Chapter Text
4 months later
Lucius’ POV
In Lucius’ defense, he hadn’t meant to orchestrate an international soft-launch of Izzy Hands’ retirement era.
It just… happened.
It started with the boots.
Lucius noticed them first because Lucius notices everything—especially when Izzy Hands walks into the house wearing footwear that costs more than Lucius’ entire childhood.
They were dark leather. Custom. Perfectly broken in without being broken down. The kind of boots you inherit, not buy.
Lucius squinted. Then squinted harder.
“Oh no,” he murmured.
Izzy clocked the tone immediately. “Don’t.”
“Those are bespoke,” Lucius said. “I can smell it.”
“They were on sale,” Izzy lied badly.
Stede appeared behind him like a guilty golden retriever. “They were ethical.”
Lucius gasped. “YOU WENT FULL STEDENOMICS.”
Izzy left the room.
Lucius rounded on Stede. “You bought him boots before the chair?”
“I—what chair?”
Lucius closed his eyes. “We need to talk about pacing.”
[Group Chat: Unicorn Watch 🦄]
[Lucius: 🚨 UPDATE 🚨 Izzy is wearing trauma-healing footwear]
[Frenchie: does it have laces or emotional closure]
[Jim: if it’s handmade it counts as a love language]
[Pete: wait what boots]
[Lucius: the kind you wear when you’re accidentally being cherished by someone with unlimited funds.]
The chair arrived three days later. Lucius was there for the delivery because of course he was. He watched Izzy approach it like a feral animal assessing a trap.
“No,” Izzy said.
“It’s just a chair,” Stede said gently.
“It says: lumbar support,” Izzy snapped. “That’s suspicious.”
Lucius leaned against the doorway. “For the record, it matches the sabre. That’s not an accident.”
Izzy slowly sat.
Didn’t speak for a full minute.
Then: “Fucking cunts. I hate that this is comfortable.”
Stede smiled like he’d won a Nobel Prize.
Lucius texted immediately.
[Unicorn Watch 🦄]
[Lucius: HE SAT]
[Olu: oh it’s done]
[Jim: that chair is now legally a third partner]
[Frenchie: someone light a candle]
[Lucius: I give it six weeks before Stede buys him a continent]
Which was when Lucius had an idea. A terrible, beautiful idea.
That night, while Stede was explaining the difference between indulgence and affection like only a man with a trust fund and a dream could, Lucius slid in casually.
“You know,” he said, “France has excellent fencing halls., museums,” Lucius pretended to be bored admiring his own nails. “And wine. And very dramatic balconies.”
Stede’s eyes lit up.
Lucius pressed on. “Very healing, I hear. Plus I could… come. To help. Logistically.”
France happened two months later.
Lucius did not ask Izzy if he wanted to go to France.
That was the first rule.
The second rule was that Izzy could never find out Lucius had planned all of it.
This meant the operation required:
°Stede Bonnet
°Money
°Misdirection
°A dramatic reveal involving leather goods
Lucius had all four. Theoretically.
The passport cover had been Lucius’ idea.
“Make it subtle,” Lucius had said.
“It’s navy,” Stede replied proudly. “With gold embossing.”
“Stede.”
“It’s tasteful gold.”
Lucius sighed. “He’s going to clock it as a trap.”
“Only if he opens it,” Stede said. “Which he won’t. He’ll argue first.”
Perfect.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Izzy opened the door in an old t-shirt, barefoot, coffee halfway to his mouth, already irritated at the world.
Stede stood there in a linen jacket like he was auditioning to be a wealthy widow.
Lucius lurked two steps back, tablet ready.
“Morning,” Stede said brightly.
“What’s wrong,” Izzy replied flatly.
Stede held out the passport. The leather cover gleamed. Gold lettering. I.H.
Izzy stared. “…Why are my initials on that?.”
Stede beamed. “Because it’s yours.”
“I didn’t order it.”
“I know.”
Izzy narrowed his eyes. “Where are we going.”
Stede tilted his head. “France.”
Silence. Lucius stopped breathing. Izzy looked down at the passport. Opened it. Closed it. Once. Carefully.
“I have therapy on Thursdays.”
“We’ve accounted for that,” Stede said quickly. “Fang helped. He said to tell you not to argue.”
Lucius made a click on his tablet: Weaponized therapist. ✅
“I have a routine,” Izzy said, voice tight.
“Yes,” Stede replied. “And you’re very good at it. We’ll bring it with us.”
Izzy exhaled sharply. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” Stede said gently. “And I did. Flights. Hotel. Fencing hall reservations. A museum that’s weirdly obsessed with maritime violence. Logistics covered. Lucius is coming too.”
Lucius waved. “Bonjour.”
Izzy stared at him. “You planned this.”
Lucius smiled sweetly. “You needed fresh baked trauma. Croissant trauma!”
Izzy rubbed his face. “I hate you both.”
“You’re going to hate Paris so much,” Lucius assured him.
[Group Chat: Unicorn Watch 🦄]
[Lucius: HE HAS THE PASSPORT]
[Jim: oh my god]
[Frenchie: did he throw it]
[Lucius: no but he’s considering arson]
[Olu: that’s acceptance-adjacent]
The chair was what sealed it. Izzy sat down without thinking, passport still in hand.
Stede noticed. Lucius noticed. Everyone noticed.
Izzy sighed. Long. Resigned. Real.
“…How long.”
“Ten days,” Stede said carefully.
Izzy nodded once. “I’m not shopping.”
Stede smiled. “Of course not.”
Lucius closed the cover of his ipad. Shopping check ✅
Lucius got a free flight, a per diem, and the unfiltered experience of watching Izzy Hands realize he was dating that kind of rich.
Stede took him to museums and cafés and a fencing hall tucked down a narrow street that smelled like old stone and metal.
The maître d’ was ancient in the way only men who had dedicated their entire lives to one discipline ever were. He took one look at Izzy—his posture, his hands, the way his weight settled into the floor—and nodded once.
“Ah,” he said gravely. “Vous êtes sérieux.”
Izzy sparred.
Hard.
He lost once. Narrow. On a technicality that made him snort and demand a rematch. He won twice. Clean. Efficient. The third opponent laughed afterward and clapped him on the shoulder like Izzy hadn’t just dismantled him with surgical precision.
His body remembered things his mind didn’t have to explain.
That night, wine-drunk and barefoot on the hotel balcony, the city humming softly below them, Izzy finally snapped.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the lights, the air, the ridiculous ease of it all. “This is—this is absurd.”
Stede leaned on the railing beside him, shoulder warm where it brushed Izzy’s.
“I know.”
Izzy waited. Jaw tight. Chest braced.
“I just wanted to give you something,” Stede continued, voice low and steady, “that didn’t come with survival attached. No strings. No lessons. Just… joy.”
The word sat between them. Unthreatening. Unarmed.
Izzy swallowed, hard. Looked back out at the city instead of at the man who had somehow figured out how to love him without turning it into a test.
“…You’re very annoying,” Izzy muttered.
Stede smiled. Soft. Victorious. And Izzy leaned his body again his.
Lucius has changed the name from [Unicorn Watch 🦄] to [Unicorn: International Edition 🇫🇷]
[Lucius UPDATE. FRANCE IS HAPPENING.]
[Lucius]: I repeat. STEDWARD BONNET HAS ABDUCTED IZZY HANDS TO EUROPE.]
[Frenchie]: That feels illegal but also inevitable.
[Olu]: Is Izzy aware this is a vacation and not a covert operation.
[Lucius]: He was informed via LEATHER PASSPORT COVER. With MONOGRAM.
[Jim]: 🍷🥖🧀🐀😆
[Pete]: Did he try to stab it.
[Lucius]: He fight the idea, yes
[Lucius]: Which is his love language. I'll update when we get there![Pete: ILY Babe! bring me a french hottie! 😘 😘 😘
[Lucius: WE ARE IN FRAAAANCE!! We arrived like two days ago sorry guys service was just ugh 😩
[Lucius: Also wrong chat Babe.]
[Wee John]: Where in France.
[Lucius]: Paris. Also Versailles. Also a fencing hall run by a man who looks like he personally taught the concept of honor to Napoleon.
[Roach]: Did Izzy fence.
[Lucius]: DID HE FENCE.
[Lucius]: HE LOST ONE BOUT AND HAS BEEN VIBRATING WITH RAGE AND JOY EVER SINCE.
[Frenchie]: That’s healing]
[Olu]: In Izzy's world it is
[Jim]: Did Stede watch.]
[Lucius]: Like he was witnessing ART.]
[Pete]: So are they boyfriends now or—]
[Lucius]: No.
[Lucius]: They are “two men sharing wine barefoot on a balcony while discussing the concept of joy without survival.”]
[Wee John]: Oh they’re done for.]
[Buttons]: The sea smiles upon their union, even inland.]
[Lucius]: BUTTONS STOP BEING RIGHT. It's weird AF!]
[Roach]: Any injuries.]
[Lucius]: Only emotional.
[Lucius]: Izzy let Stede buy him a chair.I forgot to tell you that one from 2 months ago ooopsies[Jim]: …
[Frenchie]: That’s commitment.
[Olu]: That’s domestic.
[Pete]: That’s legally binding in some countries.
[Lucius]: Final note before I am banned from reporting further:
[Lucius]: Izzy laughed.
[Lucius]: Like. Freely.
[Lucius]: Stede looked like he’d won a war.
[Wee John]: Good.
[Olu]: About time.
[Jim]: 💙
[Roach]: I’m billing this as preventive medicine.
[Lucius: End transmission.
[Lucius: Vive la France! 🇨🇵 Vive la licorne! 🦄 ]
A year later…
Stede is humming as he places down a new pair of embroidered gloves on the arm of Israel’s favorite chair, where his sabre leans lazily beside a folded book of poetry and a half-knitted scarf.
(Alma insists the scarf is “practically finished,” which Izzy insists is slander.)
There’s a tray with two cups of delicate tea he learned how to make from Roach (Izzy will grumble but drink it all), and a new bottle of wine labeled “aged like our mutual trust.”
Izzy snorts when he sees that one. He tries not to smile. Fails.
He's still adjusting to this version of his life: the version where he wakes up to fresh linen and sunlight, instead of inventory checks and hypervigilance,
where his name is spoken with fondness instead of expectation, where luxury isn’t a trap or a performance but simply… Stede.
He's long retired. Has his pension working on investments Ivan (Fang's partner) helped, smug bastard — and Izzy quietly rerouted a portion into Alma and Louis’s college funds. He told no one at first. Then Alma found the paperwork and stared at him like he’d personally rewritten gravity.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she’d said, arms crossed, suspicious.
“I know,” Izzy replied. “But I wanted to.”
She stared another moment. Then handed him her sabre.
“Come on, old man. If you’re paying, you’re training me.”
Alma takes to fencing like it’s in her bones. She’s fast, precise, infuriatingly clever — and Izzy refuses to go easy on her.
“Again,” he barks, tapping her wrist with the flat of his blade.
“You telegraph your lunge. Fix it.”
She does. Again. And again.
Stede watches from the porch, pretending not to melt as Izzy corrects her footwork with the same ruthless care he once used on soldiers — except now there’s pride threaded through it. Protection without possession.
Later, bruised and glowing, Alma flops onto the steps beside him.
"You know you’re terrifying, right?”
Izzy huffs. “Good. Means you’ll survive.”
She grins. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
Louis is different.
He likes stories. Likes voices. Likes when Izzy reads because he never rushes the scary parts and never talks down to him. Izzy sits at the edge of the bed, book balanced carefully, one knee bouncing just a little — old habit — while Louis listens, utterly still.
“And then,” Izzy says, voice low, “the knight realizes the monster isn’t guarding the treasure. He is the treasure. No one ever came back for him.”
Louis frowns. “That’s kinda sad.”
“Yeah,” Izzy agrees quietly. Then, after a beat, “But not the end.”
He finishes the chapter. Louis yawns, already half-asleep.
“Will you read again tomorrow?” Louis asks.
Izzy hesitates — just a flicker — then nods.
“Yeah. If you want.”
“I want,” Louis says, and reaches out, fingers catching briefly in Izzy’s sleeve.
Izzy stays until his breathing evens out. He always does.
“I don’t need all this,” he’d said early on, arms crossed, embarrassed by the softness of it all.
“You don’t need it,” Stede had said, “but it’s lovely to be wanted and spoiled, isn’t it?”
Izzy had gone silent for a full five minutes and then kissed him so hard he knocked over the fancy teapot.
Just a few weeks ago Izzy was curled up, rereading his Therapy notebook:
“I’m not waiting for it to end anymore,” Izzy says, voice quiet. He shifts in his seat, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window.
Fang nods. “The happiness?”
Izzy takes a moment. “Yeah. Before, every time I felt it—joy, safety, anything like that—it felt like... a trick. Like someone was going to snatch it away.”
“And now?”
Izzy looks down at his fingers, the subtle gold ring Stede had given him—no promises, just a symbol of here, now, us. He fidgets with it absentmindedly.
“Now it just... is. I still wake up tense sometimes. Still brace for yelling. Still forget it’s okay to ask for help. But I’m starting to believe I’m allowed to have good things.” He pauses, swallows thickly.
“I think I’m in love,” he adds, almost like a confession. “Properly. Like, without panic.”
Fang smiles. (While suppressing a very loudly: “Nah Duuh” from his expression) “And how does that feel?”
Izzy lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Like I’ve spent my whole life on fire, and someone finally handed me water.”
[Back to Later That Evening]
Stede comes home with a new ridiculous throw pillow
"it screamed broody Victorian pirate to me!”
— Alma groans; Izzy pretends not to like it, and Louis imitates him.
Later that night, kids already in their beds, Stede finds Izzy asleep in the reading chair, book half-open in his lap. The house smells faintly of tea and wool and something baked earlier that day.
The therapy journal rests against his thigh, a page dog-eared.
Stede doesn’t read the whole thing. He never does.
Just the corner, where Izzy’s precise, immaculate handwriting has scrawled something softer than usual:
Safe. I’m safe. I’m loved.
Stede swallows around the ache in his chest.
He doesn’t wake him. Just presses a kiss to his temple, settles down beside him, and lets the quiet wrap around them both like the gentlest of seas.
Izzy shifts in his sleep, instinctively leaning closer.
For once, the calm holds.