Chapter Text
“What is this?”
Above the droning background noise of Chicago O’Hare, a question delivered in sharp, clipped tones at a nearby table cuts through the hum. Ed Teach’s ears perk up. He doesn’t look up from his laptop, but. Consider his interest piqued.
“The key lime pie you ordered, sir,” another, less interesting voice says.
“Are you serious?” The first voice begins ascending in pitch, rather impressively. “This is not key lime pie!”
Hmm. Intriguing. The man he’s eavesdropping on has a pronounced Kiwi accent, though his manner of speaking is crisper than Ed’s own.
“It is key lime pie, sir.”
“You can’t possibly be serious. This is clearly lemon meringue pie.” The man sounds more and more agitated by the second.
“This is what you ordered, sir,” the server replies, with a plainly audible shrug.
That sends the complainant into what can only be described as a meltdown. A polite one, but a meltdown nonetheless. “This has meringue on it! It’s yellow! I’m The Gentleman Reviewer. I know what I’m talking about!”
All right. Now Ed simply has to see this extremely ruffled fellow restaurant-goer who is referring to himself with that absurd title. He turns partway around in his seat, trying to be subtle, but once he catches sight of the man, Ed can’t help staring. He isn’t sure what he was expecting, exactly, but it wasn’t a man in an impeccably tailored 3-piece suit with a fetching swoop of blond hair and an extremely expressive face, looking absolute daggers at the man serving him. Fascinating.
“I’m sorry you’re unhappy with your pie, sir.”
The man gesticulates randomly, as if he’s a marionette being controlled by a puppeteer who has no great interest in realism. “I wouldn’t be unhappy with it if it were the pie I ordered! Which it most assuredly is not. May I please speak to someone from the kitchen?” He adds ample stress to the word “please”; Ed chuckles at the bitchiness of his intonation. This entire scene is thoroughly entertaining. The best thing he’s seen in the airport for some time. Ed has grown so incredibly weary of the constant stress that is his life: the grind of getting from place to place, all the business minutiae he can’t ignore, with so many people depending on him. Nearly everything he spends time on is urgent but not important. It’s so far from what he started out doing, so deeply unsatisfying. But at last, he’s come across something diverting.
The server nods. “I’ll ask someone to come out, sir.”
After the server walks away, the man throws his hands up in frustration at the situation, his untouched slice of pie in front of him. Then he notices Ed looking at him. Ed suddenly realizes it would’ve been prudent not to continue staring, but the other man seems unfazed. “Can you believe this?” He gestures toward his pie, addressing Ed as if they know each other.
Ed glances around and points to himself in a “who, me?” kind of way, but the other man ignores it, merely looking at him as if he’s waiting for an answer. “Can I believe what?” Ed finally replies. Fuck me. What a fucking scintillating response.
“Look at this.” The man beckons Ed over. Well, why the fuck not, Ed thinks to himself. He’s already settled his bill, so he closes his laptop and shoves it in his bag, then rolls his suitcase over and sits down across from the blond stranger, who pushes his plate toward Ed. “Just look. Look at the color of the filing. And the meringue on top. A toasted meringue! Am I really supposed to believe this is key lime and not lemon meringue?”
“Both citrus, aren’t they?” This man’s tizzy over pie is fucking adorable, honestly. Ed can’t help but egg him on.
“Entirely different flavor profiles!” The other man gesticulates emphatically again. “Look. I’ll eat lemon meringue out of professional obligation. But the filling is jiggly and the topping is spongy, and key lime is creamy and tart and refreshing. Not bloody likely I’ll mix them up.” At that moment, the server returns with a line cook in tow. “Ah! Hello.” The man’s manner returns to aggressively polite. “Thank you for coming out here. I ordered key lime pie, but unfortunately, I was served lemon meringue.”
“Sir, that is key lime pie. Are you unhappy with it?”
The blond’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “I’m unhappy with the fact that it is not key lime pie.”
“It is key lime, but can we offer you something else?”
The man gapes; he seems utterly stunned. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, before saying, “Are you trifling me? I cannot believe—” At that moment, he glances over at Ed and seems to think better of causing a further scene. His shoulders sag, and he admits defeat: “Yes, fine, a slice of chocolate cake then, please,” he concludes, with an aggrieved sigh. The server and cook nod and leave their table. “What even is happening here?” he asks Ed, now sounding as if disbelief is winning out over rage. He pushes the plate further toward Ed. “Am I crazy?”
Ed has no desire to drive this handsome stranger completely around the bend; the restaurant staff has done a good enough job of that themselves. He shakes his head. “Nah, mate. Was just messing with you before. That’s obviously lemon meringue.”
“Why would they try to pass off lemon meringue as key lime?” the man wonders aloud. He seems stunned by the whole experience.
“Maybe they ran out of key lime?”
The man screws up his face, not accepting this as an explanation. “Then they should bloody well say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we’re out of key lime. Would you like lemon meringue instead?’ Who gaslights someone about pie?”
Ed can’t entirely hide his amusement, though he tamps down his smirk as best he can. “The folks at this fine establishment, apparently.”
“Well, that’s it.” The man speaks indignantly. “I’m only tipping fifteen percent.”
Now this is even more fascinating. Ed cocks an eyebrow. “Most people wouldn’t tip at all after something like this.”
But hearing that makes the pie gaslighting victim look appalled. “Well, I am a gentleman! I do have manners! Which reminds me. I’ve roped you into my pie drama without even asking your name.”
Ed smiles warmly as he extends his hand; he’s genuinely glad to meet this unusual person. “I’m Ed.”
The other man takes Ed’s hand and shakes it (soft skin; a grip that’s firm, but not obnoxiously aggressive). Seeing Ed’s smile, his expression shifts quickly; he looks as if he’s never been as pleased to meet someone until this very moment. Fuck. Why is Ed’s heart suddenly pounding? “I’m Stede.”
“Steed?” Ed echoes. Odd, but why wouldn’t this surprising man have a peculiar name?
“S-T-E-D-E,” Stede replies, enunciating every letter clearly. “I can tell you were spelling it incorrectly in your head by the way you said it.” The man he now knows is Stede grins at him saucily. Ed is already obsessed.
“Here you go, sir,” the server says, having reappeared with a decadent-looking slice of chocolate cake.
“Ah!” Stede reacts with surprise, as if he’s forgotten a different dessert was on its way. “Thank you.” He looks down at the massive slice in front of him, decorated with chocolate curls and lush with frosting, then fixes wide hazel eyes on Ed. “Now you have to share this with me. I assure you I have no communicable diseases.”
Ed stifles another laugh. “You sure I don’t?” As Stede looks both startled and bewildered by his response, Ed quickly adds, “Relax, Stede. None that I know of. And thank you. It does look good.” He picks up a fork; his sweet tooth makes it unlikely he’d say no to sharing a treat at any time, even if it weren’t providing an effective excuse to get to know someone this unique a bit better.
Stede nods, looking pleased, then takes a bite and reacts with a groaning “Mmmm” that doesn’t make Ed feel anything at all. Nuh uh. Nope. (Okay, maybe he’s sweating a little.) “It’s so moist. Why do people hate that word so much? I’ve never understood the problem with it. It’s evocative.”
“True.” Ed has always figured the objections were probably misogynistic, though that doesn’t seem like the most promising conversational rabbit hole to go down at present. He takes a bite himself; it’s sweet and rich and quite a nice slice of cake. “Love how generous they were with the frosting.”
“Oh, you like frosting? I’m more of a cake man myself.”
Ed chokes and has to cough for a minute, while Stede looks concerned. Don’t say it don’t say it. You just fucking met him. When he regains the ability to speak, Ed says, “We’re like Jack Sprat and his wife, then.” Which is, in hindsight, possibly even flirtier than whatever he might have said to point out Stede’s inadvertent double entendre. Fuck. Why is this guy messing with his game so badly?
Although on second thought, the way Stede’s face glows when he says that…well, that isn’t making Ed’s brain function any more successfully. He needs to get this conversation back into less charged territory. “So. Did I catch that right? You called yourself ‘The Gentleman Reviewer?’”
Stede colors deeply. “Yes. Well. Um. It was rather absurd of me to say that like anyone has heard of me.”
“Well, now I have.” Ed offers an encouraging smile. “What do you review?”
Stede’s face takes on the most mirthful of expressions. “Pie, if you can believe it. I’m trying to sample pies in all fifty states in one year. Sort of a challenge I set myself. I go to a different place every week.”
“Oh, that’s fun. And the ‘Gentleman’ part?”
“Well, I…dress up like this to eat pie.” Stede blushes again. “I know, it’s stupid. But I like dressing up. And I don't normally have a lot of excuses to do it.”
Oh, this is truly adorable. “It’s not stupid, Stede. I love it. Genuinely.” Stede looks at him askance, as if he expects Ed to take it back and burst out laughing at him. “Wish I could just take off and eat pie all around the States, dressed to the nines.”
Stede huffs a laugh himself now, poking at the cake in front of them. “You’re very kind, but I’m about twenty years too late to make a career of being a food critic on social media. Maybe in the heyday of blogs I would’ve done okay. But everything is so complicated now. My daughter is always rolling her eyes at me and pointing out how I do things like end every tweet with two periods.”
Hmm. Ed quickly clocked the lack of wedding ring (though Stede was wearing several others) and the fashion sense that exceeds that of most straight men he knows, but perhaps he’s made some incorrect assumptions. Time to probe a bit further. “You have kids?”
“Yes, two.” Stede pauses momentarily. “But the pie thing is a bit of a midlife crisis, actually. Recently got divorced.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ed says, attempting to sound sympathetic, though it’s pretty much an out-and-out lie. Depending on the rest of the context, that is.
“Nah, don’t be.” Stede shakes his head and laughs quietly at himself, still looking down at the cake. “My ex-wife thought it was high time I came out of the closet. I suppose she was right.” Now he looks up at Ed tentatively, as if unsure how he’ll take this disclosure.
No need to worry; Ed is quite gleeful about learning this key piece of information. He returns a smile he hopes lands on “encouraging” and doesn't cross over into “embarrassingly eager.” “Good for you. Never too late to be who you are.”
Stede smiles back in a lopsided way. “That’s kind of you to say. But I still feel like fifty is pretty damn old to be changing my life so radically.”
“Fifty? Huh.” Ed strokes his beard. “I wouldn’t have put you at a day over…forty-five.”
Stede taps Ed’s leg lightly under the table with the toe of his shoe, his face crinkling into a wry smile. “Ha ha. Very amusing.”
“S’alright. I’m almost there myself. We’re not dead yet.”
“True, but I still feel like I’m in over my head. Like I’ve been bungling every single thing in my life.” Stede sighs heavily. “Who am I kidding. I’m not a content creator, I’m an idiot!”
Oof. Clearly this guy has a propensity for being hard on himself. His forlorn puppy dog expression makes Ed badly want to comfort him. “Stede, you’re not an idiot! Probably just need some advice. I’m in the hospitality industry myself. Maybe I could help you out.”
All of a sudden, the announcement over the PA system that has been blending into all the background noise snaps into focus: “Paging all passengers for United Airlines flight 2298 to New York’s LaGuardia Airport. The flight is now boarding out of gate C21. All passengers must be on board fifteen minutes prior to departure. We are currently beginning the boarding process.”
“Shit!” Ed exclaims. “That’s my flight. It’s clear over in another concourse now. I have to run!”
“Oh!” Stede looks incredibly startled. “Don’t miss your flight!” As Ed scrambles to wrangle his bags, Stede tilts his head and says, “Hang on. You’ve got a bit of cake in your beard.” Ed starts trying to feel around for it. “No, come to the—down a bit.” Ed moved his hand down. “Just up, up a little bit.” Apparently he still isn’t getting it. “To the—to the left.” Still no success. Stede beckons him in with his finger and a whisper: “Here, I’ll get it.” Ed leans forward, and Stede brushes out the crumbs with his fingertips. “There we go.” His touch couldn’t be more gentle. “You’re good to go,” Stede says at full voice, smiling.
Ed gazes at him for the longest split second of his life. What if he leans in and kisses this man right fucking now? Just lays one on him in the airport restaurant? The sweet, everyday intimacy of what Stede just did, ensuring he’s presentable, makes Ed feel as though they’re already partners, and Stede is merely seeing him off on a solo trip. The temptation to act as if this is the case is almost irresistible.
Almost. Because they aren’t boyfriends. They literally just met, and even though Ed feels bizarrely attached to this near-stranger, if he doesn’t leave immediately, he’ll miss his flight. “Thank you,” he says softly. Then he turns and makes a mad dash out of the restaurant.
Only once he boards—it’s a good thing he hustled, as they shut the cabin door behind him as soon as he stepped onto the plane—does Ed realize he left without even trying to exchange contact information with Stede. If he’s ever been unsure what a sinking feeling feels like, he certainly knows now. The thought of never seeing Stede again is intolerable. Did Stede feel even a fraction of what’s rolling through him right now? Why can’t Ed shake the conviction that he and that dashing, broad-shouldered, well-dressed stranger are meant to be?