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Blackbeard watched the bright winter stars through the fog of his own warm breath and listened to the steady thrum and swoosh of waves lapping the side of the ship, felt its gentle sway beneath his back as he reclined on the deck, the ship resting on the water, anchor tethering it down below. Leather isn't as warm as you'd think it is, and Blackbeard felt the cold seeping in, going deep, numbing him clean through from skin to bone. But still, he didn't move. Just bent his bare arm behind his head and breathed in, drawing the icy air deep into his lungs. When he let it out again, it came out shaking, and one lone tear escaped his eye, cutting a trail through the black kohl on its way down his cheek.
Blackbeard made no move to wipe it away, despite the sharp sting where frigid air met tear-dampened skin.
Somewhere in the distance, he was vaguely aware of the rest of the crew shuffling about below deck, sleeping (or not) in a huddled pile for warmth... and probably other comforts, too. But Blackbeard never joined them. As far as they knew, he was in the captain's cabin right now, nestled in warm blankets and dreaming of carnage. Not even Izzy knew that Blackbeard never slept in that room-- that he couldn't find rest in an empty room whose bare shelves and vacant closets seemed to do nothing other than scream out their grief for the fullness and opulence they once held.
So Blackbeard spent his nights on deck.
These moments were the only time he allowed himself to become Ed again. To let his thoughts drift from the reliable mooring of violence and rage back to something that remembered the softness of fine fabric and the warmth of good brandy. It felt as if the cold air did more than just numb his skin; it also numbed the ache that had taken up residence in his chest that night on the dock, when he'd lain, much like this, watching a new day dawn alongside the realization that, yet again, he had been discarded. Within days of the initial injury, that ache became pain, became wounding, became rage. Became murder.
Even with the benefit of the numbing cold, Ed still couldn't let himself go back there. Not entirely. Of all that Blackbeard had done while Ed watched, seeing Lucius's face turn so rapidly from openness to concern to terror, hearing his splashes and screams, was too much, far too much, to ever look at again. Ed kept that door firmly closed in his mind. But even still, more tears broke free now, stinging and rinsing his skin in like measure.
Numbed inside and out, with his defenses growing brittle and cracking in the frigid air, Ed's thoughts turned, of course, to Stede. That face, so open and kind, flashed through Ed's mind in a dozen images all at once: Stede pale and sweating, rope burns fresh on his neck; Stede gleeful and savage, watching the French aristocrats burn; Stede, face down on the deck, beaming at Ed in a way that made him fool enough to believe, for a moment, that he might not need Blackbeard ever again.
And then the image Ed wished he could lock away, but that always rose to the top anyway: Stede on the beach. The look of surprise when Ed leaned in to kiss him; the kick of Ed's heart when Stede kissed him back; Ed's feeling, in that moment, like Stede was all he would ever need again to keep him safe, to keep him warm, to keep him human.
Ed's eyes were clinched tight now, the tears rolling freely down the sides of his face, streaking trails of black kohl down his skin as a heavy sob threatened to rip itself from his chest. Ed clenched his stomach with both arms and rolled to his side, drawing his knees to his chest in a vain attempt to stop the trembling that had nothing to do with the cold. He placed a leather-gloved knuckle between his teeth and bit down to keep himself from screaming.
So close, he thought, the pain of it rising in him like a riptide, pulling him under. So fucking close. Stede had been right there, right by his side, right in his grasp. Stede, with all his softness and warmth, his beauty and refinement, his goddamned fucking kindness. And Ed, monster that he is, was stupid enough to think that such a fine thing could be his. At this thought, Ed's hatred and loathing of himself reached new depths within him, making his gut churn with revulsion. He was seized, suddenly, though not for the first time, with the urge to shackle irons to his legs and drop himself into the deep, let the monsters of the sea feast on one of their own.
He had half resolved to do it, had begun to pull himself upright in the direction of the irons, when he heard a gentle, almost imperceptible rustling behind him. Fearing Izzy had seen him weeping and would fix Ed in yet another of his disgusted and withering gazes, but also feeling broken enough to deserve it, Ed slowly turned his head.
It wasn't Izzy. Even in the darkness, Ed knew the shape of that broad body he'd imagined touching so often, and knew that swoop of golden hair, even in moonlight. The shock of it was so great that Edward froze, red eyes widening against his kohl-smudged and tear-stained face.
Without a word, Stede closed the distance between them, dropping to his knees and placing his hands on the sides of Ed's face, gazing at him intently with equal parts worry, sorrow, guilt, and joy.
For a fleeting moment, Blackbeard tried to rage to Ed's defense, and Stede saw the brief glimpse of hardened flint roll across Ed's face. But Ed was too tired, too weary, to sustain Blackbeard just now. Instead, he dropped his gaze, allowed his skin a moment to soak in the warmth of Stede's large hands.
Without meaning to, he raised his own hand to cover Stede's. When Ed looked in Stede's eyes this time, Stede saw the depth of Ed's wounding, and let the nauseous shame in his own chest settle into steely resolve that he would mend this or die trying.
Ed's eyes glistened and his chin shook as he struggled for words that wouldn’t come. What came instead was a sudden onslaught of images, feelings, thoughts– half of which felt like buoys pulling him to the surface and half of which felt like anchors around his neck– while Ed thrashed between the two, unable either to breathe or to drown.
Stede held his own breath as the man he loved appeared to descend to a hell within himself before Stede’s very eyes, Ed’s face and eyes moving rapidly back and forth between those of a frantic, trapped animal and a wounded, hurting child. Stede’s heart broke more with each passing moment, and he wanted so desperately to intervene, to pull Ed back from the brink of whatever precipice he teetered on. But instead he only held Ed’s hand and waited, ready to meet whoever emerged out of the darkness.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, something seemed to give way. Ed’s breathing stilled. He dropped his head back, face to the stars, and closed his eyes. He drew in a deep steadying breath, and opened his eyes as he breathed out a slow stream of warm air into the cold night sky.
The eyes that met Stede's then were clear. Still deeply hurt, but also completely Ed. His Ed.
Gazing into Stede's face, Ed recognized the familiar look of regret and shame. But he also saw, once again, clearly and undeniably, love. He hadn't imagined it after all.
Holding Stede's hands in his own, Ed rested his forehead against Stede's. With relief flooding his exhausted and half frozen body, he intoned, as if in prayer, "You came back."