Work Text:
If there was a rougher end of Nassau, they were in it; of course, them being in it made it rougher.
The tavern (if you could call it that) made the phrase ‘hole in the wall’ seem generous. Some long-dead evil genius had called it the Scylla et Charybdis, presumably with the aim of torturing anyone who didn’t speak like King George; no could get their tongue around Charybdis, so it was the Scylla, the sadly creaking sign salt-faded and unreadable either way. The rushes were never changed and you didn’t know what you were drinking, except that it put hairs on your chest. The atmosphere, never friendly, had shifted as soon as Blackbeard entered - as atmospheres tended to do - and the table in the far corner mysteriously came free. ‘Table’ was almost as generous as ‘hole in the wall.’
Things were more than a little blurry around the edges. Blackbeard had started drinking approximately a year ago and never really stopped. Oh, he was still alert, alright, but he might not have noticed Stede Bonnet walk through the door immediately if Izzy hadn’t made a noise next to him that was half wounded cat and half apocalyptic rage.
“Absolutely fucking not,” he said, and instinctively reached for Blackbeard’s arm, then though better of it. Even Izzy was cautious around Blackbeard these days; there were only so many appendages a man could lose before it started to look like carelessness.
Bonnet hadn’t seen them. Oblivious as always to anything that wasn’t himself (and was he still allowed to be that bitter? The pewter cup in Blackbeard’s hand made a protesting squeak and crunch) the shadows recoiled from his usual aura of golden light, and for a second everyone in the Scylla blinked, grubs under a rock exposed to the sun. The golden frock coat didn’t help the impression, trimmed in deep bronze. His hair was lightened by the sun, threaded with slightly more white, spiralling from the temples; he was wind-kissed and chapped looking across the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones; he was happy .
“That’s our cue,” said Blackbeard. Izzy almost visibly wilted with relief. He wouldn’t necessarily be adverse to the inevitably brutal and drawn out murder visible as shouting on Blackbeard’s face, but these days there were very few taverns in Nassau that didn’t instantly close the shutters and pretend not to be in when the Queen Anne’s Revenge docked, and the Scylla’s proprietor wouldn’t take too kindly to all the blood.
Then again. Blackbeard tossed a handful of coins down (too much; they were doing well, crime really did pay) and took his knife out in the same smooth movement, weighed the handle thoughtfully, and stood. There was a ripple, more of a shudder, of fear that passed through the bar, though Izzy was close enough to see him sway, steady himself against the wall. Drunk. He was more dangerous that way, a baited bear, spear in shoulder.
Bonnet saw him and went the amusing pasty shade of off-milk. When was the last time they had seen one another? There had been a near miss six months ago, Antigua, but the market was crowded and Blackbeard could pretend he hadn’t seen Olu’s distinctive shape shouldering his way towards the avocados, Bonnet trailing in his wake, head buried in papers, looking for all the world like a gentleman scribe, maybe a family lawyer. When Spanish Jackie had intervened on Jim’s behalf Izzy had thought, with pulsing dread, that she’d turn to the back room with a theatrical flourish and Bonnet would emerge, lines prepared and script memorised; it would be just like her, she’d do it for the bit. But no; Jim had scowled menacingly but eventually agreed to owe Jackie the ransom Blackbeard demanded, and for all Izzy knew they were still working it off behind the bar - he suspected otherwise.
So, there it was: a near miss, the ghost of him at Jackie’s, and before that? Letters, burned without reading. The news that Bonnet had a new ship, though he was going by Thomas now. The scent of him on the wind when Izzy rose early and found Blackbeard up in the crows nest, arm loosely around his knees, smoking his pipe, silent and alone. Izzy distinctly heard, across the suddenly silent room, Olu say, “oh, fuck .”
That seemed to amuse Blackbeard, though who could read him nowadays. He kept the beard clipped a little shorter now; the kohl was heavy and dark, and there was still blood under his fingernails from the last raid, clotting a strand of hair into something approaching a braid. Izzy remembered how he’d seen the knife go in under the chin and his hands shook with the memory of it, the shape of Blackbeard’s shoulders under the leather, the pump and swell of the blood, the slick sound.
It might be worth not drinking at the Scylla again. The serving girl always turned him down.
“G-good God,” stuttered Bonnet.
Izzy wondered what they looked like, to those who had been strangers for a year. Blackbeard wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t flip the heavy-handled knife between his fingers as he advanced; there was a general retracting of limbs from his path, and Izzy found it surprisingly easy to follow in his wake through the warren of mismatched chairs, chamber pots, bones crunching under foot. When they drew closer, Blackbeard paused. Izzy couldn’t parse the feeling in his chest (disappointment? relief?) so as usual he didn’t bother to try, just felt the small spark of triumph grow, show on his face, all sharp teeth and incisors.
It wasn’t so fun to triumph over Bonnet in this state; he was so shaken it was as if he’d seen a ghost, or a mythical creature come real, which was close to the truth of it all. He pressed his back against the bar and fairly trembled head to foot, literally quaking in his inappropriate finely rolled footwear.
Olu made a valiant attempt at normalcy. “Wow. Crazy seeing you guys here. Small world.”
Izzy grinned at him. Well, it was more a baring of teeth. “Small world,” he agreed, “about to be a bit smaller.”
Blackbeard waved a lazy hand at him and he retracted his teeth a little. Was it really just the three of them - Bonnet, Olu, and Frenchie, cowering with his hands on Olu’s shoulders like a little mouse? Was Bonnet that stupid, wandering about Nassau in his sparkling golden coat with only two men at his back? Even Blackbeard had three, and his reputation for brutality was taking on such form that just the sight of his flag generally led to total surrender. Not that he was accepting surrenders, these days. Izzy eyed them over with lacivious delight. They looked well-fed, but apart from Olu’s brute force, they wouldn’t pose a problem to an army of teenage girls.
“What the fuck happened to you?” blurted Bonnet. Then he flushed and said, trying to straighten himself to his full height, failing, “I mean to say - that is.” He swallowed. “Well, it’s good to see you. My good man.”
My good man? He really was rattled, his eyes fixed, unmoving, on Blackbeard’s face, pupils blown, reminding Izzy irresistibly of a rabbit trapped in the hypnotic gaze of a snake. Blackbeard, though, shrugged, and to Izzy’s utter horror reached out and clapped Bonnet on his epauletted shoulder.
It was a hard clap, to be fair. Bonnet barely stayed standing. “It’s not that deep, mate.” Blackbeard sheathed the knife at his thigh.
An audible sigh went through the room, and a quiet, cautious, and distinctly nosy buzz of chatter started to grow up again, though presumably every ear remained straining towards the bar. The proprietor had been cleaning the same cup with the same filthy rag for the last five minutes. Pirates were notoriously gossipy. Blackbeard raised his hands, flashing, as Izzy knew all too well, the tattooed vulnerable underside of his wrists, the thick arm braces of heavy worn leather. His joints had been acting up again; he was strapped and trussed like a Christmas turkey under all the bravado. Yet another reason to leave without the very tempting brutal murder. Hands still raised, Blackbeard said, “just passing on through. Scootch over there, French.”
Frenchie said, “is that blood in your hair ?”
Blackbeard didn’t not smile. “Maybe.”
A swell of foreboding threatened to overwhelm Izzy’s spark of triumph. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go? Bonnet watching Blackbeard with me hose wide dark eyes - sure, that was to be expected. But not this…this casual friendliness. The urge to needle, to provoke, choked him, made his breath come short. But Blackbeard was unpredictable like this, it could be Izzy with the knife under his chin if he didn’t step very, very carefully.
Bonnet let out a great breath, as if he’d been holding it for the better part of a year. “My god, but this is - this is unexpected, not unwelcome, I should say, but unexpected. I thought, after my letters went unanswered, and then I heard…” He trailed off: whatever he’d heard was manifestly true. And the truth was worse. He said, then, “ Ed .”
And it happened - oh, it happened, with a hand on Izzy’s chest for the barest blink of a second, shoving him backwards out of the way, and then Blackbeard was on Bonnet like something feral, a half-shout, half-growl tearing from his lips, and the knife was at Bonnet’s throat, so quick Izzy didn’t see him draw. Frenchie screamed, but before Olu could move Izzy had the gun pointed at his head. He smiled, tilted his head. I was faster .
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Blackbeard was snarling; he had Bonnet by the frilly shirtfront and Bonnet’s ridiculous boots kicked frantically for purchase “Don’t you dare call me that. As if you have the right -“
The knife cut in, not deep, but enough to leave a trickle of red, snaking down the pale hollow of Bonnet’s throat, staining the collar of his shirt with spreading crimson droplets. He gasped, strangled, “mind the coat !”
Blackbeard dropped him; Izzy could hear his breathing, sharp, and see his hands shake. He pointed the knife; Bonnet went a little cross eyed trying to keep the tip in view. “If I see you again,” Blackbeard panted, “you are dead .”
He shoved his way past Izzy, knocking the gun half out of his hands. In his scramble to catch it, he heard, incredulous, Bonnet’s laughter - high and a little hysterical, but genuinely amused, even happy. He was brushing down the front of his coat with meticulous care, and he was laughing . Izzy shouldered his way past Olu, trailed by an exceptionally confused Fang and a very bored looking Will, who was newer, had never met Bonnet, and didn’t seem phased in the least.
“Oi! Dizzy Izzy!” yelled Olu. “You’re drooling.”