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It’s definitely not Stede’s choice of a Saturday bank-holiday activity. He suggested the Natural History Museum or the Tate Modern, but as he’s only got the kids every other weekend during the school year, he likes to indulge them, even at the expense of educational days out. But this is really skirting the ragged edge of his indulgence.
“You’re sure it won’t give you nightmares?” he asks uncertainly as Louis and Alma pull him down the pavement across Westminster Bridge.
“Lou and I have been playing Resident Evil for years, dad,” Alma says, rolling her eyes at the very idea of nightmares. “A bunch of people wearing costumes and waving fake guts around is hardly going to be scary at all.”
“I want to get my picture taken in the coffins at the end,” Louis says cheerfully. “Gavin Jones and his brother went earlier this year and got their pictures taken like they were dead in coffins. It was wicked.”
“Charming,” Stede grumbles as they descend the steps of the Southbank and the great black sign painted with the red, dripping letters of the London Dungeon comes into view.
It’s clear the moment they set foot in the place that it’s entirely not his speed. Atmospherically spooky music piped in from hidden speakers, the sound of screams and the clanking of chains echoing through the corridors.
“This is certainly…a dungeon,” he says, trying to sound as chipper as he can in front of the two excited children he’s just bought tickets for.
“Dad, I can take Lou through if you want,” Alma says, giving him a sympathetic look.
“No, no!” he blurts out quickly. “Of course not! We’re here to see severed heads and entrails, so severed heads and entrails we shall see, by god!”
He realizes both of his children are staring at him in a way that makes him think they’d rather no one else in the vicinity believes them to be related.
“Or perhaps,” he begins weakly, “You’d have a bit more fun on your own?”
The matching grins on their faces let him know that his presence on this grim outing is definitely not required.
“Alright,” he sighs, secretly relieved. “I’ll wait for you at the end. Alma, you have your mobile, so call me if anything gets to be a bit too much, yes?”
His eldest quickly agrees and he gives them each a squeeze before they head off into the darkness with Louis gleefully chanting, “heads, heads, heads, heads!” as they disappear round the corner.
Now, he thinks, where would one find the exit?
A man dressed in a battered top hat with a short cape, lantern and a pale, sinister face sweeps across his path.
“Oh, pardon me, I’m looking for—“
“Unending horrors?” rasps the actor, creeping unsettlingly close to Stede. “Mind-bending terror that lingers long after you close your eyes?”
“Er, no, I just—is there a waiting area?”
The man Kubrick-stares at him from under the brim of the hat.
“If Sir doesn’t wish to partake of the full Dungeon experience, there’s a safer path. A path that will take Sir, nonetheless, through a history of villainy the likes of which—“
“Look, I appreciate that you’re very dedicated to your craft,” Stede interrupts, “But I’d just like a nice quiet place to sit with my Kindle to read until my children are finished. You needn’t waste your energy on…whatever this is.”
The actor straightens gratefully out of his theatrical hunch.
“Just head right through the waxwork hall and it’ll empty out into the gift shop, mate.”
Stede has never really enjoyed being frightened—hence his complete bafflement at the eagerness of his children to gleefully seek it out for entertainment. But then, neither of them have grown up afraid in their own home, so some harmless chills and thrills are probably a bit exciting. But as for him, being scared or startled just sends an intense mix of guilt, shame and fear flooding through his adrenal system and it’s possibly his least favorite sensation on the entire planet.
Luckily, the path through to the gift shop seems much more sedate than the rest of the establishment—it’s full of the old, familiar Tussaud’s waxworks, which, while unsettlingly life like, are not actually frightening. ‘The Hall of Villains’ is arranged in tableaus with ominous piped music, meant to give the viewer a taste of each notorious individual’s world. Stede passes by the gothic throne room of Vlad Dracul, a bloody tub containing Elizabeth Bathory and the cell of the mad monk Rasputin without much of a sideways glance, but is magnetically drawn deeper, to a display on the far side of the hall.
It’s the inside of a ship’s cabin. The sounds of creaking wood, clashing steel and waves against the the side of the vessel pour from hidden speakers. Special effect lighting creates the illusion of fire outside the cabin windows. And leaning against a rough, wooden chart table with one hand laid upon the pummel of a bloody sword is the villain himself—the inimitable pirate, Blackbeard.
The Golden Age of Piracy has always been fascinating to Stede. His logical mind likes to block out all the unpleasant bits about the sanitary conditions, ghastly food, rampant disease, floggings and rudimentary medicine. Instead, his heart swells at the idea of freedom, adventure and the wind in his hair.
He rests his hands on the brass rail in front of the display a moment and closes his eyes, almost able to feel the shift of planks beneath his feet and smell the clean, salt air.
He opens them to take in the pirate himself—cutting a dashing, darkly handsome figure in a salt-beaten leather great coat and trousers, chest criss-crossed with a bandolier fairly bristling with knives and pistols. (A bit of overkill, but better safe than sorry in a sea battle!) Long, salt and pepper hair falls over his shoulders and a serious mouth is nearly buried beneath an impressive beard.
A man like that wouldn’t have baulked at a bit of theatrical gore, he thinks gloomily, leaning fractionally closer to the waxwork.
And then, the lights go out.
Ed spots the guy he’s gonna make piss his pants the minute he walks in the room.
It’s the put-together ones that are the most satisfying. Doesn’t matter how tailored you are, how much your shoes cost or how much product you put in your hair—in a moment of fear, everyone is reduced to a lizard brain attached to complicated electrical system that Ed’s gotten really good at shorting out. Fear is an equalizer and he enjoys reminding people of it once or twice a week.
He’s being working for he Tussauds Group ever since he showed up in London as a starving actor a little over fifteen years back. He remembers being barely able to contain his excitement at being told he “looked the part”, according to the interviewer—although he wasn’t entirely sure what part until he’d been lead through the atmospheric attraction to the ‘Hall of Villains’.
“Oh, thanks a load, mate,” he’d whispered under his breath, taking in the waxworks.
He’d done the scare work for years—both at the Dungeon and at the main location in Piccadilly—for Blackbeard the pirate, but occasionally Rasputin or Vlad the Impaler. Standing in place of certain waxworks and waiting for the unwary to venture near enough for him to make them shit themselves wasn’t the big break he’d been hoping for, but having a roof over his head and something other than a packet of Quavers to eat for dinner was an attractive proposition.
Besides, it was fun to play at being a proper maniac sometimes.
Now, all these years later, the Dungeon’s branched out into more of a live theatrical spectacle—he’s played Jack the Ripper, Sweeny Todd, torturers, executioners and plague victims, but if he was honest, the doppleganger shifts were still his favorite, even if the old fashioned waxwork displays on which the company was built aren’t nearly as popular as the rest of the attractions any more. He likes the stillness of it—the watching, the waiting, the sizing people up.
The Dungeon is always crowded on weekends and it’s no different today. However, it’s easy to spot his next mark as he wanders into the exhibit.
The guy seems to be by himself—no kids in tow. Ed generally doesn’t like to scare kids unless they’re being real little shits that need the fear of god—or Blackbeard—instilling in them. After being slapped about once or twice by over-protective parents, he prefers to keep his reveals for the over-18’s only these days.
He tries to observe everything he can without moving his eyes too much. The guy’s kind of a treat for those eyes, if Ed’s honest—crisp, pleated khaki colored trousers, a nicely fitted, pale blue button down showcasing his broad shoulders and a brown checked tweed overcoat folded neatly over his arm. In the room’s theatrical lighting, it’s hard to judge his hair color exactly, but it puts Ed in mind of wheat fields, rippling like the ocean in a breeze and suddenly, he’s not sure if he wants to make the bloke jump out of his skin or ask him on a date. But whatever he’s going to do, he’s got to decide in pretty short order, because Goldilocks has made a beeline straight for the Blackbeard tableau.
Ed’s so busy watching him, he entirely misses when the man crosses the invisible line he usually uses as his cue to lunge forward from the scene growling, “Avast, ye scurvy dogs! Prepare to taste me blade!” If he lets people get closer, he risks some unintentional injury when fight or flight kicks in, so he’s got an instinctual feeling for the average arm span of a 6’3” human that he uses as reference. But Goldie…Goldie is now almost directly in front of him.
Fuck, he’s even prettier close up.
A smattering of freckles crosses his cheeks and prominent nose and his hazel eyes are wistful as he stares into the scene and then directly at Ed with something like longing, and holy hell, no one has ever looked at him like that. His heart’s beating out of his chest and he knows he’s going to have to say something in a second, because he’s close enough to smell the guy’s juniper and citrus cologne and Ed really has to blink and there’s simply no way Goldie’s not going to notice and—
Goldie’s eyes flutter shut at the precise moment Ed’s flicker in rapid relief. He almost lets out a relieved breath, but holds it in, wondering exactly how the fuck he’s going to get away with not giving this guy an actual coronary.
But what the fuck’s he doing ?
The man sways on his feet a little, the ghost of a smile touching his lips and Ed realizes he’s listening—to the background noise that Ed himself has all but tuned out as it runs on a loop behind him. He’s imagining himself in a different place. A different time. A different life.
This guy is fucking fascinating.
Ed’s got to meet him. Preferably without getting punched in the face.
Goldie’s eyes flicker open. Ed decides to rip off the bandaid.
“Ahoy,” he says with a wink.
Ed’s last laptop died two years ago mere moments after he’d completed a thoroughly researched and very complicated Hackney Council grant proposal for a children’s theater program. Fang and Ivan told him to start small—ten to twelve kids to start and then expand if it went well. They’d already managed something similar with the youth art collective in Clapham, so he was grateful for their advice.
It’s not that he didn’t like working for Tussaud’s, but the thought man, is this all there is? was beginning to creep through his mind with startling regularity. Scaring people was fun and all and he was good at it, but it felt more hollow now than it ever had.
His initiative to take on the non-profit sadly died along with the piece of shit laptop when he discovered it had been almost a full week since he’d backed up his work to the cloud. The rest of the evening had been spent at the bottom of a cheap bottle of red, lamenting the loss of the proposal and the rest of the contents of the machine. (And if that also included a folder of particularly well-loved pornography, Ed will never tell.)
The reason he thinks of the laptop now is because Goldie seems to shut down in exactly the same way. There’s no shout of fright, no flailing limbs—just a complete bluescreen where Ed can actually see the man’s internal hard drive crash. There’s a tiny gasp as blood drains from his face, but in the next moment, Goldie’s monitor goes well and truly black. Those wide eyes roll back in his head and he folds like marionette with its strings cut.
Ed doesn’t really think before vaulting over the exhibit’s rail, giving some other Hall of Villains patrons the scare he meant to give Goldie. He catches the man awkwardly under the arms—christ, he’s solid!—and manages to control his descent to the floor before he can hit his head on anything. He winces as the spirit gum holding on the long beard (much blacker now than any he’s capable of growing) gives way as that part of his costume comes free, trapped between their bodies. And as if wanting to top off the whole debacle, the hair piece collapses sticky side down on Goldie, making him look a bit like a spy who’s entirely inept in the field of disguises.
They’ve got medical personnel on hand, but luckily, the man’s systems are already coming back on-line—Ed can almost hear the Windows boot up sound as Goldie’s eyes flutter open and his hands fly up to scrabble at the hairy intruder on his face.
“S’alright, mate, it’s just a beard,” Ed says gently, realizing immediately how odd it sounds.
“Beard?” the man squeaks, muzzy confusion clouding his expression.
“Yeah, it’s just a—look, never mind, here, let me get that for you.”
Ed plucks the rogue costume accessory from Goldie’s face, sets it in the tableau and slides a hand between the man’s shoulder blades to help him sit up.
“You alright, man?”
Goldie’s blinking furiously, trying to claw back the last few seconds.
“You…you were—“ he stammers. “Christ! What a thing to do to someone! Surely that’s not on!”
“Technically,” Ed begins, the practiced patter falling from his mouth before he can stop it, “When you purchase a ticket, you give consent to participate in the Dungeon Experience™ which may include flashing lights, smoke effects and sudden, startling events, releasing the London Dungeon and The Tussaud Group from any liability.”
He wasn’t expecting to take the look of betrayal on Goldie’s face quite so personally.
“But you know, that’s all typical cover-your-arse legal bullshit,” he adds hastily, “Sorry—wasn’t expecting you to get so close.”
“Everything alright?”
Kevin, the front of house floor manager, dressed in his cloak and top hat, has appeared beside them to assess the situation.
“Yeah,” Ed says quickly. “Just a quick portrait, no biggie.”
“Oh, speaking of portraits, we will have caught all that on the souvenir cameras. If Sir would like, a print of your Dungeon scare is available in the gift shop for the reasonable price of—“
“Kev, Jesus, don’t try to sell him that right now,” Ed interrupts, noticing the crimson staining the tips of Goldie’s ears. “I’m just going to get him a cuppa, yeah? Everything’s good.”
Kevin shrugs and disappears into the shadows, on the hunt for other people to make uncomfortable.
Ed extends a hand to Goldie, steadying him with a hand on the shoulder while he helps him to stand.
“Come on, mate, Let’s get the kettle on. Lucky for you, I also know where Izzy hides the chocolate digestives.”
Stede’s having one of those moments where he’s not entirely sure how he got here.
The world’s still a little fuzzy and he’s being escorted through a labyrinthine series of fluorescently lit hallways by the dread pirate Blackbeard, who, two minutes ago, had been an inanimate waxwork.
A devilishly handsome inanimate waxwork, Stede notes. The absence of the beard (now held in his right hand) serves to highlight a strong, yet delicate jawline and the beginnings of silver stubble. Warm brown eyes shine with animation as he keeps up a stream of soothing chatter, no doubt to put the man he’s just frightened into temporary unconsciousness at ease. Strangely, it seems to be working. The warmth of his hand in the crook of Stede’s arm as he steers him toward their destination is an unexpected comfort.
The pirate breaks off.
“Fuck, here I am just running my mouth and I’ve not introduced myself. I’m Ed, by the way.”
“Stede Bonnet,” Stede says, finding his voice for the first time since Ed had picked him up off the floor. “What did you mean by portrait?”
“What?”
“When the fellow dressed like the zombie magician came in, you said ‘portrait’.”
Ed gives an embarrassed huff.
“Oh, right. It’s just Dungeon shorthand for someone who’s passed out.”
“Why ‘portrait’?’
“You know rhyming slang, right? It’s ‘portrait painter’—rhymes with fainter, yeah? So it’s just ‘portrait’. Something you can say into one of the radios without freaking anyone out.”
“Ah,” he replies weakly. “I suppose I should be glad I’m not the only one.”
“Far from it mate,” Ed chuckles. He’s got a lovely laugh, Stede thinks off-handedly. “Fainting, shrieking, screaming, flailing—people fully lose their shit. Sometimes literally.”
“Have you got rhyming slang for that as well?”
That laugh rings through the air again.
“That one’s ‘kitty’. Like, ‘kitty litter’—rhymes with—“
“Yes, I think I get that one,” Stede interrupts with a grin, as Ed finally opens the door to what looks like a tiny, dingy staff room with little to recommend it but a well-used white kettle on the counter in the corner.
Ed looks at him sheepishly.
“Sorry it’s a bit shit. Most people go to the food court or pub for lunch so we don’t—“
“Ed,” he interrupts, “It’s just awfully kind of you to look after me like this. I certainly don’t mind where it happens so long as there’s tea.”
The pirate gives him a shy smile that nearly has him weak at the knees again.
“Least I can do, mate.”
-------
It’s the best cup of tea he’s ever had. Don’t get him wrong, it’s certainly not because it tastes good, but because the beautiful man who, only 15 minutes before, frightened him so badly that he lost consciousness for a moment, has made it for him and the two of them are drinking it together, chatting in a easy way that he’s never really felt with anyone else.
The chocolate digestives don’t hurt either.
“Feel like you’ve recovered?” Ed asks, resting his elbows on the table to dunk the biscuit into his mug.
“Oh, yes thanks,” Stede responds, trying not to make it obvious that he’s noticing the lovely line of Ed’s shoulders beneath the long, leather coat. “Maybe my nerves would have been better suited to the Tate Modern.”
Ed grins and shakes his head.
“Dunno, think you made the right choice coming here, mate. I went there few weeks ago with my mates who run an art program for the kids in the high rises in Clapham. Got a couple of sprogs interested in videography and there was an exhibit on, so they wanted to check it out before they took ‘em. Lucky we went, cause the main event was a video installation that was nine televisions, each showing a guy dressed as a clown having a wank while wearing boxing gloves. Not exactly kid friendly. Might have fucking put me off modern art for life, I don’t mind telling you.”
Suddenly Stede feels rather better about letting his kids loose in the Dungeon. He shudders at the vivid mental picture, but wants to match Ed’s playful tone.
“Among other things, it sounds like a terribly inefficient wanking method.”
“Right?” replies Ed, sitting forward to grab another digestive. “Not like you can get a really good grip or anything.”
“Gives a whole new meaning to ‘below the belt’.”
Ed lets out a guffaw into his tea and Stede feels ridiculously accomplished.
“I mean, there was other great stuff there—Monet, Dali, Lichtenstein, shit like that. Could definitely avoid wanking clowns if you wanted to. How’d you end up at the Dungeon with the rugrats then, instead of some hoity-toity museum?”
Later, he probably won’t be able to believe that he’s shared something so personal with a relative stranger, but there’s just something about Ed that makes him feel just a little bit brave.
“Have you ever been afraid, Ed? Like, really afraid?”
The other man’s brows furrow and for a second he thinks he might have been imagining the strange, easy intimacy between the two of them. His lungs are halfway filled with air to blurt out an awkward apology when Ed leans in toward him, dark eyes locked onto his.
“I abso-fucking-lutely have.”
And Stede can immediately tell the other man knows exactly what he’s talking about, so he starts talking before he can lose his nerve.
“I—well, I didn’t have the most loving upbringing, to put it mildly. So it isn’t as if I had any sort of blueprint when my own children came along.”
He looks down into the last few swallows of tea in his mug.
“We’ve had a bit of a rough start, I’m afraid. I was a very…hands-off parent before the divorce, because I was always terrified of hurting them, like my father…well, just like my father. But now, I’m trying to build a relationship with them, you see? And, I’m still entirely terrified, so I go along with things that I believe will make them like me more. I mean, going to see your gay dad in the city every other weekend is a fairly uncool proposition to begin with, so I want them to enjoy themselves, even if I don’t.”
He realizes that this thing that’s been sitting in the middle of his chest for the last year has all come tumbling out in one big breath and that Ed, lovely Ed, is staring open-mouthed across the table. He can feel himself flush from the roots of his hair to the tips of his ears.
“Shit, I’m awfully sorry—that—that was rather a lot to—“
Suddenly, one of Ed’s hands, still painted with dirt and fake blood, covers his and his heart skips a beat between his ribs.
“Stede, that was brave as fuck.”
Brave is not an adjective Stede’s ever thought of in connection with himself and he must look a little shell-shocked, because Ed hurries to explain.
“Saying that kind of shit out loud to a therapist is hard. You just said it to someone you’ve known for about twenty five minutes.”
“Yes, I-I know,” Stede stammers. “And I’m sorry, it really wasn’t-“
“No, you don’t get it—it was brilliant,” the other man insists. “Trying to be a good dad, especially after having a shit one, is really fucking amazing. You’re breaking cycles, yeah? They’re gonna see how hard you’re trying and they’re gonna appreciate it. But, like, share shit that you like with them. I mean, they might not love all of it—they’re fucking kids. Sometimes they’re gonna roll their eyes, but they’re gonna come out of it knowing two things—who their dad is and that he loves them more than anything.”
Something large is caught in his throat. Maybe that last digestive went down wrong? He swallows thickly as tears gather in his eyes. God, he does not want to cry in front of Ed, but there doesn’t seem to be any way of stopping it. He blinks, willing the salt water back into his skull, but it cascades over his cheeks, dripping into the dregs of his tea.
“Oh,” says Ed nervously. “Hey, mate, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you or anything…”
He goes to pull his hand back, but Stede quickly puts his own on top of it and squeezes tightly.
“That might possibly be the kindest, most encouraging thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Ed’s eyebrows make a concerned vee.
“I mean…you’re welcome, but that seems like a huge fucking shame.”
The man’s other hand steals up to cover his—a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Maybe you need someone around who’ll say shit like that to you more often.”
Stede’s eyes widen.
Fuck fear.
He swallows audibly.
“Maybe I do.”
Just then, his phone buzzes on the table between them, making them both start.
Ed laughs, his eyes twinkling, as Stede checks the screen.
“The kids are…um…waiting for me in the gift shop. I’d better—“
The pirate stands and offers his hand to him.
“I’ll get you there so you can buy them some overpriced tat. If you wanted, you could even get a copy of the photo Kev was talking about,” he says teasingly.
“You know,” Stede says, an idea forming in his head, “There actually is a photo that I’d like to take home.”
-------
As they’re walking out into the afternoon on the Southbank, Stede listens cheerfully to his children chattering about the horrors they encountered while clutching to his chest a small plastic bag containing several copies of a souvenir photograph of himself, Ed, Louis and Alma pulling ghastly faces inside prop coffins.
One of those photos has a phone number on the back.
The walk from Hackney to Highbury only takes about twelve minutes—unless they’ve had a particularly boisterous session with the Queen Anne’s theater kids, in which case it might take them fifteen on account of his knee playing up.
Fuck, they’re amazing, these kids. They come from a part of the city where fear is a daily occurrence. Where a lot of them have family who are incarcerated. Where a lot of them go without. But when they walk into the hall of Queen Anne’s church on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, they get to forget all that. There’s just Ed and Stede (and sometimes Fang or Ivan) to lead them in games where they can pretend and play and dream.
Today’s Wednesday. He’s by himself and he thinks he’ll be able to make it home in 9 minutes flat, because he gets to tell Stede the council approved his request for more funding, so they can take on more kids and volunteers. (Kevin’s already practically put in his notice at the Dungeon) Ed’s ridiculously happy. Stede is going to be over the fucking moon—not least because he’s ridiculously proud of Ed for having the courage to battle through a lot of red tape for something he really wanted. But of course, battles these days are always easier with someone at his side.
This Saturday, they’re taking Alma and Louis to see the Cutty Sark in Greenwich and then to the Naval Observatory to see all of the old navigation instruments—something Stede’s wanted to do for ages. There might be some whinging and dragging of feet, but Stede’s not really afraid of that anymore. His enthusiasm’s like a firehose and it’s hard not to get at least the tail end of the spray, no matter how hard you dig in your heels. In the end, the kids will remember the day with their dad and the joy he took in showing them something he loved. (They’ll hopefully remember Ed, too, and the bag of pick-n-mix he’ll have in his pocket to keep everyone happy for the afternoon.)
He reaches Highbury Fields, admiring the beautiful blooming cherry tree across the street from the ground floor flat in the Victorian red brick building. He knows there’s a much smaller one in their garden—just next to the comfy swing where they take their morning tea, just getting ready to unfurl its first blossoms.
He lets himself in the cheerful, turquoise front door as quietly as he can, because he can hear music coming from the kitchen, along with an enthusiastic, off-key tenor singing along.
Tiptoeing along the entrance hall, he pauses for a moment in the doorway to watch Stede tending three pots bubbling away on the stove, wiggling his hips along with the song on the bluetooth speaker and using a wooden spoon as a microphone.
Have you ever been afraid, Ed? Like, really afraid?
Ed grins to think that, from the moment he’d laid eyes on Stede, he’d been doing the thing he was most afraid of—letting someone get close enough to hurt him. But look where letting go of all that shit had gotten him. Gotten them both.
Still unnoticed, he slides into the kitchen and quickly wraps his arms around Stede’s middle.
Stede gives a small jump, his glasses fogging up with steam from the pots on the stove, before leaning back into Ed’s embrace.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says fondly, leaning his head against his partner’s.
“Boo,” Ed whispers in his ear.