Chapter Text
It should have been an utterly forgettable hit. They were near Cape Charles. Blackbeard had a sudden craving for Madeira wine, and so he set his sights upon the Betty. The plan was to seize the wine and sink the rest.
As Blackbeard’s crew boarded the trading vessel, they were greeted by its terrified men, who offered up no resistance. Their eyes remained fixed on Blackbeard’s figure even while the rest of the pirate crew shoved them down onto their knees. The coveted barrels of wine were brought out. Some of Blackbeard’s crew practiced their carving skills on the unfortunate passengers.
During all this, Blackbeard contemplated the terrible monotony of late. The way their victims immediately surrendered when they saw him? That was why he usually didn’t physically join the raids anymore. But this time he’d wanted to be there to make sure the wine was handled properly.
And then he noticed a lanky, red-headed man who had been most certainly absent from the Betty’s deck when Blackbeard and his men had initially boarded. He’d apparently escaped notice after he did appear, because he was standing off to the side, not kneeling alongside the rest of the trading ship’s crew.
The man’s eyes were covered by dark-tinted eyeglasses, but Blackbeard knew that the man was watching – no, observing – the proceedings. He had a cat-like, near serpentine laziness about him. The descriptor “fearless” would imply courage and boldness, but this man evidently didn’t care one way or another about his impending death. Nor did he show any noticeable reaction to the violence his fellow shipmates were being subjected to, neither aversion nor sadistic glee.
As Blackbeard was scrutinizing the man, those dark eyeglasses tilted towards his direction. The man paused, nodding slightly towards Blackbeard, and then returned his attention to the rest of the ship.
He was clearly one of their ilk. Someone useful.
Blackbeard let him be. After his crew loaded the spoils onto their boats and began to row away from the doomed trading ship, Blackbeard strode past the red-headed man, pausing for a moment to quietly say, “You’ll be joining us, then.”
And so there was a new crew member on Blackbeard’s ship.
Crowley, as the man was called, quickly proved to possess reasonable cleverness and excellent luck.
He took to dramatic fuckery with pleasure and suggested to Blackbeard a few fear-inducing (but generally harmless) additions for their routines. At times the man seemed to outright vanish into the shadows. There were two tricks he always managed to flawlessly execute, ones that not even the most experienced crew could replicate consistently.
Despite being sent out as part of the expendable front line of their attacks – the first to fumble over onto the decks of enemy ships – Crowley always managed to return relatively unscathed. There was also one evening where a rough wave nearly ejected Crowley overboard, but he managed to grab onto a rope ladder that Fang was near certain had been tied onto the other side of the ship earlier that day.
He was never seen without his distinctive tinted glasses. “Eye sensitivity,” he explained with a one-shouldered shrug. Miraculously, those glasses never saw a single crack. Or maybe the man had spare lenses squirreled away somewhere.
Indeed, their newest crew member had somehow brought aboard a snake with none the wiser. It only appeared to the crew on rare occasions, presumably spending most of its time hunting down vermin in the ship’s walls or sun-basking in the crow’s nest. The first time Izzy saw the creature, he attempted to skewer it, but somehow managed to trip over his own feet and bash his chin. And then tripped again over a crate while stalking after the slim black snake. And so on, stumbling and fumbling after the snake until he eventually sheathed his dagger and muttered that it’d probably get eaten by some of the larger ship rats anyways. The rest of Blackbeard’s crew wisely left the snake alone.
Otherwise, Crowley was competent but relatively unremarkable, and Blackbeard let him fade, in his mind, into one cog amongst the rest of his ship’s crew.
They were raiding another trading vessel. Blackbeard had decided to stay behind and grant Izzy the responsibility of carrying out the attack. Everything went off without a hitch, as per usual.
A few hours after their return, Blackbeard heard a quiet but firm knock at his door, followed by Crowley’s voice: “Captain.”
Blackbeard granted the man entry. “Crowley,” he greeted neutrally, remaining seated at his desk. “What do you want?”
Crowley reached into his clothes. Blackbeard palmed his dagger in an instant, but the man only withdrew some fine liqueur, which he offered up for his captain’s perusal. “Care for a drink? Nicked this from the last ship.”
It was technically a bit untoward. But, well, Blackbeard didn’t exactly care for leisurely drinking with Izzy. His first mate was undoubtedly competent at his job, yet always seemed to gaze at Blackbeard with an off-putting mixture of sadistic glee and hopeful masochism.
“Yeah,” Blackbeard agreed, gesturing to the available chair by his table. “All right.”
They passed the drink back and forth, sliding the bottle across Blackbeard’s desk. It was quality stuff, meant for much finer palates. Soon they were chatting cheerfully, off on a brainstorming session of fuckery ideas. Crowley had continued to have no issue with witnessing violence, but it was clear that he preferred to do more of the strategizing and the smoke and mirrors. Blackbeard could appreciate that sentiment.
The evening wound down and the bottle was emptied. There was a pleasant haziness in the back of Blackbeard’s skull. He leaned forward into Crowley’s space, an unspoken invitation. This was most likely the real reason the red-headed man had entered his quarters.
But Crowley countered with a faintly slurred, “Ah, no thank you,” smiling apologetically. “You’re great, but I don’t really do that sort of temptation, you see. Just thought you might ‘preciate a drink in decent company sometimes. I certainly could. Gladly chat through some of those dast– dastardly plans too. Love a clever plan, me.”
Blackbeard, surprisingly enough, thought through the issue and found himself fine with that proposal.
He even woke up strangely refreshed the next morning, no hangover in sight.
A month or two later, Blackbeard called his first mate and newly-promoted boatswain to his quarters.
“There’s been some aristocratic fellow who calls himself the Gentleman Pirate,” he said offhandedly to Izzy and Crowley after they’d finished their reports. He detailed some of the aristocrat’s rumored escapades.
Crowley had a bemused, slightly wistful look on his face. “Reminds me of an acquaintance of mine. Wonder what they’re up to these days.”
Izzy was scoffing. “Who the hell is this idiot?”
“Well, my dear Izzy.” Blackbeard grinned toothily. “You’re about to find out.”