddle, she'd reach up and tug that lip free so she could hear it, the way Stede grips Ed's thighs to keep her in place while she fucks her, the motion of her hips, the way she fucks her.
"Ed, darling, is that—"
"Yes, daddy, fuck, just like that, so fucking good to me, yes, Stede, yes—" and it's not a performance, not really, because for all that it's not a lot of friction, not a lot of pressure, it's still drawing heat through her gut, coiling it down in her cunt, her mostly neglected clit, the whole everything of it, the fact that it's Stede, gorgeous and solid and here, fuck, that it's Stede, that no one's ever fucked Ed like this, and of course it would be Stede, of course it's Stede, it's Stede—
Fuck.
She is not going to cry. She knew what this was going to be when she came here, she knows what it will be after she leaves, and it aches, right, of course it does, how they didn't have this then, and that means they only get it now, and not even really, and never again, but she is not going to fucking cry. She's going to take this and have this and pretend that it's enough, and she's going to blink away her tears, and she's going to watch Stede.
Watch Stede as her hips start to hitch more frantically, as she loses her grip on her lower lip and is letting loose full throated moans, as she leans further over Ed, one hand still possessively on her thigh, the other planted in the pillows next to her head, bringing her just close enough that Ed can try to strain for a kiss. And as far as kisses go, the one she does take, it's a mess, glancing and toothy and quick, but it's enough for Ed, just to feel their breath together, and it's enough for Stede, because she fucks Ed faster and she fucks Ed harder, and she gasps out, "Ed, oh, darling, Ed—"
And Ed tells her, "Yes, daddy, give it to me, come inside me, just like that, baby, yes—" and Stede comes, collapses that final inch to finally give Ed a proper kiss, closer but still messy, still fucking good. But then Stede is moving again, barely a beat before she's shifting down the bed, using her strong hands to spread Ed's legs again, and Ed tries to ask, gets out something of a whuh?
"I've got to clean you up, darling, tidy up my mess," Stede says, and it makes something purr inside Ed that for as smooth as that line is, Stede's voice is raw and wrecked.
But then the purr revs into a growl the second Stede gets her mouth on Ed, because for all that Stede was teasing before, she is not even somewhat in the realm of fucking around, not now. She seals her mouth around Ed's clit, sucks, and before Ed can even clench her thighs shut an inch, those hands are back on her and holding her wide.
"Fuck, Stede," is what she can get out at first, and then, when she remembers, "So good, Stede, you feel so fucking good." Stede rewards her by letting go of one thigh to give her some fingers, and those fingers are just as determined as her mouth, and Ed can't hang on much longer. Will be shocked, later, when she can manage it, how quickly and ruthlessly Stede is driving her to the edge now that she's gotten her fill of teasing; Stede always struck Ed as a gentle, meandering sort, when it came to sex. Savoring. The way she did with most things.
This isn't exactly that. Oh, it's Stede, identifiably Stede, strong hand still gently petting at her thigh, fingers adjusting dutifully to Ed's every moan and shift and whimper, tongue and lips on her clit fierce without overstimulating, without working her raw, but it's barreling her headfirst towards an orgasm, and there's no way Ed can hold it back.
"Fuck, daddy, you're gonna make me come, I'm gonna— please—"
And just a heartbeat more, one more press, one more kiss, one more breath, and—
Thighs clenching, mouth running, blood pulsing, she comes.
Comes, and melts back into the plush of her bed, and for a beautiful moment, forgets where she is.
Where she is, what she's doing, who she's with.
But it's only a moment, just the one.
Because then Stede is up by her side, is kissing her forehead, her temple, her cheek, is fluttering her hands over Ed's body, is murmuring, "How's that darling, do you want more, can I give you another?"
And yeah, if that's what this was, Ed would trade orgasms back and forth with Stede until one of them passed out, and depending on Stede's opinions on the matter, maybe not even then.
But it's not.
"No," Ed says, and starts to scoot away. "No, Stede, that's it, I'm done."
Stede stills. Ed can feel the weight of it in the air, and for a second she feels like shit for putting it there, and then, just as quickly, she's angry, because Stede is really the one who did, started this, seven fucking years ago.
"That's it?" Stede asks, and Ed wants to believe it's something besides the sex that's scraping her voice like that.
"Yup," Ed says, short, quick, like an asshole, because someone has to be.
"You— you won't stay the night?"
"Stede, come on, you know that's not—"
"I know, Ed, but still—"
"No, Stede, I won't stay."
Stede nods, slowly, robotically. "Right. Not going to happen again. Didn't mean anything. Back to focusing on the job."
"Exactly," Ed says, and then she pulls herself out of Stede's bed, starts looking for her underwear, her leathers, because if she says anything else, the fragile grip she has on her bubbling emotions is going to slip.
She manages.
Keeps it together through getting dressed, through leaving, through the ride back to her apartment, up the stairs and through to her bedroom, keeps it together until she's shed her clothes, even after she's in bed.
And then she sees a bruise on her thigh she didn't even feel Stede give her, round and puckered like a kiss, and the gates open, and she cries.
Cries like she's dying, cries for everything they never got to have, for everything they won't get to have, for the fact that after all of it Ed still can't seem to figure out how to move forward without hurting herself, cries and cries and cries until there's nothing left.
And then it's fine.
Because at least now it's over.
Takes about five minutes back in Stede's presence for Ed to realize she fucked up.
Because, here's the thing, every other time she's fucked someone she's been aching to fuck, that calmed her down about it. Not to say she's never wanted/come back for a repeat with anyone. But it dulled out, wasn't this gnawing, clawing thing in her chest, her gut, begging for more, the way it was before, clouding up her senses, needling at her judgment. Like she said, scratched the itch.
She should've known, she should have fucking known it wasn't going to be like that with Stede, and boy fucking howdy is it not.
They get in a room together, and they're not even alone, they're in front of the crew, team meeting, and Ed hears her voice, and Stede mostly isn't even speaking to, looking directly at Ed, because, again, team meeting, and they're leading it together. -10 days to the big show and they're workshopping some last kinks in the plan, assigning final bit parts, nailing down timestamps, and Ed and Stede are bouncing off of each other as well as they always always have and it—
When they worked together, it was never just work, not even Stede can claim that, but, but the work was always good. Stede was inexperienced, green, a little naive, but she had fucking vision, and that was what Ed had been looking for, craving for years at that point. Ed would think herself into a corner, and there Stede would be, with the craziest, most impossible, totally doable way out. Stede wouldn't know where to start, and Ed would come in with her biggest stretch of a plan, and Stede wouldn't even blink, would just be bouncing on the balls of her feet ready to see how they could make it work.
That was—
Honestly, that was another big reason Ed needed her for this job, so long as she was in the business of admitting things.
This is the Last Job. This is Ed's grand finale. Back against the wall, cards down, Ed could probably make this job work without Stede. Only, only Ed didn't even really want to do a job so much as she wanted to secure enough zeroes for retirement to go the way she wanted it to. And if Ed was going to do a fucking job, she was going to do an interesting, complicated, jazzy fucking job. She was going to have fun with it, one last time.
And for whatever else there was between them, for all the signals Ed misread, for all that Stede took her heart, stomped on it, and then spit on it for good measure, the work was undeniably good, and, so, yeah, if Ed was going to go out swinging, it was always going to be with Stede.
Only the problem, the fucking problem, nitty gritty little thing, tiny issue, was that having sex with Stede didn't scratch the itch, didn't cure the need, if anything, it made it so much worse.
Because Ed is watching Stede lead the room, fully in command of a bunch of unruly kindergarteners disguised as con artists, and she's thinking about how Stede pushed her around last night like it was nothing. Ed is seeing Stede in her tailored suit, another tailored suit, crisp edges and clean lines and three layers between her and the world, and she's thinking about how soft and close she was in her buttery silk pajamas. Ed is hearing her voice, strong and clear and a little musical, and thinking about how it scraped and trembled when Stede fucked her.
And it should've just been sex. Should've been. If it was just sex, Ed would probably be fine.
But the thing she has to admit now, has to recognize, is that she stills misses Stede, still wants her, still— fucking hell— loves her. Their give and take, the wild thing inside of Stede that means she will blow up her whole life, blow it up again, and then blow it up a third time because she just refuses to settle. And sure, Ed got caught, got brutally caught in that crossfire, but Ed's always been the type to stick her hand in the flame just to prove to herself it will hurt, and Stede is more than a flame, she's a whole fucking wildfire, and Ed still wants to run headlong into it, just to know that it will actually consume her.
Only the wildfire doesn't want her. Sex, sure, Stede had said she wanted her during sex, but it's been seven years. No explanation for why she left, no apology, no indication she wants anything else, and Ed might be stupid, but she's not that fucking stupid.
She just wishes Stede wasn't so insanely, infuriatingly, tortorously hot.
They wrap the meeting, the crew fucks off to do whatever they do when they're not here causing problems on purpose, and there's still a few kinks to work out that only really belong with Ed and Stede. So then, of course, duh, because fuck Ed's life forever, right, then Stede takes off her suit jacket, revealing a vest tailored within an inch of its life, holding together curves and tits Ed gets whiplash just trying to look at. And then she undoes her bowtie, the top few buttons of her button-up, the buttons on her cuffs, which she rolls up to reveal strong, sandy-haired forearms, and says, "Lets get to it."
Like that was for work, just for work, just to give her a bit of breathing room for the arduous task of leaning over schematics and playing crime toys, like it wasn't the most fucked up and yet sexiest strip tease Ed has ever been subjected to.
And it would probably work better in Ed's defense to say that she snapped. That it was just too much, and she lost control, that she acted without thinking. But the truth of the matter is that Ed has this exact and crystal clear series of thoughts in rapid succession: This is a terrible idea. It's only going to make this hurt more. I definitely should not do this. I will regret doing this.
And then, of course, she still does it. Still strides towards Stede, closing the distance between them in a long step and a half, still fists her hands in the front of her shirt, still drags her in, still kisses her. And she comes out of the gate swinging, nothing slow, nothing tender, she's setting the tone and she's setting it quick and hot. And just like Stede always seems to when Ed kisses her, she gasps, a quick moment of surprise, before she kisses back just as fierce.
And just like last time, they get just deep enough into it that Ed finally starts to savor it before, deja vu, Stede pulls back, says, "Wait," asks, "I thought you said—"
"For the job," Ed says, which is transparently bullshit, to everyone in the room, including herself and especially Stede, who just lifts one eyebrow at her.
"Look," Ed tries again. "You come in here dressed like that, you strip down in front of me like a slut, I have a job to plan, can't fucking concentrate."
"Mmm," Stede hums, and then hooks her fingers into Ed's belt to pull her back in, hips flush against hips. "And this will help you concentrate?"
"Yeah, fucking, obviously."
"Okay, darling," Stede says, and Ed gets the distinct sense Stede is patronizing her, only then Stede tips in to kiss her, and Stede is driving the kiss like she clearly likes to, and fuck this, actually.
Ed lifts up her hands, grips Stede's head by her hair, feels the slight tackiness, the subtle crunch of product, and tips Stede away to bare her neck. Attaches herself to Stede teeth first, encore from her tongue, suction and worrying away and aiming for a hickey to pay her back for the mark she left on her thigh.
"Ha," Stede gasps, gratifyingly breathless, even already from this. "Are you trying to eat me whole?"
And isn't that an idea, so, "Yeah, could do," and back in, other side of her neck, a matching mark, keep it even, tip the scales back for Ed on feeling like she has any bit of power in this situation.
"Fuck, darling," Stede grinds out, and, ooh, isn't that satisfying, even last night Ed hadn't gotten her cursing— "Will you really?"
And the way Stede asks, betraying a hint of eagerness, a shade of need, like it's not just Ed going wild here, it makes Ed want it even more. "Yeah, daddy, is that what you want? For me to eat you out, suck your cock?"
"Yes, christ, yes—"
Ed doesn't wait. That's the— one of the many mistakes she made last night. Let them sit in it, let herself get comfortable, treated it like something she got to have. She won't do that today. She keeps it quick and dirty, pushing Stede back, yanking open her trousers, shoving them down around her knees and taking her boxers with them, urging her up on the table, not nearly as strong as Stede to just pick her up and push her around, but the intent is there.
She lowers herself to her knees, this is careful, but this is for her bad knee, not for Stede's benefit, because the second she's in place, she's pushing Stede's legs wider, diving in.
In another life, she warms Stede up, starts slow and gentle and indirect, kisses up the generous plush of her thighs, licks and teases, in another life, Ed does this like she loves her, instead of what she does today, moving with a quickness and a precision designed to never be mistaken for love.
It's not harsh, it's not unpleasant, not for either of them, for everything between them Ed still can't stomach the thought of being cruel to Stede, but it's like Stede was last night, perfect parallel, nothing more than reciprocity for the little they're willing to give each other.
And Ed says not unpleasant, but she does enjoy it, there's a twisting satisfaction to be found in how wet Stede is for her already, in how easily she moves and parts her legs for Ed, in the thick sponginess of her cock on her tongue, the way Stede rumbles and moans. Ed finds a rhythm, and then loses herself in it, tongue here, suction there, lips and fingertips and spit and a little more and then a little more and then a lot more, grabbing Stede by her neck and bodily dragging her towards an orgasm, which Stede does give her, along with the clamp of her thighs and a string of curses, and then stepping back, declining Stede's touch, wiping her face clean, turning back to planning, and then it's done.
Only then it's done again in the utility closet.
And again in the bathroom at a contact's offices.
And again with Stede bent over their drafting table, Ed's fingers buried in her cunt, pouring praises into her ear, marveling about how easy it is for Ed to unravel all that poise and elegance just by telling her how handsome her daddy is, how good she is for her.
And again, and again, and again, and it keeps getting better and it keeps getting so much fucking worse.
Their chemistry is insane. They way they dance through a job, the push and pull, the to and fro, matching each other beat for beat, it translates into sex, translates even better, because the happy ending isn't just another plan on the horizon, it's the way Stede makes her come so hard she can almost forget what's happening between them.
But then, that's where it gets worse. There's always a comedown. There's always a reckoning with reality. There's always the cold hard facts, that Stede left her high and dry, that it's been seven years, that there's nothing Stede could say that would undo any of it, that when this job is done, Ed is getting out, but Stede still has a whole crew and family and life wrapped up in the next job and the next job and the next job. Even if their past wasn't so fraught, they have no future, and Ed can't afford to have Stede, to hear her explanations, to try to put that all behind them just to lose her all over again.
Really, she can barely afford the torture she's putting herself through having sex with Stede, but they're in this deep now, and Ed's committed, and she's not willing to the call this job any more than she was willing to call anyone but Stede to make the job happen in the first place.
So, whatever, she's going out in a blaze of glory.
She'll pick up the pieces on whatever island she buys, crying into her, whatever, handwoven cashmere tissues, or whatever you do when you're richer than god and horrifically heartbroken.
By the time day zero comes around, they've fucked 13 times and three halves of a time (almost got caught a few of those times, never got to get back to it), and one of those was just this morning, and Ed knew it would be the last time. She didn't do anything different. Didn't take it slow, didn't linger, didn't savor anything, didn't ask for anything she hadn't already been given, no ceremony, it didn't need it. It needed to be just a fuck, just one more fuck, and it was.
Sure, Ed poured praises into Stede's ears, clinging to her back and scraping it up with her nails while Stede dicked her straight through the mattress— Stede has a bigger thing for praise than anyone Ed's ever fucked, you tell her how handsome, strong, hot she is, how good she treats you, how she knows just how to fuck you and she'll reward you by making you come until you have to tap out. And sure, Ed let Stede give her just a hair more sweetness in the afterglow than she normally would have tolerated, though Ed puts it down to just how fucked out she was. And sure, Ed had made sure to dig her nails in as deep as Stede could take (shockingly deep, if they had any more time Ed would— but they don't) so the marks would last. And yes, alright, Ed left as quickly as she could and cried the whole bike ride in to their loft, but—
It was the last time.
It was over.
And now it's just the job. 12 hours from now, the main part of this thing will be done and dusted, and all that's left will be tipping the feds off to their bread crumb trail that leads back to Izzy Hands, which is already planned to a T and doesn't require Ed and Stede to meet again, and so then that's as good as over too.
There's just the final debrief, and Ed and Stede tag team it, it's weird, begrudgingly, Ed has developed a raport with Stede's crew, genuinely likes Frenchie, is impressed with Jim, wants to keep John's number for any tailoring jobs because Ed's never had a pair of jeans that fit until John worked her magic, and it tugs at Ed's heart the same way everything to do with Stede does. Because Ed never had this. Even when she did run a crew, her and Ivan and Fang and the occasional rotational hire, there was always such a clear line between her and the crew, nothing even close to Stede's nonsensical notion of family, except that Ed watches Stede in action with them and knows it's not nonsense, that it actually, genuinely works. And it's weird to think about missing something she never had, but not like that's stopped her from all the missing she does about Stede.
But she catches herself thinking the dangerous thought that maybe if she had this, actually had it, maybe she wouldn't want to burn it all down.
Only, then she remembers the long, dark, mind-numbing years in prison, and the longer, darker, more mind-numbing decade before it, when all the magic was gone and all Ed wanted was a permanent address and a real social security number.
And she knows, knows it down to her guts, even if she had Stede, and Stede's crew, and, fuck it, the key to New York City, since she's already listing impossible things, it still wouldn't be enough. That the malaise would come back, the listlessness, the exhuastion, the desperate need to just rest.
So the debrief winds down, and Ed steps back and lets Stede bring it on home, she's better at that sort of thing, that crowd-rousing peptalk shit, and then the crew starts trickling out to get into position, and it's just Ed and Stede in the loft, the two of them the last to move into place, lounging on the couch until go time.
"How are you feeling?" Stede asks, and Ed starts to laugh, but cuts herself off at the disarming sincerity in those big hazel eyes.
And it's the sincerity that ruins it. Because Ed can't match it. If she tells Stede the truth, that she's relieved, that she can see the shore on the horizon, that she can almost fucking taste her freedom and she can't wait to get there, then Stede will—
Well, who even knows. Ed hasn't actually told Stede that this is the Last Job, has been scared, maybe that Stede will try to talk her out of it, maybe that— Ed has no idea, but it's a tender fucking piece of Ed's heart to be offering up, and historically that's gone like shit for Ed, and they're literally an hour from go time, nothing left to do but get dressed, and Ed cannot afford to get messy right now. So instead Ed deflects, a half-truth at best, that, "I'm fucking restless is what I am."
And then Stede gives her a Look.
"No, absolutely not," Ed tells her.
Stede keeps looking at her.
"No, Stede, uh-uh, this morning was the last time, and we don't even have the time—"
Stede raises an eyebrow.
"We are not doing this," Ed insists.
Stede shrugs, picks up her phone, says, "I don't know what you're talking—"
Ed is in Stede's lap.
In her lap, kissing her, winding her fingers in her hair.
Somehow.
Logically, it must've been Ed who made the move, but she doesn't remember deciding to do it, which is probably for the best, because if she did, untangling the line of thinking behind this stupid impulse would be impossible and humiliating to boot.
The truth is, there is zero fucking thought in this, zero thought as she tries to crawl tongue first into Stede's throat, zero thought as she starts twisting at the buttons of Stede's shirt with one hand, zero thought as she starts breathing her excuses into Stede's lips. "One last time, fuck the nerves out, go into the job fresh, just one more, make it quick—"
And Stede, as always, has been just as crazy as Ed, and so she's nodding, and she's kissing back, and she's ferreting her hand up Ed's skirt, and she's asking, "What do you want, darling, anything you want—"
God, the last time they're together like this, the real last time, and they have less than an hour, and no bed, and no strap, and Ed has to pick, damned if you do, damned if you don't ass choice, Ed can't fucking pick. "I don't know, fuck, I don't—"
"You want your daddy to pick? You want me to take care of you?"
"Yes," Ed breathes immediately, because yes. Sure, it's fun, pushing back against Stede, seeing how far Stede will let her edge towards genuinely grabbing the reins, taking her praise kink and melting her down to the floor, but it's fun because it's a push and pull, because Stede won't just roll over for her, because Stede can have her back in hand, nothing but putty dripping through her fingers with just a flick of her wrist. Stede is so hot because she can match Ed, and for the last time? Ed just wants to lay back and take it, take it fucking all.
"Yes, daddy, yeah," she repeats.
Stede kisses her, kisses her down into the couch cushions, crawls on top of her, and fuck yes. Ed loves it when Stede is on top of her, all her weight pressing against her, holding her down, grounding her to this moment, this moment, where Stede kisses her, where Stede tangles her fingers in her hair, where Stede tips and guides her second to second so that Ed is always exactly where she wants her, which is exactly where Ed wants to be. Ed doesn't know what will come next, what Stede will give her, and she doesn't care, because—
Truthfully, if this is all it was, if their Last Time was nothing more than a hot and heavy make out, Stede close to her, surrounding her with her heat and her scent, floral and verdent and just a hint of musk, if it was just Stede's lips on hers, determined but sweet, that—
That would be enough.
Not that Ed would admit that to anyone, let alone Stede, but this part, the part before the sex, when Ed can pretend for a little while that it isn't just about sex, that's the part she loves the most. When Ed can pretend there's a world where her and Stede make sense, that they ever did make sense as anything except partners in crime, when Ed can lose herself in the kissing, just the kissing.
But they're on a time clock, and Stede knows it as well as Ed does, and there's only so long she can linger before this becomes something it can't afford to be, and so Stede moves away, moves down Ed's body, leaving kisses as she goes, until she's settled between Ed's legs, flipping up her skirt, pushing her thighs apart to make room. And with the space she's made, she noses in, first a tracing tease along Ed's inner thigh, then back to kiss over the other, and then kisses, and then nibbles, and then solid fucking bites. Ed yelps, can't help it, but she doesn't pull away, not for a minute, loves it, the press of Stede's strong, slightly crooked teeth, the grip of her jaw worrying away at the tender inside of her thigh, the sharp sting of pain, the way Stede kisses over it like that'll stop it from leaving a mark.
Only, Ed wants the marks, wants all the marks Stede will give her, because they'll hurt when she presses on them, the bruises, same as the metaphorical, the emotional ones, the ones stamped all over Ed's heart, but even dead in the center of this whole fucking mess, Ed knows well enough to know that she won't forget Stede, that she won't even want to.
Because, for all that Stede broke her heart, for all that Ed's fucked up her life in the wake of it, Stede has changed her life for the better. Made her believe that there was a version of herself that existed beyond Blackbeard, made her believe that it was worth the effort to get out, that it was even possible, and, yeah, it fucking sucked that it turned out Stede didn't want anything to do with that, but Ed's been on her own far too long to let that stop her from finally, finally getting at least one of the things she wants.
And right now, top of the list of things she wants, "More, Stede, please, more—" because Stede has only juuust teased into the crease between her thigh and her cunt, is nuzzling her face into the space, cheek brushing lightly over her panties that she's still, for some fucking reason, wearing.
Stede just huffs a soft laugh into Ed's skin, follows with a hot stripe from her tongue, and Ed clenches, a pavlovian response, more to her laugh than her tongue, because that's the kind of in deep Ed is, that Stede's low chuckle, a threat before it's anything else, sends her squirming and desperate.
Which she is. Fucking desperate, as Stede continues to do anything but remove Ed's damn panties. Reaches her hands up to slip her fingers under the waistband and trace shivery patterns across Ed's hips, teases her tongue from the lacy edge of her panties up over the satin fabric to where Ed would bet good money she's starting to soak through, then higher, until Stede is mouthing wetly at Ed's clit, still through her fucking panties.
"Daddy," Ed whines, but it's defeated, because it was maybe the third time they fucked that Ed realized Stede was serious about the begging thing. When Stede decided she was going to take her time with something, not heaven nor hell nor anything in between would compel her to move, especially when that thing was Ed, and especially when the thing begging and pleading and wet and desperate for her to do more was also Ed.
Except that—
Stede's not just taking her time, not at this point, because this isn't teasing, light touches through fabric designed strictly to make Ed insane, no, Stede is working her clit as intently, as devotedly, as thoroughly as she always does, just, again, Ed cannot emphasize this enough, through her fucking panties. And it feels good, soaked and slick satin not a bad time, friction and heat always the right move, but they don't have the time for Stede to edge her like this—
"Stede, baby, take them off, we don't have time—"
Stede pauses just a moment, only long enough to tell her, "No, you're going to come in your underwear," before her mouth is back on Ed's clit.
"Stede— fuck— I don't have another pair for the heist— ah— ah—"
"Mmhm," Stede hums into Ed's clit, christ.
"Baby— shit— daddy, I am not stealing the— mmmmfuck— motherFUCKing Toussaint in cummy panties—"
Stede moves away again, leaving behind a fingertip to trace over Ed's cunt. "You will if I ask you to, won't you?"
"Stede—" Ed tries to plead, only it comes out more like Steeeeeee—
"Besides," Stede continues, smug, as the pad of her finger presses in a bit more insistently. "Be honest, darling, these were a lost cause, let's say, ten minutes ago, to be generous."
And Ed knows she won't win this, never was going to, her fucking fault for giving Stede the greenlight to take charge, so she folds, "Okay, fuck, daddy, fine, fine, make me come in my panties, just make me come."
And Stede does.
Hot and insistent and slow and steady and just this side of not enough, not enough, not enough until it is, it's enough, it's too fucking much, back off the couch, thighs clamped around her ears, toes curling, voice warbling, coming in her fucking panties, just like Stede wanted.
And there's no time, none for Ed to wait around doing anything but grab for Stede, desperate hands, needy fingers, to drag her in, to touch her for the last fucking time—
Her alarm rings.
40 minute reminder to start getting dressed, touch up her makeup, finish her hair, fuck.
"Stede—" she starts, like there's anything she can do, like Stede isn't already moving to stand.
"Come on darling. Let's do this thing."
And what else is there for Ed to do except to do it?
Never mind the fact that it was their last time and Ed didn't even get to touch Stede.
Never mind the fact that somewhere in there was their last kiss and Ed didn't even get to mark it.
Never mind that, what Ed is realizing, with the sinking feeling of regret, is that it was the last time Stede was ever going to touch her like that and she didn't even touch Ed directly.
That, for some reason, Stede wanted Ed to feel their last time together through her clothes, wouldn't even grant her the soothing burn of her skin to Ed's skin.
But Ed can't do anything with that, can't decode it, make sense of it, can't do anything but pull her dress on, strap up her heels, and rob the fucking Met.
After all, that's what Stede came here to do in the first place.
Ed's fault for making it anything else.
Ed gets dressed, fixes her hair, her face, her car to take her to the gala arrives, and they leave the loft, Ed in her car and Stede driving a rental, both of them ready to play their parts.
There's an ache in Ed's chest, a wanting thing, and what it wants is some kind of proper good-bye, something sincere, even just to wish her good luck, something that feels familiar and true, something that rings between them like it used to. Only, it wasn't true then, wouldn't be true now, and so all they give each other, all they have to give each other is a pair of sharp nods, and out they go.
And then Ed is waiting in line to enter, giving her name and ID, her real ID (or, the realest one she has, the truth is Edward Teach is an alias as much as any of her other IDs are, but it's the one she's used so much that for all intents and purposes, it is who she is. What was actually on her birth certificate has been buried and lost—), the first steps in establishing her alibi, then moving through the event space, careful to stay on camera and far away from Luci and her date, gag, Izzy Hands, and finding her table way in the back with other D-listers and the rich but not famous.
(Doing all of this, of course, with the nagging feeling of her wet, cummy panties, sticking and cool.)
She's got the team in her ear, and as the night progresses, she gets check ins, who's in position, who's poised to move, Luci's soup is— well, poisoned is such a strong but unfortunately accurate word— then delivered, then she's eating it, then it settles, then she's on the move to the bathroom, and it's Ed's turn to move, to go plant herself in front of the camera near the bathroom clearly and visibly not involved the whole time Luci is barfing her guts up and "losing" the necklace, and everything is going great, exactly according to plan, Jim is on their way into the ladies' to make the snatch—
"Izzy is following Luci to the bathroom—?" warns the Swede in her ear, and fuck, oh, now Izzy fucking Hands wants to play at being a good guy, of all fucking times?
"Intercept him!" Ed hisses, shifts, tries to unstick her stupid fucking panties without looking like that's what she's doing at the Met gala.
"My boss from Vogue is watching? And I am really hoping to receive a good reference?"
"Damn it, Swede— Whatever, Olu?"
"Stuck in the kitchen, captain."
"John?"
No answer.
And Buttons is in the ceiling, Roach is on surveillance outside the gig, Pete is in the security office inside the gig, and that just leaves Frenchie—
"Stede fucking Bonnet," and that's Izzy's voice, tinny and muted through the mic—
And then, in possibly the worst french accent anyone has ever affected, "Excuse moi? You must have me mistaken for someone else, I am zee dietician—"
"What the fuck are you doing, Stede?" Ed hisses, is feeling the creeping fingers of panic, because Stede cannot put her face on the line like this—
"Like fuck you are, I don't know what you're doing here—"
"Oh, you see, we had a note zat your dietary requirements were marked, how you say, 'sensitive', and I just wanted to clarify—"
"Get the fuck out of my way, I—"
"So you will have no issues with zee garlic cream bean gluten dumpling soup—?"
"The what— No, fuck off, you twat—"
A beat, and then, "Damn," Stede's voice, "I lost him."
And then Jim, "I'm clear of the bathroom, we're clear, we're clear—"
And Ed, pissed and trying to keep her composure for the camera, "Stede, fucking switch to the backup channel—" and then a click, and Ed doesn't wait before demanding once more, "What the fuck were you thinking, Stede?"
"Well, Ed, obviously if anyone goes down for this job, it's going to be me, not you. I couldn't risk you."
And before Ed can ask what the fuck she means with that, there's a click of Stede tapping back to the main channel, and the rest of the heist is moving, moving, moving without them, and Ed's still sitting there under the camera, fresh off of listening to Stede risk her ass for Ed's while Ed couldn't do anything but squirm in the panties Stede soaked.
Luci is discovered without the necklace, the gala locks down, everyone is escorted out, Ed is playing nice and polite and citizenly, Olu is making jewelry, Buttons and Stede are stealing the rest of the jewels from the exhibit hall, Roach and Pete are camping on security, Jim is disappearing into the catering staff, and then the Swede is "discovering" the necklace and things are moving, moving, moving, John planting the pendant on Izzy, Olu changing and slipping her new pieces to the crew one by one, and that's it, that's it—
Just like that, they're walking down the front steps of the Met with more diamonds than any of them have ever seen, and they fucking did it, and Ed can't even enjoy it, because it's still ringing around in her head, has been from the moment it happened, that Stede through herself in the line of fire, the possibility of being made and going right to prison, all because she "couldn't" risk Ed, and what the fuck, what the fuck does that mean?
Lot of words in that sentence.
"I", like it was Stede, her personal responsibility, that any of this was on her, and not Ed's idea from the beginning. "Couldn't", as in, her conscience prevented her? It wasn't the job, if Ed went down, they all had every chance and reason to finish the job and make it out of there scott free, so what, was this Stede's Gentleman Criminal thing all over again, or, fuck, god forbid, something more? Because, "You," again, not "the job", not anything like that, no, she said "you", like Ed was something she could personally lose, something she could personally risk, and so what the fuck, what the actual fuck?
Ed is starting to think, maybe, now that the job is set, maybe—
Maybe she and Stede could— should talk.
They don't get a chance.
The law enforcement investigation is going nowhere, at least, haven't even so much as called Izzy Hands, but god damn does the hammer of the insurance investigation fall fast, and they're in close contact with Izzy, who wastes zero time naming names, namely Stede, and suddenly they can't afford to wait for someone to stumble on the idea to get a warrant for Izzy's place, no, it needs to be now, and it needs to be undeniably implicating.
And none of them can get close enough, quick enough, unless—
"You should call Luci," Ed tells Stede, over the phone, not ready to see her in person, not with everything between them so—
"Ed, no—"
"It's the only thing that makes sense! She was Izzy's date, she can get into his apartment, she can tip off the feds, and we made off with so much cash it won't even make a dent to cut her in, come on, you knew her, do you think she'd be open to it?"
"I wouldn't say I knew her well—"
"Okay, but, still?"
Stede heaves a heavy sigh, loud enough to crackle through the phone. "Yes, Ed, I think she would be open to it. But I still don't think we should—"
"Stede, please," and then Ed gambles, maybe a bitch move, but maybe it saves the heist— "For me?"
Stede sighs again, softer this time. "Yes, fine, I'll call her. For you, Ed."
It's more sincere than Ed would like it to be when she answers back a soft, "Thank you," before disconnecting the line.
Luci is not what Ed expects.
Striding into the central meeting spot in their loft, the first words out of her mouth are strident and snappy, "I already told Stede on the phone, I will not fuck Izzy hands."
The room, their crew, scattered in various positions across the furniture and floor, immediately erupts, main sentiments being variations on the theme of "What the fuck is she doing here?"
Ed interrupts over the din, "Stede and I called her. The water's getting hot, and we need to trigger the tip on Izzy sooner, rather than later, and Luci is our way back in." And then to Luci, standing with her arms crossed and her hip cocked, "Please, sit."
Luci rolls her eyes, but she sits, only to add, "Besides that, I'm not completely stupid, I knew something was going on, plus I saw Stede at the gala, and I was only about one appletini away from calling her myself."
Stede blushes, looks away; Ed chooses to feel nothing about this. Instead, she gets back to business. "No one's asking you to fuck Izzy Hands, but you do have to get him alone in his apartment and get him incapacitated long enough to tip the feds without arousing suspicion."
"Hmm," Luci muses, and this is the part Ed doesn't expect—
Because, alright, Ed had done some light— light— internet digging about Luci after Stede mentioned they had "a brief affair", plus had gently prodded John for any intel she could get while John worked her for the heist. And besides the fact that Luci is publicly bisexual and pops up on page 6 with a new tryst with slightly above average frequency, Luci had looked the part of your average hollywood starlet: pretty, passively neo-liberal, mostly headlined blockbusters, occasionally dipped into the more artistic picture, but nothing so niche as to constitute a creative risk, and air-headed and vain.
But what comes out of her mouth next is—
"How mean can I get?"
"Pardon?" Stede answers first.
"Like, do we have access to poison?"
"Poi—?" Stede starts.
"Nothing that shows up on a tox screen," Ed says, because that's the practical answer. "And, nothing that kills him. But other than that, whatever you want, Buttons can probably hook you up."
"Nice," Luci says, and leans back into her seat with a satisfied smile.
"Only," Ed pushes on. "It has to be tonight."
"Oh, gag, do I really have to? I hate that slimy little man. How do you so obviously hate women that much and still try to fuck them? I mean, I know how, but, yikes."
Ed looks at Stede instinctively, matches her knowing look with her nod. Then Stede takes the lead, the way she always does, warm, but authoritative, only Ed swears there's an edge to it that she only hears from her in bed, and it makes her fume. "Luci," fucking starting with her name— "It has to be tonight. If we don't take our chance to nail this on him now, we won't be able to shift the rest of the jewels freely, which means no one gets paid, which means you don't get paid, which means you'll have to take that Marvel contract your agent's been needling you about."
What the fuck—
"Fine," Luci says, snarky and punctuated with a heavy sigh. "I mean, really, I'll do it, that's just how I talk."
Stede gives her a warm look, and what the fuck, that particular brand of pleased belongs to Ed when she's done a good job of—
Except, nope, the job is still on, they still haven't talked, and as far as Ed is concerned, the only thing she can do is continue with the assumption that anything between her and Stede is dead and gone, and get the fucking job done.
So—
"Alright crew, let's talk logistics."
It's not really complicated, it needs to not be. Luci will call Izzy, ask to come over, he is stupid, so he will say yes, Luci will dose his wine with poison— she decided she wanted to go the route of gastrointestinal decimation— stall long enough for it to kick in, and while he fights for his life in the bathroom, she will pull the pendant from his jacket he surely hasn't bothered to have dry cleaned since the gala, photograph it somewhere incriminating, forward that to the insurance investigator through a burner account, and then make an excuse to slip out before Izzy has even begun to recover.
That shitty ass insurance investigator will tip off the cops and they'll have a warrant by morning, Izzy will be booked, they will be unbothered, then Frenchie will move the jewels, and they'll ride off into the sunset.
Which is exactly what happens, down to the minute, Luci's no oscar winner on film, but apparently she thrives in the field, because it's smoothe and hiccupless, and a week later they're all back together in the loft toasting to the fat wires that landed in everyone's bank accounts just this morning.
And Ed—
Ed feels better than she's ever felt after a job.
Sure, a big fucking chunk of it is that it's over. It's finally fucking over. Ed checked the zeroes herself, and even if she buys three islands and never so much as mows a lawn for a tenner again in her life, investing and creative accounting will keep her set well passed her assumed life expectancy of carking it somewhere in her early 60s from accumulated stress and smoking like it was going out of style and never really doing anything about her shit knee. Pay it it's fucking dues, Ed is so fucking relieved to truly be done, that the last job really was the last job, that she will never again dream in vault schematics, never again wake up in the middle of the night panicking that she left a blind spot unchecked.
But the other thing, bittersweet as it fucking is, is—
Stede.
She's so fucking happy. Ed can see it, all over her face, beaming that big dimply smile as she circles the room, clinking glasses, giving hugs and handshakes, listening patiently as her crew— her family gushes through repeating their own parts in the heist as though they weren't all in it together the whole time.
And Ed's not part of that, or maybe she is, she ran this job as much as Stede did, and undeniably, really, they ran it together, and they've always been good together like that, way back since the first job, when they literally bumped into each other in the dark reaching for the same safe deposit box, and Stede was just a hair ahead of Ed, but she'd offered, "A compromise, I'll split the loot if you help me figure out how to get out of here," and Ed fell hard and fast for this lunatic that robbed a bank with a Vera Bradley duffel bag and no exit strategy, and the rest fell just as hard and fast, one job after the other, right up until the end.
And Ed thought this was it, this was the real end, but she's not—
She isn't ready to let Stede go.
And maybe it's stupid, maybe it's delusional, because Ed can see it with her own eyes, right here, right now, how well Stede fits into this life, and Ed doesn't, not anymore, not for a long time, but she's bargaining now, trying to imagine a world where they're still friends, where Stede comes to visit her on her island for vacation, where she tells Ed all of her insane exploits and Ed gets all the joy of hearing about them without the agony of having to be part of them, and maybe there's something to that, maybe if she just—
"Ed?"
Ed blinks, looks up to see Stede offering her a flute of champagne as she settles next to her on the couch. She takes it, and a tentative sip, because Stede has this look on her face, weighty and significant and Ed has no idea what it means.
"Uh, yeah?" Ed tries, a beat too late.
"The job, it's officially over, isn't it? No loose ends to tie, no paychecks to cut? It's done?"
Ed looks around again, realizes that the rest of the crew has fully cleared out while she was lost in thought, and took with them anything that marked this loft as anything but a poorly staged vacant rental. She takes in her biggest breath, lets it out slowly as she turns to Stede to confirm, "Yeah, it's done."
"Great," Stede says like a period, and then, "I love you."
She—
What?
"What?"
"I love you," Stede says again, like that explains anything.
"What are you talking about? You fucking left me— this was a job— where the fuck do you get off saying that to me— what? Seriously, WHAT the fuck?"
Stede takes a heavy breath, twists her hands in her lap, but she doesn't look away from Ed for a second. "Yes. I know. I'm incredibly sorry, really, you have no idea how sorry I am, and if I could go back—"
"Why?"
"Because I love—"
"No, shut up, stop saying that, I mean why did you leave?"
Stede takes another breath. "The short answer is that I was a coward."
Ed barks out a laugh, though there's no humor in it, because, "That has literally never been true once in your life, so what's the long answer?"
"Well," Stede starts, still looking at Ed, but unfocused as she recalls. "Do you remember the morning after we kissed? When we were supposed to meet for coffee and sketch out the Camberlain heist?"
Ed definitely remembers that morning. Remembers waiting in the cafe with Stede's london fog with lavender hot and ready, sending more and more desperate texts until about two hours past the point of sense when suddenly they started going through undelivered, and then still waiting another hour before she finally gave up and crawled back to her apartment where she curled up to die for three days before pulling her shit back together, blocking Stede back, and answering an email from Izzy Hands. "Yeah," she acknowledges flatly.
"Well, I was on my way, I was, only— I got arrested."
"You what?" That doesn't make any sense, though, Ed blocked Stede, but that didn't mean she didn't look for her, just in case, hospital intakes, station bookings— "But you were never booked, I would've seen it—"
"Yes, well… Did I ever tell you about Nigel Badminton?"
"No, what the fuck kind of name is that—"
"Well, it's sort of a long story, and the point is, I messed up, and—"
"Stede, tell me."
"Well. I grew up with them, Nigel and Chauncey, they were brothers—"
"How is the other one's name worse—"
"I know, right? Anyways, they were always absolutely awful to me growing up, especially because my father was under the misapprehension that it was still the 1600s and had promised their father that I would marry either one of them when I came of age and they both knew it, and to them I was nothing but a huge dowry and a controlling interest in my father's business."
"Gross," Ed says, because, gross.
"Quite," Stede agrees. "Anyways, I turned 18, and they must have flipped a coin for it, because Nigel was the one who proposed, publicly, at a large company event, like an idiot, and, being that it still wasn't the 1600s nor was I lobotimized, I said no. Neither of them ever forgave me for the so-called humiliation, and they've caught me up on any corner they could, including trying to fuck me over with the fine print on me and my ex's prenup— Nigel is a lawyer— as though I can't read or hire a lawyer of my own, which of course I did—"
"Wait, so they got you arrested—?"
"Chauncey arrested me—"
"He's a cop? God, double-gross— Wait, on what charges?"
"To be honest, Ed? I don't remember, he was— He was very drunk, he was waving around his gun, he was—" Stede takes a steadying breath. "He said a lot of things. About me, what an embarassment I was, about how I was ruining my family's reputation, how my children needed their mother, how I was— Was ruining Blackbeard."
"For fuck's sake, Stede, and you believed any of that shit?"
For the first time, Stede fully looks away, eyes distant somewhere over Ed's shoulder. "I might not have. But then he tripped and shot himself in the face, and—"
"Oh my god, Stede—"
"Yes. Well."
"Fuck."
"I wasn't." Stede swallows. "I wasn't thinking rationally. I thought they'd arrest me. I thought they'd bring me down for murder, and I thought they'd drag you in too, and I knew you wanted out, I knew you were tired of the game, I couldn't get you sent to prison, so I ran."
"Back to your husband?"
"Where else would I have gone? Bored little housewife with delusions of grandeur, what else was I actually going to do?"
"Stede, you weren't—"
"I don't think that. Not anymore." She gestures to herself. "Clearly. But it was enough that I believed it long enough for you to block my number and move on, and I didn't believe in myself enough to do anything but give you space, and then by the time I realized what a waste of time that was, you— damn— you—"
"I was in prison…" Ed finishes for her. "The dossier on Izzy, that wasn't just because you're insane and he sucks, that was for me."
Stede looks at her once more, this time with her eyebrow arched in cunty reproach, and in twinges in Ed's heart to see life back in Stede's expression. "Ed. Obviously."
"Yeah, well, in my fucking defense—"
"I know, darling," Stede says, immediately softening. "I'm sorry. I'm incredibly sorry. I wish I had talked to you, even for a moment, I just—"
Ed slumps back into the couch, heaves a sigh, takes it all in. Rolls it around in her brain. That was probably the first time Stede's ever had a gun on her in her life, definitely the first time she'd ever seen someone die, not to fucking mention the threat that one or both of them could end up in prison, and Ed knows deep in her chest that she herself would've done the same stupid fucking thing, and it's not Stede's fault that it only took about three days for Ed to implode in on herself like a dying star.
"Okay," Ed says.
"Okay?" Stede answers back, and Ed can hear, see, feel the hope in her voice.
"This sucks," Ed allows. "Really wish it hadn't happened. Really wish I hadn't gone to prison. But. Um." Ed swallows. The words are sticking, because she's pretty much certain she's never said them before in her life, but she gets it out, "I forgive you."
"Oh, Ed," and then Stede is crushing Ed to her chest in a hug that's all warmth and solid and relief. And suddenly, Ed's idle daydream that they can stay friends starts to feel more real—
Wait.
Ed yanks back from Stede's grip. "You said I love you, present tense, current, as in, now, and, presumably, recently, as in the last few weeks also, at least."
"Yes?" Stede agrees.
"So why the fuck did you have heisting with benefits sex with me 14 and three half times?"
Stede smiles, and it's one of those smiles where Ed knows she's going to have the rug yanked out from under her, but before she hits the floor, Stede will catch her. "I'm going to be incredibly presumptuous, darling, and I'm going to ask that you continue to find it as charming as you always have."
"Okay, well I don't know about that—"
"You were obviously still in love with me."
"The fuck I was—" Ed says, immediately defensive.
"You literally were, and if you wanted to pretend that this was just a job, that it wasn't completely insane for you to call me, that having sex with me 14 and three half times was just about the heist, I was willing to play along until the job had wrapped."
"You're insane," Ed says wondering, affectionate.
"Well," Stede says, and then, casual as fuck, "I already waited six years, ten months, 15 days for you, you're certainly worth a few weeks more."
And Ed decides that's it, that's enough fucking talking, slams back the rest of her champagne, gone slightly warm while they talked, sets aside the glass, and reaches out to fist her hand around Stede's tie to yank her in.
Stede follows the motion easily, follows, follows until she's pressing her lips to Ed's, her body to Ed's, tipping both of them back, back, until Ed lands against one of the fussy throw pillows Stede insisted on, and finally, finally, Ed has everything she's ever wanted.
She's free of the life, Stede loves her, there's actually a pretty good explanation for her leaving in the first place, she's rich as fuck, and she's making out with Stede, pinned under her weight, with no end point in sight.
She can relax right here and kiss Stede and kiss Stede and kiss Stede and never have to do something different, make some kind of excuse, pretend that this is anything except exactly what it is.
So that's what she does.
Drinks in Stede's lips, her moans, her tongue, her scent, melts under the solid weight of her body, tests different angles, different depths, different tensions, tugging her lip between her teeth, feels Stede all around her, feels her and feels her, close, close enough that Ed, for the first time ever, thinks she might actually get her fill.
And Stede calls her darling, calls her love, calls her angel, and Ed calls her Stede, calls her name, lets it roll around her tongue, savoring how it feels, that she's here, herself, no pretense.
Savors how it feels when Stede tangles her hands tight in the roots of her hair, how it feels when she uses her grip to tip her this way and that to kiss her cheek, her jaw, her forehead, the tender space below her ear, soft, sweet, loving, solid, not a bite of possession, but still posessing her completely, every fucking inch.
Savors the feeling of Stede grinding her hips against Ed's, the way, even through Stede's boxers and suit pants, Ed's job-wrap-celebration sweats— sue her, she's officially off the clock forever— Ed can feel that Stede is hard, can feel the butt of her cock up against her.
She gets her hands up on Stede's hips, tugs at her belt, pulling her in closer, deeper, harder. "Yeah," Ed tells her, and then, just because, because she does fucking love it, "Come on daddy, give it to me."
Stede doesn't answer with anything but a low moan, her hips following the motion and then moving with their own intent, and then she brings her lips back to meet Ed's, kisses her deep. And even as her hips keep moving, slow and deliberate and intent, she doesn't break the kiss, not for anything except to breathe, and even then, still so close that it's not so much breathing as it is gasping down each other's exhales. Stede kisses her and kisses her and grinds her hips just so, just so until it's only dry-humping in the technical sense, because Ed can add her post-heist sweats to the list of clothes Stede has helped her ruin, and she doesn't even care, she doesn't care.
Couldn't care, not when Stede moves against her like that, kisses her like this, and it's hot, it's heavy, fucking of course it is, but Ed realizes she's going to come like this, she's going to come in her lazy sweats dry-humping on a couch with the love of her life like she's not a hardened ex-con and also Blackbeard.
Which is awesome.
Good fucking riddance.
Fuck all of that, and thank god it's all in the trash in exchange for this, the press of Stede's hips, her cock, all the not-enough-just-too-much friction, Stede moaning straight into her mouth because she refuses to break the kiss, even as she starts to tense, starts to stutter, as Ed feels her come, as Ed follows her right after.
It's fucking perfect.
Exactly what she wants.
Finally.
Stede doesn't exactly collapse one her, because she was already pretty much pressing her through the couch cushions, but Ed feels the moment it goes from controlled to limp, and then Stede's lips slur a path of loose kisses across her face until she tucks herself into Ed's neck. Ed reaches up, winds one hand in Stede's hair, content. It's a good place for her.
"You were right, by the way," Ed tells her.
"Yeah," Stede agrees lazily.
"I do still love you."
"I love you too, darling."
And Ed takes that, soaks it in, just fucking enjoys it, spoils of battle, Stede heavy and warm and in love with her, and Ed in love right back. There will be shit to figure out later, how to tell Stede that she's retiring, when they can see each other between Stede's work and Ed's busy schedule of baking on a beach for the rest of her natural life, but between the two of them, they can figure—
"So where are we going?" Stede asks, still fucked out and lazy.
"Uh, I mean, nowhere? The furniture doesn't go to thrift store until tomorrow, and we—"
"Mmm, sure, darling, but I mean after."
"What— what do you mean after?"
"Well, I know you want to retire—"
"What?"
"This was it, wasn't it? The Last Job? You're done?"
"Well, yeah, I mean… Yeah," Ed confirms cautiously.
"And I know you don't want to stay in this city, probably not even this country, so, where are we—"
"We?"
Stede lifts her head, gives her a look, soft and solid. "Yes. If that's what you want, then yes."
"But— your crew— your family— the life— you love—"
"I love you."
"You— you…"
Stede tips in, slow, kisses her, slow. "I used to be so unhappy. I didn't know who I was or what I wanted. And, yes, committing dozens of incredibly lucrative felonies helped me figure that out, but I had my fun, and now I know. Who I am, and what I want, and the only thing I really want, still want, after all of it is said and done, is you."
Ed sniffs. Blinks. Sniffs again, because, fuck, those are definitely tears. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, darling. So, I'll ask again, where are we going?"
Ed laughs, though it's a bit soggy. "Okay," she tells her. "So I've been scoping out this island—"
Ed gets her island.
Her island, and her cozy bungalow, and a hammock big enough for two, and a dozen sunny days where all she has to do is flip and reapply sunblock so her tan comes in evenly, and an offshore bank account with mumble mumble million dollars, and she never looks at another blueprint again.
And that's all good, it's great, it's fucking magical, her happy ever after.
Not by itself, of course.
No, there's one little thing, one tiny little crucial detail that makes it:
Stede by her side.
For the shopping, the purchases, the flight there, for decorating, for the first night in their house.
And every other night after.