[There are a good number of things not to trust Stede's instincts on. Most of these things were the ones that already lived deep in Edward's own bones; that had kept him alive through the years. But this?
Stede's probably the one, between the two of them, to trust about this.
The noise in Edward's throat is a soft sort of grunt, an acknowledgement as he moves from removing gloves to finding his way out of his jacket. It's a touch unnatural, somehow. He's dressed and undressed himself with relative ease at much lower stages of sobriety over the years, but there's a slowness to his fingers now--an awareness, perhaps, of the dust he's shaking free and the flakes of dirt or blood onto the floor of Stede's space. (Little grubby marks from unclean hands.)
A shake of his head, and he lets the jacket drop, settling himself with some of his usual comfort and offering up his bared arm.]
no subject
Stede's probably the one, between the two of them, to trust about this.
The noise in Edward's throat is a soft sort of grunt, an acknowledgement as he moves from removing gloves to finding his way out of his jacket. It's a touch unnatural, somehow. He's dressed and undressed himself with relative ease at much lower stages of sobriety over the years, but there's a slowness to his fingers now--an awareness, perhaps, of the dust he's shaking free and the flakes of dirt or blood onto the floor of Stede's space. (Little grubby marks from unclean hands.)
A shake of his head, and he lets the jacket drop, settling himself with some of his usual comfort and offering up his bared arm.]