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Edward is distinctly uncomfortable.
The rough cut of rope against his wrists has faded to a dull numbness that starts in his fingertips, creeping upward like the tide. Occasionally, he flexes his hand and feels the blood rush back in sharp, static bursts. It's unclear how long he's been tied up. Time goes nonlinear in these life-or-death, end-of-the-line, certain-doom type situations. At the very least, he figures it must be late at night — most of the crew has already fallen asleep, leaving him alone with the unpleasant company of his thoughts.
Usually, the rhythmic sway-creak of a ship soothes him, rocks him to sleep as easy as a baby in a bassinet. There’s a jittery feeling under his skin, though, a sick anticipation that keeps him awake, staring purposelessly at the walls.
Though a ship's hold is intended to be cool and dry to preserve food stores, Edward's skin feels rebelliously clammy. He inhales a shaky breath. Exhales through his teeth.
The air below deck has grown stale, reeking of sea and sweat and the generally oppressive scent of unwashed men. It feels heavy in his lungs.
He wonders if this is anxiety, or leftover adrenaline, or both, or neither. It's hard to tell, honestly. He's always been sort of shit at pinpointing his emotions — Hell, he barely knows how to have them in the first place.
As the ship rises on another wave, Edward hears thudding footfall above him. He envisions several men crossing the deck, all with ugly white wigs and pompous uniforms and stabbable faces.
He wonders what the British intend to do with Stede and his crew. He wonders whether they'd still be stuck here, trussed up like turkeys, had he not trailed after Calico Jack like the cowardly, disloyal dog he is. It wouldn't be the first time he's let Jack drag him away from somewhere he's needed. But he doesn't remember regretting it as much as he does now.
"Psst. Ed. Are you awake?"
“No,” Edward says, decidedly not startled.
Edward squints in the vague direction of the noise; the ship’s hold is abysmally dark. After a moment, he makes out the familiar shape of Stede, shuffling clumsily toward him.
“You know, they ought to learn how to tie looser knots. It’s not very polite to cut off someone’s circulation.”
“If only they had your hostage-taking etiquette.”
Stede smiles at that. Edward’s returning smile is automatic, but baring his teeth makes him feel suddenly like some wild animal that shouldn’t be touched. Aggressive, or maybe just defensive. Reckless, certainly. Scared. Stede makes him feel dangerous and vulnerable all at once.
Whatever distorted expression he sees on Edward’s face seems to give Stede permission to shift closer. It’s a difficult maneuver, what with the bindings, but Stede manages to prop himself up against a supply crate with a satisfied huff. He’s close enough now to nudge Edward’s leg with his boot, which he does.
“I’m glad you came back, you know,” Stede murmurs. His earnest tone makes Edward feel a bit unsteady. “Really, I am. I was worried you might’ve...”
“Left you for dead?”
Stede’s lips quirk up slightly. “Something like that, I suppose.”
Stede glances away, and Edward feels relieved to no longer be pinned under that gentle, searching gaze. It’s overwhelming to be looked at so kindly. It makes Edward feel like he’s been split open, his insides carved out with a silver melon spoon.
Edward turns his gaze downward and fixes it on a bent nail in the floorboards. This’ll be easier if he can't see Stede’s face.
“Stede. I’m ... sorry,” he says haltingly. Edward’s mouth is unfamiliar with the shape of an apology. Blackbeard is a ruthless pirate with no regrets, and when he leaves messes in the wake of his chaotic storm, he doesn’t typically think to look back. But maybe Ed is a different sort of man. Tries to be, at least.
“I didn’t want to leave,” he adds. “Or, well, I did, but only because I felt like I had to. I wasn’t - I just thought you ...” The right words aren’t coming. A frustrated growl rises in his throat. “Fuck, I hate this. This sucks and I feel stupid.”
Edward braces himself for the laugh, for Stede to poke fun at him for being so socially incompetent, but it never comes.
“I’d say you’re doing pretty well, for a pirate,” Stede says instead, and knocks their boots together. The simple act quiets something in Edward’s chest. “My crew barely understood what talking about their feelings even meant, when we started.”
The praise seems unwarranted and makes Edward’s stomach turn oddly. He clenches and unclenches his fists, focuses on the sharp static, then the warm rush of blood. “Probably because you’re the only bastard crazy enough to promote talk therapy on a pirate ship.” It’s a compliment.
“That I am,” Stede agrees. The way he pauses lets Edward know he’s not off the hook yet.
“Why did you feel like you had to leave? After our conversation about being co-captains, I thought...” Stede trails off, then shakes his head. “Then when Jack came, you were like a different person, and when I asked you about it, you just got more and more defensive.” He deepens his voice and flattens his affect into the shoddiest Blackbeard impression Edward has ever heard: “You were all like, ‘This is me, mate. This is who I am now.’”
Edward’s brow deepens. “I do not sound like that.”
“You so do! You’re all like, ‘I’m Blackbeard and every sorry bastard who’s ever crossed me has been skinned alive and strapped to the mast til’ the gulls picked their flesh apart. I’m mysterious and brooding. If you knew who I really am, all the horrible things I’ve done, you’d hate me.’” By the time Stede finishes, his voice has lost its humor.
The roar of blood fills Edward’s ears, a quick-thumping pulse. His face feels hot and itchy and his right hand twitches impulsively toward his hip, where his knife would usually be. He feels like an ass.
“I’m not a good person,” Edward insists, a little helplessly.
“You don’t need to punish yourself for changing because you’re suddenly … less miserable than you think you deserve to be. You can be happy. You’re allowed to be happy.”
Edward hasn’t got a fucking clue what to do with the emotion evoked by that.
“Look, we’re probably about to get executed, or sold, or sold and then executed. I don’t think this is the right time to - ”
“Ed.” Stede fixes him with a look.
“I left.”
“You came back when it mattered, and you apologized. So I forgive you. It’s that easy,” Stede says. He’s honest. He means it.
Edward has this awful gut instinct to dig his heels in further, to make Stede understand what he’s really looking at. But part of him, a selfish, guilty animal, wants, it wants, and fuck all this bullshit about what he deserves because Stede makes him feel so right, how could it be wrong?
“Are you still taking applicants for the co-captain position?” Edward asks. After a beat of silence, he dares to lift his gaze. Stede is grinning, wildly pleased, and his eyes are warm and bright, and Edward thinks he’s beautiful. It’s like being run-through with the Gentleman Pirate’s sword a second time, the way Edward’s guts seem to be rearranging themselves. It’s fucking awful. He loves it.
“I’m terribly sorry, the position’s already taken,” Stede says, still smiling.
“What? By who?”
“Captain Blackbeard. He just so happens to be a very good friend of mine.”
Edward rolls his eyes. “Captain Blackbeard thinks you’re annoying.”
“No he doesn’t. Come here.”
The request is confusing - they’re already pretty close, objectively - but who is Edward to deny his co-captain? He does an awkward shimmy to the side, feeling kind of ridiculous, until their shoulders touch, then their hips and thighs. Stede becomes one long, solid line of contact against his body. Edward holds his breath. “Is this…I mean, I wasn’t sure…”
Stede nods, knocking their boots together. This time, Edward knocks back. Several tight-spun threads running through Edward’s chest unravel at once, pulled loose by the silent reassurance, and he very suddenly realizes he’s exhausted. There’s a heaviness to his body, aches in places he’s never had aches before. General all-encompassing bone-weariness.
“You should try to get some sleep,” Stede whispers, as if having read Edward’s thoughts. “I promise I’ll wake you if anything exciting happens.”
Edward decides he trusts Stede with his life. His death too, really, and most things in-between. Drawn in by a sort of magnetism, like a misguided compass needle, Edward tips his head toward Stede, settling his face into the crook of his partner’s neck.
If Stede minds, he doesn’t say anything.