Work Text:
stede bonnet is like a puzzle piece manufactured into the wrong bag. the puzzle is complete, pieces conjoined into a perfect picture, but he still lies there. no matter how many times he’d tried to jam himself in, there was no place for him. not here. he didn’t fit in with the family he was born into, he didn’t fit in at school, and now he didn’t fit in with the family he had made.
he and mary always seated themselves on completely opposite ends of their dinner table, a posh length of mahogany wood stretched so far apart it felt almost comical. the children always sat with her, of course. always making that distance between them that hung in the air- ever present like a fog, thick as tar as he breathed it in- physical, real. their looks only confirmed it further, little glances of half squinted eyes. like stede had said something wrong, done something wrong.
he’s taken to keeping his head down, mostly- but he doesn’t stop trying. hes not one to back down. despite the looks he gets, he persists. despite the way their conversations are held in such a way to purposefully leave him out, he still attempts to enter. even if he understands how unwelcome he is.
…unwelcome? no, not unwelcome. that doesn’t feel right.
its not like theyre shoving him away or anything- you cant shove away whats already invaded. being ‘unwelcome’ implies that there was a choice in the first place. there wasn’t. their marriage was arranged- a buisness transaction. her family’s land, his family’s money. two strangers and a document. it was marriage, then children. thats how it was supposed to go. thats how stede was supposed to do it, so he did it. this was as close to love as he’d ever get- he’d accept it as he could. its not like he’d ever felt love before that, anyways. he thought himself a hopeless romantic, but never in practice. only ever with books he read or fantasies he created in his mind. every act of love for mary, the gifts, the words- they felt like a charade rather than a genuine show of affection. it wasnt mary’s fault- something had always been wrong in stede, like a clock with a cog in the wrong place. women never really caught stede’s eye. throughout his childhood, his teenage years, beyond, he never felt that feeling all his books described. never felt that fluttery, pining feeling that love was apparently supposed to feel like.
it was only another detail on a long list of ways that stede stuck out like a sore thumb.
he doesn’t really know how to feel about anything. he knows he wants to escape, he knows he wants to be free, but he doesn’t know what that means for him- and believe him, he’d considered many options.
its hard when you dont know whats wrong with you. like an illness, you cant find a cure if you don’t know what ails you. you can stare into a mirror for hours, you can prep and preen your outfit however you like, comb your hair as perfectly as you can, style your cravat in a million different ways, but itll never make you feel any more right. you can give up everything you possibly can for those you love, you can refuse your own comfort for others at the blink of an eye, you can cling desperately to the way people percieve you as kind and welcoming, but that’ll never keep down the rot you’ve felt inside of you for as long as you can remember.
itll never keep down the rot he feels inside of him.
stede bonnet feels rotted to the roots, all colours and warmth on the outside, cold and unsalvageable on the inside. he has always been wrong inside- there has always been something fundamentally wrong with him. the worst of it all is that there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.
he can lock himself, weeping, into as many rooms as he wants. he can tempt a knife, knowing he wont have the strength to go through with it. he can stare out to sea as long as he wants. nothing will remove the infection that waits inside him. nothing.
escape isn’t an option, but staying isn’t either. so what does he do?
well he stays at a standstill, of course. he kisses his wife in the morning, he reads the paper, he eats breakfast, lunch and dinner, he plays with his kids when they can stand to be around him, he dresses in fancy garb in an attempt to bring himself that joyous zing that comes quick and stays seldom long. he just forces himself forward over and over. forces himself into his routines over and over. he reads his books- his escapes- over and over.
if nothing else, one thing was for certain- it was that if there was one saving grace in his life, it was his books.
his eyes had made their way over the same pages hundreds and hundreds of times. his only freedoms were found in those words. romances, fantasies, tragedies, nonfictions- he loved them all. he loved one genre especially, though, and that was the biographies of people much freer, braver, stronger than him- the hundreds of stories of infamous pirates that he had read god knows how many times over. william kidd, mary read, samuel bellamy, hundreds! but... most notable was blackbeard, of course. now he sure was a pirate. many times he’d let his fingers run over the page, the illustration, a quiet sigh leaving his lips. he’d give anything to spend a day in his shoes- even just beside him. its a frequent daydream, something he is well aware is impossible but still makes him buzz to think about. he’d even read it so many times the damn page was committed to his memory.
… he knows its disappointing that he is so desperate to run away from his life that he seeks escapism in every way he can. by all means he should be happy with the life handed to him, but he isn’t. he feels unfulfilled with every second he remains in this house- in this life. hollow. the ghost of a man, only kept around to maintain appearances. a stupid hollow rich man keeping up his reputation with other stupid hollow rich people. its torture.
every day is a new social rule to learn, a new face to memorise, a new document to sign- stupid and mundane. everything is mundane.
he stands silently at he and mary’s bedroom window as he reflects on all of this, memories flicking before him. it was something that plagued his mind ashamedly often, always lying just beyond his words, the bitterness on his tongue. he hadn’t been able to sleep because of it. their room is just a floor from the ground, and mary is in bed just across from where he stands. he’s in his nightgown, clutching it to his chest as if it’d fly off in the night breeze if he didnt. it wouldnt, of course- he knows it wouldnt. it was simply that he found comfort in those pretty fabrics held so close to him, reds and whites swirled into the pooling cloth, clutched in his tight hand as if he was gripping it for dear life. the window stood open, the empty streets laid out in front of him. cold dark alleyways and cobblestone roads, the odd flickering of light. it he looked hard enough, he could just see the seaside horizon. the distant reflection of the moon on the ocean’s waters, glittering, beckoning. stede wouldn’t need a siren’s call to pull him into the depths of those black waters- that’s something he’d very well willingly do himself. to let himself be caught under the rip tide, dragged to the bottom of that dark pit- swirling, floating, the weight of all the fabric he once held tight around him now pulling him to his demise, soaking heavy with water like ophelia’s gown, drowning him as it did her.
its almost an enticing idea. to die to two of the things he loves so dearly. the ocean, and the beautiful fabrics he so admires. christ, when did he get so morbid?
the chill of the night air finds its way through stede’s nightgown- he thinks he might even feel the spitting of rain- but he doesn’t move. the way he shivers, the way the water drifts gently onto his face- its a reminder that he is alive. the unconscious reaction of his skin, the tang of the cold air, it reminds him that he is real. he is here. he doesn’t really know if he thrills or despairs in this epiphanic wash of air, but he doesnt have the energy in this moment to feel anything but slight unrest. he is here.
for a moment he wonders what it would feel like to jump from the ledge. to feel that terrifying rush of wind as his bedclothes, his nightgown, flutter rapidly in the air that he quickly descends into. he wonders what that instant of impact would feel like. the crunch of bones, the thud of his skull. tentatively, he looks down towards the concrete ground below him. he’s only on the second floor, he wouldn’t even die- but still it tempts him. his hands grip the windowsill slightly tighter, staring down at the road as his heart thumps louder. he thinks maybe he can feel his blood rushing through his veins, and he gulps quietly. its wouldn’t even be to kill himself. he’d be fine with a brutal fall. its just to rip himself out of this monotonous routine he’s trapped himself into. to get out of the deathly grip this life has him in, even just for a moment of rushing air.
but then his eyes catch the ocean’s horizon again.
the wind still blows quietly at him. through his gown, his skin, muscle, bone. the chill settles on his skin, raises his flesh. the ocean remains. the sea, and the moon, and its glittering surface. it is there. once again he finds himself swallowing, but this time its less nervousness. its a feeling he cant explain- like a surge of emotions. a thickness in his throat, a swelling in his chest. his eyes prick with tears, which is strange. not once during his considerations of self harm or temptations of suicide did he even begin to tear up, but just a glimpse of the sea was enough to coax them out of him with ease. his hands grip the windowsill tighter, the rain spitting harder into his face, his wide eyes.
the sea. his chest feels tight, as if carved out from the inside, raw with emotion. the sea.
he reaches a hand out of his window, the loose cloth pooled around his arm slipping slightly lower as he does so. water patters against his fingers as he stretches out of the sill, reaching desperately out as if doing so would bring him to those rolling waves. never once before has he felt such an intense longing for those depths, for sturdy, gently swaying oak beneath his feet, the wind whipping at his hair, the salt on his skin.
a giddy, tearful laugh leaves his lips, choking him the moment it escapes. belonging. for a moment, his life could be everything he wished it could be. for a moment, he considers an impossible life. one where he’s anywhere but here, further away than he’s ever been. it brings a rush of serenity through his bones to think about. the idea of being so completely alone- so completely free- its a fantasy stede couldn’t even begin to dream of. his face falls slightly at the impossibility of this reality, his hand faltering before gently retreating from its outstretched grasp, newly wet from the spitting rain.
it is an idea stede cannot give himself false hope for. an impossibility in its purest form.
… but it is an idea worth living for.
so stede gently pulls closed his window, and ties his curtains back together. even if it is a bizarre fantasy, the idea of something else is just enough. just enough for him to silently walk back to bed, slipping himself back under the blankets. for a moment, his eyes flick over to mary. it is strange to think something so monumental had just occurred to him, and mary hadn’t even a clue. a quiet huff- not quite of amusement as it is of acceptance- leaves his lungs. as stede shuts his eyes, he is aware that she likely never will.