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Edward’s left knee aches when it rains.
The storm batters on. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the cold glass. Lightning strikes on the horizon and for just a moment he thinks he can see something big and dark in the sharp crack of light.
“That’s everyone settled for the night.”
Stede. Of course. There is nothing on the horizon but Stede’s silhouette reflected in the glass. Ed thinks about turning, and doesn’t; he knows perfectly well how Stede looks—wind-swept, perhaps a little damp, but no doubt as tucked-in and proper as he always is. Perhaps he’ll change out of his day-clothes immediately; he’s probably soaked through if he’s been up on the deck.
“How is it?” Ed asks, and means how are you?
“Cold,” Stede says, over the rustle of fabric, answering both of Ed’s questions, “but everyone is tucked in and safe. Not happy about the room sharing situation, mind you.”
“Of course they aren’t. You pamper them.”
“I take care of them.” The floorboards creak beneath Stede’s weight, and in a moment he’s pressing a palm between Ed’s shoulder-blades. He lets out a little, pinched breath. “You’re in a mood. Storm got your tongue?”
“I’m not in a—” Ed stops, feeling Stede’s hand a steady weight against his back. “I’m working on it.”
It isn’t a bad storm, by any means. They’re caught in its periphery, steered away from the worst of it until all they face is the cold rain and the slightly uneasy rock of the Revenge against the wind. The lightning flashes are far away, and the roll of thunder is a distant, baneful monotony. Ed won’t sleep until he knows for certain it’s passed them by, and that the crashing waves pose them no threat. He’ll stand here all night if he must, watching it, as a dog watches for its master at a window. He will wait up for the ocean that rules him until it orders him to rest, as he does. As he always has.
“Ed.” Stede, behind him, rocks closer with the sway of the ship. He’s steady on his feet, far accustomed to the sea by now, so Ed knows that he’s allowing the storm to pull them closer. Both of his hands are on him; one on his back, between his shoulder-blades, and one on his waist, fingers pressing ever so into the softest part of his side. “You should sleep.”
He presses his hand over Stede’s on his waist. “You should sleep. You’ve had a big day, saving your crew.”
Stede makes a contented humming noise. “I suppose I did. All in a day’s work, ey?”
Ed laughs, and Stede’s thumb smooths gentle circles into his back. His undershirt is thin and he can feel Stede’s warmth through it. He is very warm, and when he rests his head on Ed’s shoulder his hair is impossibly soft against the curve of his neck.
Ed barely breathes. Stede sighs. “Come to bed, Edward.”
“The storm—”
“The storm will pass. Buttons wouldn’t steer us wrong.”
Ed hums, doubtful.
“Hey!” Stede lifts his head, and slots his chin against Ed’s shoulder so that his voice rumbles close to his ear. “We haven’t died yet, have we?”
“Not yet, love, not yet.”
Ed watches the slow roll of the waves, inky black in the night, so dark that they could very well be thick as treacle. He would be none the wiser, in here, protected by the windows and warmed by a lover’s embrace. The ocean could turn to molasses tonight and he would not know nor care; he has no use for it, or the icy wind, or the rain battering against the glass. Not anymore. Not in here. The flashes of lightning might as well be in somebody else’s dream. His dream is here, right here, lit up by moonlight and warm to the touch.
Stede leans their heads together, eyes closed, and begins swaying entirely against the storm-sway of the ship. Ed sways with him, dancing entirely against the rhythm of the tide.
Blackbeard doesn’t move against the tide, but Blackbeard isn’t here. He might never be again. He’s far away, like a distant relative. Like a memory, half-forgotten, recalled only occasionally in the yawning moments before sleep. In here, he is Edward. He is Stede. He is Edward, surrounded by Stede’s things. Edward, who counts himself among them. Edward, who does not belong anywhere so he must—by fate or by chance—belong here.
“Come to bed, Edward,” Stede says, quiet enough for the rain to drown him out.
It won’t; Ed won’t let it.
“Alright,” he says, a hand coming up into Stede’s hair. “Yes, alright.”