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Chapter Text

If Ed's feeling charitable, he can fool himself into thinking that killing his dad is an act of love.

Not for his dad himself, of course. Christ, no. The bloke's a waste of space from the start. Ed's earliest memories are the smell of spilt ale and the shattering of glass. He remembers the quick breaths of his mum, comforting him with damp eyes, her hands shaking so much she could hardly hold him properly.

Ed's dad is less of a father and more of a spectre in the shadows of his childhood. Every evening, without fail, the creaking of the door heralds his arrival and the end of whatever small peace he and his mum had found in his absence.

(Years later, when Ed is older than his shithead father ever gets to be, he dreams of the sound of his boots on the mat and wakes up in a cold sweat, fear stealing the breath from his throat.)

As a kid, Ed daydreams of his dad's death. Not that he'd planned it, not like that. It's just a daft fantasy, outlandish in the way only kids can be.

He imagines an ordinary evening, in the creeping hour before his dad gets home. He and his mum get steadily quieter and quieter as dread settles over them, cold as snowfall. His mum, having cleaned everything that could possibly be cleaned, usually ends up sitting and staring into the meagre fire.

This time, though, there'd be no creaking of the door. In Ed's daydreams, someone knocks. A bloke at the door, some fellow from down the docks. He'd doff his cap to Ed's mum and shuffle his feet, the way men always did when they bore bad news.

"Really sorry, ma'am," He'd say, as though Ed's dad was the sort of bloke who'd be sorely missed. "There was an accident. It's your husband..."

There'd be no more boots on the mat. No more smashed glass, no more stale stinking bottles lined up on the table. There'd be no more pinched look on his mum's face, no more frantic scrubbing and cleaning, no more eating scraps while his dad throws the lion's share of the evening meal against the wall.

He prays for it. Guilty and furtive, when the priest drones on on a Sunday, Ed opens his eyes. He looks at his mum, her head bowed. Then his dad, slumped in the pew next to her, bloated and red-faced and wrong-looking, like a drowned creature reanimated.

Ed closes his eyes. Clasping his hands in a parody of devotion, he prays for his dad's death.

Of course, all of that praying, all of the hoping and wishing had come to nothing, really. Ed had envisioned an act of God, a storm or a tidal wave to sweep the bastard away for good.

It had been Ed all along, sitting in the belly of their tumbledown house like a cancer.

So, yeah, he could tell himself it's an act of love. Love for his mum, who spends every day afraid. Ed wants her to just be, to just exist, without the weight of all of this bearing down upon her. He wants to see her smile, and mean it - not the uncomfortable shape she forces her mouth into to appease his dad.

It's more than that, of course. It's hatred, boiling hot inside him, finally spilling over. Ed can't lie to himself completely. It's the start of all the things wrong inside him, of his inability to be a good and decent person.

Afterwards, when his dad's body hits the dock, Ed's memory goes a little fuzzy. He remembers the body hitting the ground, the thud, the sprawl of lifeless limbs. He remembers the roar of blood in his ears, louder than the ocean.

He remembers dragging his dad to the edge of the dock and heaving him into the rolling sea.

-

"The Kraken killed your dad?"

Ed takes a deep drag on his pipe and exhales, like his heart isn't thudding rabbit-quick in his chest.

"Yeah."

"Bullshit," Jack says. He laughs so loudly that a gull, perched on a nearby barrel, flies away with an indignant squawk. "You are so full of crap, y'know that?"

Ed can feel his temper simmering at that, always too close to the surface. He takes another drag, clenches his teeth hard, and exhales the smoke through his nose.

"Y'know," He says, conversationally. "I'm starting to see why everyone else on this godforsaken ship thinks you're a dickhead."

"Fuck off," Jack says. "The Kraken ain't real. How much had you been drinking that day, huh?"

"I was a kid."

"Yeah, and? I had my first hangover when I was four. You ain't special."

Ed's still pissed - always is, one way or another, these days. Sometimes it feels like his better nature passed when his mum did, and ended up in the ground with her.

Despite that, something about Jack - about how much of a colossal arsehole he is - makes him laugh, then.

"Fuck off," He says. "When you were four. Fucking hell."

-

Ed winds up stuck with Jack most days when they're serving under Hornigold. Hornigold is a proper bastard through and through, the kind of bloke who'd give you the cat as soon as look at you. The days are as rough as the seas, but it still feels like an escape.

Ed's leaving everything behind at sea. There's nobody to go home to, now - nobody to miss him, not now his mum's dead. All of the fucked up memories of his childhood, his dad's shadow and his mum's death - out here on the ocean, he can pretend it all happened to some other bloke.

They call him Blackbeard now. It's not the most original moniker, it has to be said, but it's better than Edward.

Jack calls him Blackie, because of course he does. Some days, Ed thinks if they weren't stuck out to sea, he'd hate Jack's guts. The bloke's a proper arsehole, reckless and thoughtless, brave in a way that's tantamount to outright stupidity. He makes Ed laugh 'til his stomach hurts.

The two of them lying around getting pissed together fills a gap in Ed's chest that he hadn't even known had been there. He's been lonely, he guesses. Jack's hardly ideal company at the best of times, and more often than not his ill-thought out schemes and unkind words lead the pair of them into some pretty terrible scrapes. Even so, they've got each other, in some fucked up kind of way.

It's not love. Christ, it really isn't. Ed doesn't even think in those kinds of terms, not anymore. He loved his mum, and that was enough. There's no room for love on a ship like Hornigold's, and definitely not with Calico Jack.

-

"Pathetic," Jack says, one day.

It's been a real irredeemable bastard of a week, it has to be said. They'd had a close call with a merchant ship whose crew had unexpectedly been armed to the teeth with every sort of gun you could think of, and more besides. A couple of the crew had been shot dead before the rest of them had realised what was happening, which is always pretty shit for morale. Hornigold had flogged Lenny on deck the next day, just because he was pissed and wanting to take it out on someone. Yeah, he'd rambled on about some bread missing from the ship's stores, but Ed had seen right through it. He's just glad it wasn't him having to bear the brunt of a bad mood this time.

They'd made landfall after that, but there'd been a ruckus in the first tavern they'd walked into. They ended up piling back onto the ship and getting the hell out of there before anyone had even had an ale.

After a run of such excellent luck, it stood to reason that it'd only get worse. They end up becalmed, because of course they do. Hornigold strides about the deck, here and there, like if he yells enough he can make the ocean do something. Then he goes back to his quarters to get pissed, which seems like a good enough idea for a wasted day.

Ed takes a swig of rum straight from the bottle. He's had a headache since he woke up, and he's hoping eventually the drink might take the edge off.

"Swear to God," Jack's saying. "If I'm ever this cut up over a fuck, I want you to shoot me."

Ed squints, mid-afternoon sunlight catching on the mast and blinding him.

"The fuck are you on about, mate?"

"Parky," Jack says, with a vague nod over at the man in question, swabbing the deck. He holds his hand out for the rum and Ed takes another mouthful before he hands it over, just to be a dick. "Moping around the deck. Sad bastard."

"He's cleaning," Ed says. "Want me to explain to you how that works? Since you never fucking do it."

Jack jabs him with his elbow.

"Fuck off," He says. "He's moping. Has been all week. You didn't hear him crying the other night?"

"No," Ed scoffs. "'Course I didn't."

He had heard Parky crying, as a matter of fact. He thinks everyone had, but what a bloke gets up to at night is his own affair. The poor bastard had obviously tried his best to keep quiet, to no avail.

Ed had been forcibly reminded of when he was a kid. On really bad days, his dad would beat the living shit out of him, then threaten to start on his mum if he made a sound. Some days he'd end up breathing too loud or making some noise, no matter how hard he tried. Ed feels like the weight of that still sits heavy on his shoulders, even with his dad long dead.

Jack's scowling.

"Lucky you," He says. "Bawling like a baby, he was."

There's something about his sneer that makes Ed's skin crawl. He snatches the rum back with more force than is strictly necessary, ignoring Jack's yelp of surprise.

"What's it to you if the bloke cries?" Ed asks, gesturing with the bottle. "Mind your fucking business."

"I am minding my fucking business," Jack says, spreading his arms to encompass himself, lounging on the deck. "Just saying, I ever get that hung up over some buggering, you kill me, alright?"

"I'll kill you way before that, mate," Ed says, and means it.

Jack laughs, holding his hand out for the rum. For one mad second, Ed pictures smashing the bottle over his head. Jack's oblivious, of course - he's already talking about something else, leaning in to nudge Ed in the ribs, uncomfortably conspiratorial.

It's just ship politics, is all. Everyone knows Parky and Ben had been fucking, then making big cow eyes at each other all day. Then, out of the blue, Ben had run off to shack up with some girl who probably didn't smell like shit, unlike the rest of them. Parky isn't taking it well, which is hardly surprising.

It doesn't sit right in Ed's chest, Jack kicking the poor fucker when he's down. It makes him feel wrong, sort of sick and angry somehow. It makes him think of his dad's constantly sneering face, like the whole world was beneath him and he wanted to be sure everyone knew it.

-

It plays on his mind. Parky and Ben and Jack, going round and round up there like a fancy musical box. There'd been one on a ship they looted, a while back, that had played this tinny little song when Ed opened it. He'd ended up smashing it to pieces, to raucous cheers from the rest of the crew.

They raid a passing vessel a week later, and end up liberating a pretty decent amount of gold. Ed jams his thumb into a guy's eye socket in the fray and presses until his eyeball pops like an overripe grape. It's pretty fucking gross, by all accounts. Back on their ship, they drink and drink and drink, everyone too wired to sleep right away.

Raids get you like that sometimes. Ed feels the same restless jangling in his bones, like he could win any fight that comes his way. He yells along to the same old songs and joins in with the usual drinking games. He cuts in when someone says something stupid to say something even more fucking stupid. It's just the way it is, everyone lax and happy and triumphant from the robbery, nursing their wounds with booze and singing and daft stories.

Eventually, though, Ed's skin starts to feel itchy, like he could crawl right out of it. He gets this sometimes, this outsider feeling, like he's suddenly looking in at a bunch of strangers all around him. The same old daft smiles of the crew seem sinister somehow, every thoughtless look in his direction calculated and judgmental.

More than that, Ed's exhausted. He ends up retreating below deck to crash in the ship's stores, since it's looking like the only way he can get a second of peace. The silence down there is absolutely deafening after the hubbub upstairs. There's something about the quiet that makes him feel even more drunk, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to watch the room spinning.

Ed's just getting comfortable, his head pillowed on an empty sack, when the door opens.

"Blackie," Jack sing-songs, stumbling into the room, every footstep as loud as a gunshot. "So this is where you got to."

"Fucking hell," Ed says, in a voice that sounds like broken glass. "I just wanna lie down, alright?"

"Alright, asshole," Jack slurs. He closes the door behind him. "Want me to bring you a pot of tea in the morning, your majesty?"

"Jack," Ed says, just about managing to turn his head. He feels like his hangover is kicking in early - even the slightest movement makes the back of his skull throb unpleasantly. "I just wanna sleep, alright, so either sleep or fuck off."

He turns away at that, hopefully signaling the end of the conversation. Jack's quiet for so long that Ed actually starts to doze, sinking into the space where muddled thoughts blur into dreams.

He's rudely awakened by a hand on his spine, Jack's breath uncomfortably hot on the side of his neck.

"Fuck's sake," Ed mutters, trying to shrug him off. "Seriously, mate, fuck off."

"You don't mean that," Jack says, moving in closer, an oppressive warmth against Ed's back. "Come on."

Ed wonders for a second if he should just go along with it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd fucked Jack just to get a second of peace - far from it, in fact.

Except Jack's kissing his neck, callused fingertips skimming underneath his shirt, and all Ed can think about is the look on his face when Parky had been swabbing the deck - the sneer there, the distaste, the mockery.

"Fuck off, Jack."

"Don't be like that," Jack says, in a voice like honey, very much not fucking off.

All Ed means to do is shove him and get him to leave. That's it. But Jack somehow misinterprets the shove, giving Ed a smile that's all teeth.

"Gonna be like that, huh?" He says.

If Ed was gonna wax poetic about it, he'd say that it's like a red mist descends, when he gets really, truly angry. Like he's outside of his body, looking in as this other creature takes over, separate to Ed completely.

Except Ed isn't in the habit of waxing poetic about anything. It's like there's loathing crawling up his throat, a scratching, burning creature desperate to get out. He suddenly can't stand the look on Jack's face, or his proprietary touches or the smell of him.

Ed punches him, right in the mouth. Then again, then - when he tries to fight back - twists his arm up his back. He twists some more, until there's a snap and Jack yelps in pain.

"Fuck," Jack says, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "What the fuck, you've broken my fucking arm."

Ed kneels on the small of his back, not letting go. He leans in so he can whisper in his ear, a parody of the sweet nothings Jack had been hoping for.

"You touch me ever again," He breathes. "And I'll slice you open and feed your guts to you. Understand?" Jack doesn't say anything, breathing hard through gritted teeth, his eyes flashing. Ed jolts his arm and he swears around a whimper. "Do you understand?"

"Alright, alright. Fuck, let me up, you crazy bastard, let me - fuck -"

Ed gets up, staggering a little. He watched a storm once from up in the crow's nest, thinking if whatever God there was wanted to take him out, then he'd let them. The ocean had shifted and spat like it was boiling, the ship lurching dangerously in the swell. He could hear orders being shouted, the men bailing with buckets, or else taking refuge below deck.

Ed had stood there, wind whipping his hair and clothes, icy as a thousand knives on his skin. There'd been a lightning strike, the bolt hitting the restless sea with an almighty hiss and a crack like cannon fire. Ed feels like that now, watching Jack wipe his face with the back of his hand, seeing the blood smeared there.

"Now, if you don't mind," Ed says, gesturing at the door.

It's bloody surreal, is what it is. Jack looks at him and Ed half-anticipates some kind of revenge - a knife at his throat, or something. Maybe Jack knows that Ed's a better fighter than him - maybe he knows that it's better to quit while he's ahead.

Whatever the reason, he doesn't try anything. He just leaves, cradling his arm awkwardly, and slams the door behind him.

-

They're fine, after that. Same old scrapes, same old shit. Jack even saves his life, on one memorable occasion.

The only real change is that Jack finds someone else's bunk to crawl into when the mood takes him. Ed misses it for a while - misses the contact, in some abstract way, misses being wanted - but more than anything, it's a relief.

-

For years afterwards, Ed carries the memory of Jack's sneering face with him, all mixed up with his dad's, and the fear it set into the bones of him.

-

 Then, of course, there's Stede.

He'd started out as little more than something new - some bloke who had Izzy spitting and cursing more than usual. A fancy fellow in frills who didn't seem to give two shits about Blackbeard.

After all these years, Ed can relate. He feels disconnected more and more these days. His own crew often seem like strangers, their smiles as sharp as shark teeth. He skulks in the quarters of whatever ship they're squatting in that week, barks out orders to Izzy and drinks enough to keep himself going.

Then, out of the blue, there's Stede. Stede and his many, many oddities, his flowery robes and his encyclopaedic knowledge of spoons and forks.

Ed thinks that maybe there would've been a time when he might've scoffed the way Izzy does, righteous with irritation at the mere existence of the Gentleman Pirate.

Instead, Ed is doomed, from the very first moment.

Something about Stede strikes him in his soft underbelly, his guts harpooned, twisted beyond all healing. He goes from feeling separated by a veil to achingly, terrifyingly present. He's caught in a maelstrom of Stede's smile, his funny little high society stories and the glint of his lovely eyes.

It worsens with each passing day. Every bright smile, every fond, exasperated call of Ed's name, every ridiculous thing Stede does, drawing him deeper and deeper, until he feels like he ought to have drowned by now.

One night, they get drunk. Stede doesn't drink the way Ed's accustomed to. He isn't in the habit of keeping going until he's falling over himself and talking nonsense, anyway.

Stede savours brandy with a slowness that Ed can't bear, his tongue sometimes darting out to catch a taste of liquor off his bottom lip. It's a move beloved by women in alehouses with bright eyes and knowing smiles, but it's not the same with Stede. It's unselfconscious enjoyment, which makes it all the more unbearable. Ed is beginning to suspect that everything Stede does that makes his skin hot and his mouth dry is done accidentally.

After a slow day and a near miss with the English, they retire to Stede's quarters. When Ed offers him the rum he's been nursing for the best part of an hour, Stede takes it. They pass the bottle back and forth between them, not bothering with glasses for once. Ed pretends he can feel the warmth of Stede's mouth on the lip of the bottle.

It's nice, getting pissed with Stede. Everything's better with Stede, Ed is slowly realising. The same old routine, one that had started to feel like dragging himself over broken glass, feels new and bright with Stede by his side.

Stede gets very red in the face, the more that he drinks. He starts to list to one side a little where they're sitting, slumped in the auxiliary closet of all places. The lamplight flickers, threatening to wane completely, but neither of them are in any fit state to do anything about it. At one point, Lucius wanders into Stede's room, calling out for him, and they hush each other like kids, choked up with laughter.

Somehow, Stede ends up cradling the rum like a baby, holding it close. Ed's helpless to do anything but stare at him. He doesn't think he's ever met anyone so expressive before. It fills him with all these weird urges, like wanting desperately to touch the corners of Stede's mouth when he speaks, or kiss the crinkles of his eyes when he smiles.

Gradually, Ed is coming to terms with the fact that whatever he's feeling for Stede isn't going away anytime soon. The opposite, in fact - it seems to grow, day by day, like his heart's expanding inside him, getting bigger and bigger. It's only a matter of time before it cracks his ribs like eggshell.

"My dad was a bit of an arsehole," Stede says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I disappointed him, I think. Too soft, you know?" A pause. "If I'd - if I'd been more like you. As a child, maybe he'd - maybe he'd have liked me better."

Stede lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, his brow creased. Ed is seized with the desire to hunt down his dear old dad and introduce him to the pointy end of his knife.

"No," Ed says, his voice falling out of him like some tender, helpless thing. He shuffles in close, clumsily stroking the back of Stede's hand, then his wrist, then his shoulder, unbearably warm through his shirt. "No, you can't think like that. Blokes like that..." He thinks of his own dad, red-faced and angry and mercifully dead. "They're gonna be arseholes no matter what. Y'know? You could've been the toughest bastard in town and he would've found something to pick at."

Stede's eyes are gleaming in the lamplight.

"You think so?"

"'Course, man," Ed says. He feels unmoored, seeing Stede in pain. There's a lump in his throat as hard as a stone. "Hey, give me this."

He gently eases the bottle of rum out of Stede’s grasp, setting it down on the floor with a thunk.

“I suppose I’ve always been a disappointment,” Stede says. “Disappointing son and – and husband and – now a disappointing pirate.”

“Stede, come on,” Ed says, finding Stede’s hand and holding on tight. “You’re not a disappointment.”

Stede sniffles, quiet for a moment, head slumped on his chest. Ed thinks maybe he’s passed out until he squeezes his hand.

Tears glint on his face when he lifts his head.

“The crew were planning a mutiny before you showed up.”

“So? Know how many times my crew have mutinied? Lots of fucking times. It’s boring out to sea, y’know? Bit of light mutiny passes the time.”

Stede hiccups a little, seeming to calm down.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “I'm fucking Blackbeard, mate, I think I know a thing or two about this shit. Now come on – let’s get you to bed, alright?”

Stede just nods, looking very small.

It’s the blind leading the blind, Ed trying to get Stede to bed. It’s only when he gets to his feet that he realises just how drunk he is, nausea already setting in in the pit of his stomach.

When he helps Stede to his feet they stumble into one another, much too close. For one heart-stopping moment, Ed gets caught up on Stede’s spidery wet eyelashes and his mouth, his sweet smell as overwhelming as siren song. Then they’re laughing awkwardly, Stede dropping his hand entirely in favour of leaning on the wall, the spell broken.

Ed’s hand feels cold when it isn’t holding Stede’s.

Somehow, against the odds, Ed gets Stede to his bed, and flops down on the couch, feeling tired but somehow giddy.

He means to ask Stede if he minds him sleeping in here. He really means to, but the couch is comfortable, and Ed is lulled by the sound of Stede’s huffing breaths and sleepy muttering, by the softness of silk against his cheek.

In the morning, it turns out the silk was one of Stede’s robes, uncharacteristically thrown over the couch and forgotten about when the drinking started. Ed knows this because he wakes up with it crumpled in a bundle and hugged to his chest, smelling wonderfully of Stede.

Someone is snoring, he realises, belatedly. Also, his mouth is drier than hot sand.

The snoring is Stede, sprawled on his back like a starfish, his mouth open. Ed stands and watches him for a moment while he yawns and convinces himself to wake up properly. The greyish dawn light makes him look strangely silvery and unreal, a figure from a dream.

Ed knows he's too far gone, then - looking at some bloke snoring and doing his level best not to swoon. He tears himself away, embarrassed, and slips out of the room.

There’s a hush over the rest of the ship. Most of the crew are still little more than bundles of sacking on the deck, peacefully asleep. Ed creeps down to the galley, somehow desperately wanting to be unobserved.

“Shit,” A voice says, when the galley door creaks open. It’s Roach, a hand clutched to his chest, unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “Holy fucking – you just gave me a heart attack, er. Blackbeard, sir.”

“Sorry,” Ed says. “I just, uh. You know where Stede’s fancy tea stuff is?”

Roach blinks at him for a moment.

“Tea,” He says. Maybe he’s still drunk – Ed’s been there, on more than one occasion.

“Yeah,” Ed says, gruffly, like he doesn’t care either way. "Drank a fair bit last night. Could do with some tea, you know."

"Roach, do you know where the..." Lucius says, bursting into the galley, then stopping dead at the sight of him. "Oh. Hi. Nice robe."

Ed blinks, wondering what he means for a second, before realising he's actually wearing the robe he'd slept with. Mouth dry, he resists the irrational urge to grab Lucius by the collar and shake him until he promises not to breathe a word of any of this to anyone.

"The, er. The tea stuff's over here," Roach says, awkwardly. "I'll boil the water."

-

It's beyond Ed how, but he manages to get back to Stede's cabin with a tea tray without any further incident. There's something horribly knowing about Lucius's small talk while the water heats, the twitch of his eyebrows whenever he makes eye contact with Roach, like he thinks Ed is blind or stupid.

Ed knows what it must look like - him, in Stede's robe, fetching tea. At least he managed to avoid running into Izzy, he thinks, when the door to Stede's quarters is safely closed behind him.

"Ed?" Stede says, sleepily. "What - oh."

Stede is sitting up in bed and Ed feels frozen there for a moment, holding the tea tray and wearing the robe, pinned in place by Stede's gaze.

"Tea," He says, lamely, setting the tray down "Probably, uh. Dunno if I used enough leaves, or - or the right cups, or-"

"I'm sure it’s perfect," Stede breathes, slipping out of bed. He winces a little. "Which is more than I can say for my head. Can't believe I drank so much."

“You did alright,” Ed says, spooning sugar into his teacup. “This one time, right, I was sick in my boots. My boots. Forgot all about it, went to put them on the next day…“

“Ed, no!”

“Yep,” Ed says, grinning at the look of horror on Stede’s face.

“Well, thank God I didn’t do that,” Stede says. He takes the lid off the teapot and peers inside, leaning close to Ed for a moment. “Perhaps a minute more. Unless you prefer yours weaker…?”

“Nah, strong as you like. Just need plenty of sugar.”

They sit at the table opposite each other, and the early morning light hits Stede just right through the window, making his hair glow golden.

“I’m a bit embarrassed, to tell you the truth.”

“You are?” Ed asks, nonplussed. Stede nods, eyes firmly on the teaspoon in his hand. “Why?”

It feels like it takes an age for Stede to look at him, his cheeks pink.

“I was a bit of a mess last night. You must think I’m a total idiot.”

“Stede,” Ed says, so fond of him that it aches. “I just told you that I threw up in my boots once.”

Stede waves a hand.

“Not the same. You can handle your drink. I…”

“You had one too many, that’s all,” Ed says. “Happens to the best of us. To all of us, really. Christ, Stede, before I met you, I…” He falters, not wanting to think about those hazy, drunken days, every one the same. “Drank a lot. Too much, all the time.”

It’s not enough to smooth the creasing of Stede’s brow. Ed watches him frowning as he stirs his tea, something achingly delicate in the movement of his hands and wrists.

The appreciative little noise he makes when he takes a thoughtful sip makes Ed feel curiously warm.

“I vaguely remember getting upset,” Stede says.

“So? Not a crime. Even if it was a crime, we’re pirates. Crime's what we do.”

Stede huffs out a laugh at that, his eyes sparkling. They fall silent for a little while, drinking their tea in companionable silence.

“It’s lucky, you know,” Stede says, eventually.

“What’s that, mate?”

“That people don’t know how kind you are.”

Ed splutters a little at that, his face heating. There’s such warmth in Stede’s expression, such fondness, that he isn’t sure what to do with himself.

“Well, yeah,” He says. “Wouldn’t exactly do wonders for my fearsome reputation.”

“I guess not,” Stede agrees, and smiles at him.

-

The more time they spend together, the more Stede does that. He says soft, lovely things about Ed, and Ed feels like a fraud. He wants to grab Stede’s shoulders and shake him. How can a man be so ridiculous? How can he look at Blackbeard with eyes so soft and trusting?

It can’t last. Ed’s known that since the first day – since the look of terror on Stede’s face when he realised who Ed really was.

The more time they spend together, the more bits and pieces of Ed’s chequered past slip out. Ed waits for the day that the light in Stede’s eyes is dulled, that he doesn’t lean into Ed when they sit side by side on the deck, watching the sea.

It doesn’t come. Beyond all reason, Stede quietly accepts dreadful snippets of Blackbeard’s misdeeds, as though it might be possible for him to care for Ed in spite of what he is.

Against his better judgement, Ed lets himself be lulled into complacency. He lets himself believe that he might be enough.

-

Everything happens very quickly, all at once. Jack’s unexpected arrival aboard the Revenge. The sure and certain knowledge that Ed is about to leave Stede forever, every bit of distance between them laying on his shoulders like a dead weight. Ed’s return to the ship, and Stede’s smile.

Ed is on a downhill slope, even if he doesn’t realise yet – it’s as though Jack’s presence on the ship, however brief, has sullied everything irreparably.

After all, why else would Stede abandon him? Why else would Stede disappear, presumably back home to the safety of his wife and children, if he hasn’t finally seen the terrible truth in Ed’s heart?

Perhaps the kiss was the mistake, Ed thinks, in the long, dreadful days that follow Stede abandoning him. He showed too much of himself, gave away too much in one press of lips that he can never take back.

He was laid bare. He was just Edward, and Stede thought better of it.

-

"It's better this way," Izzy says, afterwards.

Ed drains the last of the rum he's drinking and pitches the bottle into the sea.

"You hungry, Iz?" He asks. It's worth it for the way Izzy blanches, a brief look of terror flitting across his face before he manages to stop it.

Ed laughs. It's an unkind sound. He can imagine how Stede would react to his behaviour. He can imagine how horrified he'd be to learn what Ed did to Izzy, not to mention Lucius and the others. Stede's concerned face swims in the forefront of his booze-addled mind these days, all big eyes and frown lines.

"Fuck," Ed says, grimacing at the memory. "I need a drink."

Izzy starts hurrying around then, as much as he can with his fucked up foot, cajoling someone into fetching Ed another bottle.

It doesn't help. Drink to forget, isn't that the idea? Ed doesn't forget. He doesn't forget the lingering glances or the way they'd laughed together. He doesn't forget how it had felt on that last day, to touch - to want and feel wanted.

The reality of Stede might have dispersed into smoke (into nothingness), but in Ed's mind the memories make a mockery of him.

Even so, he takes the bottle when he's handed it, and spits the cork overboard. He closes his eyes against the first burning gulp, and pretends he doesn't feel Izzy's eyes boring into him.

Chapter Text

Izzy's a bastard, which means he and Ed get on like a house on fire from day one. He’s an excellent navigator, deferent and honest. Ed once saw him slice a bloke's stomach open into a dripping smile, jaw tight and expression impassive, where a greener bloke might’ve retched and looked away.

Ed wouldn’t have survived this long without Izzy. He knows that, of course he does. These days, though, he feels a little like a dead weight hanging from Ed's neck.

Izzy wants to keep them all alive. Izzy wants them to be successful. Izzy wants Ed to stop drinking, to splash his face with cold water and come and speak to the crew.

When Stede softens Ed’s hard edges, Izzy sneers. He wants Ed to stay sharp. He wants Blackbeard.

Ed isn’t Blackbeard, if he ever was. It was just a name foisted upon him by someone else, elevated to legend by a few good raids. Just an idea, a caricature.

Ed tries, with Stede gone. Fueled by anger and hurt, he paints on cold indifference like black greasepaint. He skulks and stays quiet and cries quietly when he can, like he’s still afraid his dad might hear him.

-

When Stede finally, finally returns, Ed can’t bear to look at him.

He looks everywhere else in the cabin – the floor, his own hands, the endless blue of the sea beyond the window.

It’s too much, after the weeks spent in here alone, feeling like his ribcage had been sliced in two, for Stede to be back. 

Stede's clothes are uncharacteristically rumpled, his hair a little less well-groomed than Ed remembers. His eyes, though. They’re the same. The same as that last day, when everything had seemed bright and hopeful.

Ed can’t believe he’d been so easily fooled.

It feels like his heart is sitting in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. His hands are unsteady, so he balls them into fists.

“Ed,” Stede says.

Ed closes his eyes where Stede can’t see him, facing the window. His throat feels thick, his eyes prickling. He has to take a moment before he turns, hand tight on his gun in its holster.

"So you went back to your wife.”

Stede just stands there, defenceless. Ed hates him for that. He hates him for the pitying look on his face.

"Should've guessed, really," He says, before Stede can say anything. "You weren't cut out for this from the start. Gentleman Pirate."

“Ed,” Stede says, quietly. “It wasn’t how you think. I didn’t go back to Mary. I mean, I suppose I did, but not like that.”

"You know," Ed says, loudly, as though Stede hadn't spoken at all. "All your shit about talking things through and - and being open, and whatever, and you just piss off without saying a word."

"I wasn't thinking," Stede says. He takes a step forwards and Ed acts on instinct, driven by the roaring of blood in his ears - he draws his gun and levels it at Stede’s head.

Stede stops in his tracks, palms up in surrender. He knows Ed’s monstrous insides already, so he isn’t even surprised to be held at gunpoint. That stings, more than Ed thought it would.

“I’ve never been the sort of person I wanted to be,” Stede says, in a voice of intolerable tenderness. “Always been a coward, always been - always been inadequate in some way. My father, he saw that, and - and the other boys at school, they saw that too. Then Mary...All I've done all my life is let people down. And now - now I've done the same to you."

Ed swallows, hard. He can feel his vision blurring but doesn’t dare to blink, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ache. 

He should pull the trigger, he thinks. Izzy was right, all those weeks ago. Stede softened him, made him weak and stupid and pathetic. Even now he feels like his legs could give out from under him at any second, his heart thudding painfully fast.

Stede is so beautiful, even without his usual finery. So beautiful always, even with his brow creased, his eyes glinting with unshed tears.

Ed desperately wants to hate him. Ed does hate him, so much that he feels like he might choke on it.

"I waited all night," He says, voice low. 

"I know," Stede says. The fact that he has the gall to look so devastated scrapes at Ed’s tender insides. “Ed, I…”

Stede reaches for him, a tiny aborted movement, and Ed’s heart leaps in his chest, hot tears shuddering out of his eyes.

"You lay a finger on me and I'll shoot you in the fucking face," He manages to snarl, stepping out of reach. "Don't think I won't."

He desperately needs Stede to stop looking at him like that - the way he always did, gentle and open and heartbreakingly fond. He needs Stede to stop looking at him like he sees something better than what there is.

“Please,” Stede breathes, his eyes shining. "The second I got back I knew I'd made a mistake. It - it killed me to leave you there-"

"Those are some pretty words, mate,” Ed sneers. “You still left, though. Can’t have killed you that much.”

"Every minute I was away I thought of you. Every second."

"Bullshit," Ed says, anger flaring hot in his chest. He advances until the muzzle of the gun is jabbing Stede in the chest. “You must think I'm as green as the fucking grass. Hold a bloke at gunpoint and he'll say anything to get out of it. "

"I'd say it anyway," Stede says. "I - Mary-"

"If you think I want to hear about your wife-"

"I told her all about you. Everything.” Stede blinks and tears spill down his cheeks. “She has someone else, too, and - and I realised that...that I love you.” 

That’s too much. Air rushes out of Ed’s lungs in a gasp. He stumbles backwards a little as if the words are a physical blow, his knees weak. Stede follows, moving in closer, and Ed doesn’t have it in him to stop him this time, the hand holding his gun slack and useless.

“No,” He chokes out, flinching away when Stede touches his arm. “Don’t. Stay back.”

It’s a hollow protest when he’s shaking so much. Stede’s hand finds his, the warmth of his touch alien after so long spent cold and alone. 

Gently, Stede eases Ed’s gun out of his grasp and sets it down on the floor. Ed watches him, feeling curiously disconnected for a moment. He could draw his knife, he thinks, dimly. He could hold it to Stede’s throat, that’d teach him for looking away from the fearsome Blackbeard.

Except Stede looks at him, and against all reason, against all sense, Ed sees the affection there.

“I’ve loved you for a while,” Stede says, his voice hatefully gentle, reaching out until his fingers are warm on Ed’s wrist. “I just didn't realise, I - I've never been in love before. I thought...I don't know what I thought. I knew I wanted to spend time with you, a lot, and - and when Jack showed up, I...I was so jealous, you wouldn't believe."

“None of this explains why you left,” Ed says, his voice pathetically small.

“I thought I’d ruined you,” Stede says, stricken. “You’d signed yourself over to the English, you were gonna leave your crew behind, your life.”

“What fucking life?” Ed asks, with a hollow laugh. “It’s shit, Stede, it’s all shit. Meeting you was the only – the only good thing to happen in so long. Just knowing you. And you left, mate, you fucking left.”

Stede’s hand finds his face, and an involuntary shudder runs through Ed’s whole body.

“I’m sorry,” Stede says. “Truly, I am. I understand if – if you can’t forgive me, or-“

Ed kisses him.

It’s awkward for a breathless second, a dry press of lips. Ed thinks he’s made a terrible mistake again, his hand twitching for his gun, but then Stede moves. His hand slips into Ed’s unwashed hair, cupping the base of his skull like he’s a precious thing. Ed melts into his touch, lost and foolish, his hands finding Stede’s shirt and holding on tight.

It takes everything to pull back. Stede is struggling for breath, slightly open mouthed, his flushed face marked with greasepaint. Ed feels so much that he almost just kisses him again without speaking.

He has to say something, though. He has to make sure Stede knows.

“You don’t know what I’ve done, since…you don’t know who I’ve been.”

Stede shakes his head, tipping their foreheads together.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Ed laughs, wild and humourless, the sound too close to a sob for comfort.

“You can’t just say that, mate. You can’t know for sure.”

He should push Stede away. He should reach for his knife, or fetch his gun. He should jab it against Stede’s chest until any traces of affection are long dead. He’s Blackbeard, he’s the Kraken, he’s -

He’s falling apart under Stede’s gentle hands, the two of them so close that they’re sharing breath. Ed loosens his hold on Stede’s shirt in favour of holding onto him, feeling the strength and warmth of him.

“I love you,” Stede says, again, like it’s nothing at all to love a man like Ed. “I’m rather new to all of this but I think part of that is – is accepting every part of you. And I do.”

Ed shakes his head, trying to pull away, but Stede won’t let him go far. He fits his palm to Ed’s cheek, pinning him in place with those lovely eyes of his.

When Ed speaks, he feels as though the words ought to burn his tongue.

“I thought – I thought, he thinks I’m a monster, so I’ll give him a monster. I’ll be the – the fucking Kraken.”

“I never thought you were a monster,” Stede says, gently. He leans in, kissing the corner of Ed’s mouth, gentle as butterfly wings. “I never could.”

Ed can feel the tension bleeding out of him, as though the hatred that has festered in his bones these past weeks has finally been thrown into the light. It was love all along, hurt and small and twisted beyond recognition.

“I threw Lucius overboard.”

“I know. He’ll be alright. He is alright, just not particularly pleased with you, as you might expect.”

“I marooned your crew.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just keep saying that, like it’s fine. I’m – I’m not a good person, Stede. I’m not.”

“Neither am I,” Stede says, his thumb brushing Ed’s bottom lip. “But I think we can muddle through together, don’t you?” He falters, suddenly uncertain. “If you want to. If you – if you’ll have me.”

There’s a lump in Ed’s throat, his eyes swimming again.

“Shut up,” He says, in a voice full of cracks, and hauls Stede in for another kiss.

-

It’s strange, to say the least, adjusting to this new life aboard the Revenge. 

The crew are a little wary of Ed at first, which is understandable, but the return of Stede and the others has breathed new life into everything. There's laughter again, and songs after dark - Stede telling stories to the crew by lamplight and putting on different voices, his eyes bright.

Ed sits in the shadows, smoking. Stede is so animated, his voice equal turns calming and thrilling. Ed watches the crew yawn, settling down to sleep, and feels the warmth of tiredness sinking heavy into his own limbs.

“They hate me, don’t they,” He finds himself saying, when Stede’s cabin door is safely shut behind them.

“Nobody hates you, Ed,” Stede says, reproachful, as though hating Ed is the worst thing in the world.

“Well, actually. Kind of maimed and injured a lot of people over the years, so. Don’t think that’s entirely true.”

Stede gives him a look, reaching for his hand.

“You know what I mean. Nobody here hates you.” Ed is tempted to remind Stede about his various misdeeds against the rest of the crew, but Stede is pulling him further into the room, his touch reverent, and it suddenly seems unimportant. “I don’t hate you at all. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Hmm. Really?”

“Yep,” Stede says, his hands finding bare skin under Ed’s jacket. The unexpected touch makes Ed swallow with a dry click. 

“That’s all that matters, then,” He says, his voice hoarse.

-

Ed dwells on it more than he’d like to. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him. He’s Blackbeard, he’s the co-Captain – if anyone doesn’t like that, they can fuck off.

It’s different aboard the Revenge. The crew care for each other, and for Stede. Their mistrustful looks and low voices serve as an uncomfortable reminder of how much Ed fucked up, every single day.

He tries to build bridges.

He keeps watch with Buttons, and repairs a rip in the sail with Frenchie and Wee John. He asks Jim to show him some knife throwing with Olu watching from the sidelines, quiet and uncertain. He teaches the Swede some obscure shanties, the bloke’s voice turning them into unreal, haunting ballads.

"We were getting on alright," Izzy says, one afternoon.

Ed looks at him, hardly able to believe his ears.

"Iz, I made you eat your own fucking toe."

Izzy shrugs.

"That's Blackbeard for you."

"Fuck Blackbeard, man," Ed says. "Fuck all of it.” He nearly leaves it at that, tired of fighting with ghosts of himself, but he has to say something. “I’m through with that shit. It’s done, mate. You wanna go, you go, but this is how it is now, alright?”

There’s an unkind glint in Izzy’s dark eyes.

“And if Bonnet fucks off again?” He says, voice low and sharp as a knife. “Back to his cushy, poncey little life?”

Ed doesn’t have an answer for that. Rage flares hot in his chest, quickly extinguished by panic.

“You never did learn to quit while you’re ahead, did you?”

Ed hadn’t even heard Stede approach. Suddenly, he’s at Ed’s shoulder. His eyes are blazing with dislike and fixed on Izzy.

“How many toes have you got left?” Stede asks, casually. “Sounds like you might’ve developed a taste for them.”

Izzy scoffs.

“You fucking wouldn’t,” He says, but he looks uncertain.

“Wouldn’t I?” Stede says, archly.

“Think he would, mate,” Ed says, his voice quiet with awe.

Izzy looks between the two of them rapidly, looking rather like a bloke backed into a corner.

“Alright,” He says, the word barely a breath.

Stede’s expression doesn’t change, steely and uncompromising. It’s so unexpected and so attractive of him, Ed can hardly breathe.

“You heard Edward,” He says, firmly. “If you’re not happy here, you’re welcome to leave whenever you like. I’m sure Buttons would be more than willing to guide us to the nearest port.”

“’m alright,” Izzy hisses through gritted teeth, very red in the face.

Stede tilts his head, the very picture of polite confusion.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Izzy’s quiet for a moment, quite obviously seething with rage. Stede just stands there, patiently waiting, like he just invited Izzy to afternoon tea.

“I’ll stay, alright,” Izzy spits, like the admission pains him. “I’ll fucking stay.”

Stede grins, wide and beautiful and absolutely fucking mad.

“Excellent,” He says. “Oh, and by the way – sorry to disappoint, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here as long as Ed wants me.”

“That’ll be a pretty long time, mate,” Ed says, dazed. “Probably, like, forever.”

Stede looks at him, his beautiful eyes bright.

“Forever it is, then,” He says, softly.

Izzy makes some pained noise in the back of his throat, as effective as a bucket of cold water. Ed blinks, rapidly, his face hot.

Stede coughs, his cheeks pink.

“Well,” He says. “I’m gonna go and see Roach. He’s making a fruit pie, and I was reading something earlier about the different glazes.”

“Alright,” Ed says, gruffly, utterly and completely enchanted by him.

Stede kisses him on the cheek, leaning in close for one devastating moment. Then he’s gone, hurrying off to the galley like a man possessed.

Ed stares after him, longing singing in his bones.

“What the fuck was that?” Izzy asks, glowering.

Ed gives him a sharp look, the soft moment well and truly over. 

“You heard him, Iz. Or are you going deaf in your old age?”

He walks away in the direction of the galley himself, determined to drag Stede away from Roach and kiss him senseless.

-

Ed still feels doubtful, despite everything. A gnarled thought has taken deep root within him, fed by Izzy’s words, and borne bitter fruit - the fact that Stede left once and could easily leave again. It weighs on his mind more than he’d care to admit.

Stede doesn’t leave. He doesn’t show even the slightest inclination. They walk along docks in far flung places and Stede hooks his arm around Ed’s to keep him close, respectably territorial in a way that Ed finds weirdly thrilling.

They’re in it together, it seems, no matter what.

One day, Ed is sat on deck, swinging his legs and watching the roll of the ocean. He hears Stede approaching – there’s something so distinctive about the creak of his shoes and the way that he breathes - but doesn’t look right away.

Looking at Stede is something to savour, after all. Stede sighs as he sits down, shuffling in close enough that the heat of him warms Ed's side.

“Hello there,” He says. Ed loves him so much that it hurts.

“Alright?”

Stede nods, his eyes bright. Ed’s a few steps behind, caught up in his smile, but he understands when Stede reaches for him, hesitant fingers brushing his jaw.

"May I?" 

"Always. Anything you want, mate," Ed says, and leans in so Stede can kiss him. 

This doesn't get old, not ever - not the way Stede sometimes makes little noises in the back of his throat, the clumsy-but-eager enthusiasm, the way he asks, like he's inviting Ed to waltz with him or something.

"Mm," Stede says. His lips are shining and his cheeks are flushed, and Ed wants him so much he can't bear it. "Sorry. Saw you from over there and you looked so...you know."

Ed laughs, leaning in so their noses brush.

"You really gonna kiss a bloke like that and then say sorry?"

Stede grins at that, sheepish.

"No?"

"No," Ed agrees, and kisses him again. His hands find Stede's shoulders, scrambling to move his legs so he can get closer. Stede makes a muffled little noise against his mouth and tightens the hand in his hair, which is just perfect.

They pull apart, breathless and giggly in a way that’s entirely new to Ed – the joy that there can be in moments like this, moments that were once perfunctory and hurried.

Ed's about to suggest that they retreat somewhere a little less public when Stede startles and lets him go.

"Oh my God, what are you doing?”

Ed turns, a little dazed, to find Buttons lingering awkwardly behind them.

"My apologies for interrupting your canoodling, Cap'ns," He says.

"Don't - don't call it that-"

"Don’t make it weird, man-"

Any awkwardness is utterly lost on Buttons, of course. He just waits a moment, hands clasped solemnly in front of him.

"By mine and Mr Hands' reckoning we're gonna come across a passing vessel by nightfall."

Ed looks at Stede, who raises his eyebrows. There’s something like a zing in the air – excitement, Ed has long since realised, helped along by the gleeful glint in Stede’s eyes.

"Up for some fuckery, Edward?"

"Well, yeah," Ed says, grinning. "But failing that, raiding this ship might be a laugh."

“Let’s do it,” Stede says to Buttons, not quite managing to stifle a smile. “Gather everyone, will you?”

“Aye,” Buttons says, and shuffles off.

“You’re an arsehole,” Stede says, when they’re alone again.

Ed laughs, delighted.

“That’s not very gentlemanly of you, Gentleman Pirate.”

“Shut up.”

-

Life is better than Ed ever thought it could be. 

At night, he and Stede retreat to the bunk that definitely wasn't made for two, and sleep tangled up in one another. In the morning, they drink tea, their legs touching under the table. It's like a dam has been opened and Stede will find any excuse to touch him - to hold his hand, or brush some fluff off his shoulder, or tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

Ed loves Stede. He does. He has for a long time, and thinks he always will. 

The problem is that saying it has become this insurmountable thing, a task that weighs on Ed's mind when Stede is sleeping peacefully next to him.

Stede tells Ed he loves him all the time. He murmurs it when he kisses Ed good morning, the two of them barely awake. He says it quietly, his eyes full of wonder, just after Ed's regaled him with a hair-raising story of his younger days. He says it seriously, his brow creased with worry, if they split up for the sake of a fuckery, his hand tight on Ed's shoulder.

Ed, meanwhile, confesses his love in gestures rather than words. He strokes it into the soft skin of Stede's chest, kisses it into his thighs and hips. He holds Stede close, burying his head in his shoulder, and breathes out his love on every exhale, reveling in the floral smell of him. 

But he doesn't say it. Time passes and Ed worries that his wordless reciprocation won't be enough - that Stede will, understandably, get the wrong idea from his silence, and think that he doesn't care at all.

It's a problem that, loathe though Ed is to admit it, might require an outside perspective.

-

"You know," Lucius says, conversationally, when Ed approaches him on deck. "I've been through some pretty shit breakups."

"Yeah?" Ed says, nervously. Lucius is drawing, and Ed looks at the paper rather than his face - it's a sketch of Frenchie playing the lute, with the Swede singing next to him.

"Yeah," Lucius says, gently adding little pencil strokes to Frenchie's hair. "Don't think I ever tried to drown anyone, though."

"Mate…"

"Or left a bunch of people to die on an island. Could just be me, though. What about you?"

He looks at Ed, then, his gaze particularly piercing. Part of Ed had expected some of that nervous deference he remembers, but there are no traces left in Lucius’s expression.

"Listen," Ed says, feeling unbelievably awkward. "I'm sorry. Really, I am. I - I'm really glad you're alright. All of you."

Lucius doesn’t say anything for a moment.

"Yeah, well," He says. "You're making Stede happy, anyway."

In spite of everything, Ed can’t help but feel warm at that. 

"I am?"

"Obviously,” Lucius says, unimpressed.

"I just," Ed says, hesitantly, wondering if this entire conversation isn't a giant mistake. “Words aren’t my strong point, you know?”

“You’re telling me. I remember your song,” Lucius says, under his breath. He winces, pulling a face. “Sorry. Bit harsh.”

“Nah, I deserved that,” Ed says, then promptly loses his bottle.

“What’s up?” Lucius asks. He sounds utterly disinterested, but there’s a hint of kindness there that Ed absolutely doesn’t deserve. “Communication problems?”

Ed feels so unbelievably stupid, he can’t believe it. He shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Lucius looks at him, something like pity in his eyes. Ed has to force down the burn of humiliation, hot in his throat. Lucius isn’t laughing at him, even though Ed wouldn’t blame him if he was.

“Just talk to him,” He says, on the tail end of a sigh, like it pains him to say it. “Whatever it is. You know he loves talking stuff through.”

Ed nods, not quite able to meet his eye.

“Everything ok, babe?” Pete asks, pausing with a length of rope, frowning at the pair of them.

“Yeah, babe, it’s all good,” Lucius says, grinning at him.

“Sorry,” Ed says, taking that as his cue to retreat. “Thanks, mate.”

-

“Stede?”

Ed is fairly certain Stede is asleep, relaxed against him, Ed’s arm tucked over his side, holding him close. Even so, he has to try.

“Mmf?”

“Would you – would you ever laugh at me?”

There’s nothing but silence for a moment, and the dim whisper of the sea. Stede catches hold of Ed’s arm and pulls it tighter around himself.

“’Course, darling, you’re hilarious,” He murmurs, sleepily.

Ed can’t help but smile at that.

“Not that kind of laughing.”

Stede is quiet for so long that Ed thinks he’s drifted off again. Ed presses a kiss to the back of his neck and closes his eyes. He’ll count his breaths and inhale the smell of Stede’s hair – that’s usually enough to send him to sleep in no time at all.

Only of course, Stede, contrary in everything, isn’t asleep after all. With a lot of wriggling and some whispered curses, Stede turns to face him. He looks so soft, bleary-eyed and yawning.

“What was that, sorry? Something bothering you?”

“No, no,” Ed says, soothingly, his hand finding the side of Stede’s head so he can stroke his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

Stede is frowning, though, very much awake and becoming more so by the minute. 

“Why would I laugh at you?” He asks, like the very idea is ludicrous. “Why would anyone?”

“It doesn’t matter, mate. You should get some rest, come on.”

“Edward,” Stede says, in a tone of voice that brooks no argument.

Ed thinks about kissing him to distract him. He thinks about saying something daft and sultry in a low voice, until Stede’s cheeks go pink and he forgets what they were talking about.

Any other bloke he’s fucked over the years would be distracted like that, no problem. Not Stede. Stede, beyond all reason, wants him and cares about him, all at once. Ed wonders if maybe one day he might get used to that.

“When you left,” He confesses, his voice soft. “I imagined you off somewhere laughing at me. You know, the fearsome Blackbeard, swooning over you like a schoolgirl. Thought about it a lot.” He pauses, a lump rising in his throat. “I wanted to hate you. Really wanted to. It was all – all fucked up, inside me.”

“Ed,” Stede breathes. 

“I didn’t. ‘Course I didn’t.” He has to kiss Stede, then, softly, to reassure him. “Couldn’t ever hate you, mate.”

“Ed,” Stede says, sounding heartbroken. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. I swear, it’s fine.”

“I’d never laugh at you. I couldn’t.”

“No, I know,” Ed says, and knows it’s true, as easy as that. He swallows, hard, thinking of Lucius’s advice. “I guess I still think about that. About saying the wrong thing, or – or saying too much. Stuff I’ve never said before, you know. And you – you thinking it was stupid.”

Stede touches his face with reverence in the dark, like he’s holding something infinitely valuable.

“I wouldn’t. Oh, Ed.” Stede kisses him, missing his mouth entirely, and Ed doesn’t care. “I’d never think anything you said was stupid.”

“I mean, I do say some stupid shit sometimes.”

“So do I. So does everyone,” Stede says, his thumb gently stroking the side of Ed’s face. “Even so. I know what it is to be mocked. I wouldn’t do that to you, Ed. I swear. I care about you too much.”

Stede, Ed is certain, will never stop astounding him. Just a few soft words, a few gentle touches, and everything that was tying Ed’s stomach in knots could be nothing but a distant memory.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stede says. “Come here.”

Ed shuffles in close and lets himself be enveloped in the cradle of Stede’s arms, pillowing his head on his chest. They doze like that, Stede stroking his hair ever so gently.

Ed wants to say it. Three tiny little words, as heavy as anchors in the back of his throat.

He wants to say it, but the rise and fall of Stede’s chest, as rhythmic as the tide, lulls him to sleep.

-

One evening, after a successful day replenishing their stores, Frenchie visits Stede’s quarters. Ed and Stede are just talking, Ed quietly admiring how Stede’s skin looks in the lamplight while he gestures with his brandy glass.

Ed’s toying with laying a heavy hand on Stede’s knee, maybe making some comment about how they’ve had a long day and should go to bed. He’s always been nothing but direct in the past, but Stede gets so charmingly flustered talking around things, all of these little euphemisms and cloaked phrases instead of just saying what he wants.

Ed adores it, just like he adores everything else about Stede.

A polite knock on the door from Frenchie puts paid to Ed’s plans for the moment. Stede calls him in and he hovers on the threshold, like he might need to make a quick getaway.

“Sorry for interrupting your private time, Captains,” He says.

“We're literally just sitting, man,” Ed says. More’s the pity, he doesn’t say, quietly marveling at Stede’s side profile.

“Oh,” Frenchie says. “Oh, well, good. Er, anyway, Pete got some intel today when we docked – Pete!”

Pete stumbles into the room, his eyes shut tight.

“Everyone’s dressed, right?”

“It’s alright, mate, they’re just sitting,” Frenchie says, patting him on the arm.

“Oh, awesome,” Pete says, opening his eyes. “Ok, so. Some guy at the docks said there’s gonna be a big fancy boat party on some, uh. Big fancy boat. Like, tomorrow. Didn’t know if you guys’d be interested.”

“Oh, no,” Stede says. He looks over at Ed, wrinkling his nose with distaste. “Think we had quite enough of all that with the last party. Unless – unless you and Olu would like to go? Plenty of wealthy idiots there to con, I expect.”

The latter is directed at Frenchie, who shakes his head.

“Nah, not this time. No, we just...uh...”

He and Pete look at each other, clearly working up to something. The pair of them give Ed these nervous little looks, like they’re afraid he might flip the table, or something.

It’s enough to make his stomach sink, a little. Ed can’t blame the crew for still being wary, but he’d been sure things were changing for the better of late. The way Frenchie and Pete are eyeballing him is like he only just threw Lucius overboard and they might well be next.

“Er,” Pete says, hesitantly. “Well..."

“Oh, for God's sake,” Lucius says, bursting into the room.

“Lucius?” Stede says, evidently baffled. “Who else is out there?”

“Just Wee John,” Lucius says, waving a hand dismissively. “We were wondering if you wanted to sneak into this party, and, er. Well, loot it. You know, big fancy ship, full of fancy stuff.”

“Yeah,” Frenchie says, agreeing. “Thought you were a bit lacking in fancy stuff of late, Captain.”

Suddenly, the nervous looks make sense. Guilt spikes sharp in Ed’s chest, followed quickly by shame. All of Stede’s things, tossed into the ocean just because he couldn’t bear to look at them. Stede, who deserves all of the nicest things in the world.

“Not at all,” Stede blusters, unconvincingly.

“Wait, come on,” Ed says, quickly. “We could. Pull a fuckery on them, y’know. Get you some books.”

“I’ve got everything I need right here,” Stede says, stubbornly, his hand finding Ed’s on the couch between them. 

Ed’s throat feels tight at that. He knows Stede's letting him off, telling him that it’s ok that all of his nice things got pitched into the sea. It’s unbelievable, really, that Stede exists and is who he is – that not only would he love Ed, but forgive all of the worst bits of him.

“That’s romantic, mate, it really is,” Ed says, squeezing Stede’s hand. “But I know you miss your books.”

“I also miss the books, for what it’s worth,” Lucius says, raising a hand.

“Plus, they might have some cooking stuff for Roach,” Pete says, to murmurs of agreement from the others.

“Yeah,” Frenchie says, brightly. “And me and Wee John have been refining our witch bit, haven’t we?”

“Aye,” John says, appearing in the doorway. “Ready to scare the shite out of some posh wee bastards. No offence, Captain.”

“None taken,” Stede says. “Well, I guess if everyone's up for it. Let’s do it.”

-

“You don’t have to do this,” Stede says.

“I know.”

“I could go to the party and you could bring the others aboard. I know you hated it last time.”

Ed frowns at himself in the mirror. Stede’s doing something complicated with his hair, soothing each unintentional tug with soft touches. Ed just got through with shaving again, his face strange and bare and scratchy under his fingers.

“Is this you telling me you don’t think I can pass as one of those fancy fuckers?”

“No,” Stede says. “I know you can. I also know you’re worth twelve of any fancy fucker, any day.”

Ed tilts his head a little at that, helpless to do anything but smile.

“I mean, you’re kind of obligated to say that, mate.”

“Not at all,” Stede says. He leans close for a moment, kissing the nape of Ed’s neck. Ed closes his eyes, swallowing hard.

“Kind of are. I could start sleeping on the couch. Means you have to say nice shit.”

“I say nice shit because I love you,” Stede says, sounding wonderfully irritated. God, Ed adores him. “There. You’re good to go.”

Ed tilts his head this way and that, trying to get a look at what Stede’s done to his hair. It’s all swept up in this complicated way that Ed knows he could never replicate alone.

“Look at this,” He says, admiringly. “That's great. Thanks, man.”

Stede smiles, giving Ed this appraising look that, even upside down, makes his limbs feel restless. 

“Talk me through the plan again.”

“Stede…”

“Just – just humour me, alright?”

Ed rolls his eyes, leaning back until his head bumps Stede’s breastbone. Stede’s hands find his shoulders, skimming at his shirt collar.

“Me and the Swede board the ship,” He says, in a bored monotone. “Swede distracts the fancy bastards by singing. I case the joint. You come aboard with the others and we rob them blind.”

“Before dinner,” Stede promises, smoothing down Ed’s frilly collar.

“I can handle dinner, Stede,” Ed lies, fairly sure he’s forgotten all of the different spoons.

“I know,” Stede says, softly. “Hey, Ed.”

“Mm?”

“You know I meant what I said, don’t you? About – about already having everything I need.”

“I know,” Ed says. Stede doesn’t say anything for a moment, his expression indistinct from this angle. Ed moves, shifting around on the chair until he’s facing Stede, who is currently biting his own lip, brow furrowed. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I know it bothers you,” Stede admits. “The – the empty shelves. But I don’t blame you, Ed. I left, I – I broke your heart.”

“Stede,” Ed breathes. He catches hold of Stede’s hand, kissing his knuckles before he brings it to his chest. “See? Not broken at all. No harm done.”

Stede just shakes his head, his lips very thin.

“I don’t like the idea of you putting yourself through this ridiculous party just – just for me.”

“Hey. Hey, come on,” Ed says. Stede looks at him, frowning. “First of all, I do most things for you. And that’s - that’s how I like it, mate. You being happy makes me happy, yeah?” Stede nods, imperceptibly. “Alright. And – and I do feel bad about all of your nice stuff. I do. And – and I should, y’know? I think – I think we both fucked up in our own ways. Fuck it, we definitely did. But not everything has to be your fault all the time.”

“Or yours,” Stede points out, quietly.

“Different kettle of fish there, mate,” Ed says. He thinks of the Kraken, monstrous and mythical, squatting in his heart like a parasite. “Just – just let me do this for you.”

“Ok,” Stede says. He touches Ed’s face then, his fingers stroking the newly shaved skin. Ed leans into the warmth of his touch, closing his eyes.

He’ll do this for Stede. He’d do anything – jump into a volcano, maybe, or wrestle with a shark. He’d kill a bloke for Stede, he knows he would. He can handle one little party.

-

If Ed thought Stede's quarters on the Revenge had been fancy, this place is something else entirely. Excessive in a similar way, but charmless somehow. Stede’s ornaments and fripperies were there because he liked them, because he enjoyed being around them. It’s different with this lot, Ed thinks - excess for the sake of it.

There are all sorts of the daft bits and pieces Stede loves so much, though. A carved paperweight in the shape of a mermaid, a fancy silver inkwell – even the curtains are nice, deep blue with silver stitching. Ed's just wondering how best to tear them down without damaging them when the door opens behind him. For a moment, the Swede’s voice is louder than ever, singing a few rooms away. It’s quickly muffled when some Lord something or other from earlier slips into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Mr. Smythe,” The bloke says, his gaze uncomfortably heavy. Ed hadn’t liked the look of him earlier – his smile's too smug, his voice too loud. “If you wanted a tour you need only have asked.”

“Sorry, mate,” Ed says, lamely. He straightens his lapels, edging towards the door. “Best get back in there. Don’t wanna miss the singing.”

“Ah, well,” The bloke says. “You’ve heard one aria, you’ve heard them all, in my experience. Would you like a drink, Mr. Smythe?”

Ed is not keen on this guy in the slightest. There’s something slimy about the way his eyes trail over Ed, something particularly unpleasant about his smile. Ed could shoot him in the head now, he thinks. Get it out of the way.

But there’s the fear that always stills his hand, the unshakeable memory of his dad’s eyes, lifeless and unblinking. Not to mention the fact that the Swede is next door, alone. Who knows if any of these posh bastards are armed? Ed doesn’t fancy finding out, not until the rest of the crew are here.

“Go on, then,” Ed says, haltingly. Far be it from him to turn down a fancy free drink. 

He watches the bloke – Lord what was it again? – moving over to the little cabinet in the corner. It’s elaborately carved and well-stocked. Ed knows for a fact it’d look brilliant in the captain’s quarters on the Revenge.

“I don’t recall seeing you before,” Lord Whoever says, handing Ed a glass of brandy. He’s much too close – looming, Ed would be tempted to call it, if they weren’t of a similar height.

“Ah, well, y’know,” He says, taking a sip of brandy and moving so he isn’t backed into the wall. “I used to have a beard, see. Looked completely different. We’ve probably met loads of times.”

“No,” The bloke says, thoughtfully. He reaches out, fingers inches from Ed’s sleeve. Ed shrinks away, trying to disguise the sudden movement with a polite cough. “I’d definitely remember you.”

“Oh,” Ed says, the penny finally dropping with all the subtlety of a dead weight. “Oh. Listen, mate, I’m gonna head back in there – I love an aria, I really do –“

Except this rich prick really can’t take a hint, apparently, because he keeps coming, moving in closer and closer until Ed bumps into a low shelf, making all of the glassware tinkle.

“The singing’s over now, it seems,” The bloke says, his voice horribly low. “Perhaps we should take this somewhere more comfortable?”

Ed’s gun feels as heavy as lead under his jacket. He should just shoot this bastard – Stede will be here any moment.

“What about dinner?” He asks, finishing the last of his drink in a single gulp.

“They won’t miss us.”

“Right, well,” Ed says. He’s forcibly reminded of fending off Jack, a long time ago, and the comparison makes his skin crawl. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m starving, so I’ll-“

“May I speak candidly, Mr. Smythe?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Ed says.

The guy’s sense of self preservation must be non-existent, because he actually reaches out to touch Ed’s face. Ed grabs hold of his wrist on instinct, heart thundering, suddenly hot with anger. He has a vague idea of snapping the creep’s wrist, maybe smashing his empty glass right into his skull, but it’s all over before he can even move. 

With the snick of a drawn blade, there’s suddenly a sword at the bloke’s throat. Before Ed’s eyes, his heavy-lidded expression blossoms into pure fear. 

“I wouldn’t call myself an expert in these matters,” Stede says, quite calmly. “But I think the gentleman isn’t interested, mate.”

“You took your time,” Ed says, feeling drunk with adoration.

“Please,” The bloke says. “Please...take anything you want, anything at all...”

“There was a problem with the oars,” Stede says, apologetically. “Are you alright?”

“Bored as shit,” Ed says, grinning. “All the better for seeing you. That a new jacket?”

Stede flushes pink.

“Found it in the back of the closet.”

The jacket looks wonderful, but Ed might be a little biased. He's fairly certain that Stede could’ve swept in here in an old sack and still made him feel weak at the knees.

“Really suits you, mate,” He says, which feels like the understatement of the century.

Stede’s smile at that is so unspeakably lovely. How can a bloke look like that when he has a blade to someone’s throat?

“Can I just,” The rich bloke says, the interruption as unwelcome as a faceful of cold water. Ed does break his wrist then, wrenching it the wrong way until he yells. 

“Do you hoity toity wankers not go to manners school, or something?” Ed asks him, as he crumples into a pathetic heap, sobbing. “We’re talking.”

“You didn’t need to do that, Ed,” Stede says, somewhat reproachfully.

“Oh, come on,” Ed says. “He wanted to have his wicked way with me. You’re telling me that doesn’t piss you off?”

There’s a look in Stede’s eyes at that, something dark and simmering that makes Ed’s mouth dry.

“I didn’t say that,” He says, softly, a hand finding Ed’s wrist. Dimly, Ed wonders if Stede can feel the wild fluttering of his pulse there, like there’s a creature trapped under his skin, desperate to get out.

“Shit, Stede,” He says, weakly. “You can’t look at me like that in the middle of a raid, man.”

“Like what?” Stede asks, his voice low, moving in close.

“Hey, hey, come quick,” Lucius says, appearing in the doorway out of nowhere. “Stede, they’ve got a library. A proper library.”

Stede’s face lights up at that, his eyes bright with wonder.

“They have?”

“Come on,” Lucius says. Then he seems to take stock of the scene - of their proximity in particular. “Unless you guys wanna get back to, er. Whatever you were doing with some guy crying on the floor, like, right there.”

“Taking stock of the raid,” Stede says, loftily, rather red in the face. “Isn’t that right, Edward?”

“Never heard it called that before,” Lucius says, under his breath.

“You go,” Ed says, patting Stede’s arm. “Get your books.”

“Alright,” Stede says. He kisses Ed goodbye and hurries off after Lucius, just as Izzy limps through the door, scowling.

“Izzy,” Ed says. He’s glad to see him, which makes a change of late. “Help me tie this bastard up with the others, will you?”

There’s a moment when Ed thinks Izzy might just tell him to fuck off. Against all odds, he doesn’t. With Ivan’s help, they haul the posh fucker to the dining room with the rest of the posh fuckers, and Fang ties him up.

“Look at all this cutlery,” Frenchie says, throwing silverware into the sack Wee John’s holding open. 

“Was thinking we could melt ‘em down, Captain,” John says. “Sell the silver.”

There's an easy camaraderie in their tone, their smiles bright. For one strange second, Ed feels like everything might be alright with the crew after all.

“Good thinking, mate,” He says. “Get all of it.”

-

It takes a long time to transfer all of their loot back to the Revenge. So long, in fact, that it’s sunrise by the time they’re done, the sky is pink above them.

It’s beautiful, it really is, but Ed couldn’t care less. He’s seen a thousand sunrises on the sea, and with any luck he’ll see a thousand more.

It’s Stede he can’t get enough of. Stede, painted gold in the first rays of sunlight, laughing with Pete and Lucius, his arms full of books. Ed watches him hand them to Pete and turn, looking for something.

His smile widens when he spots Ed, watching him.

“That’s everything, I think,” Stede says, coming to stand next to him. “Quite a good haul, by all accounts. They’ve got some lovely wine.”

Ed nods, not quite sure what to say. Stede’s smile falters a little.

“Is everything alright? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

Ed shakes his head, his hand finding Stede’s hip, moving in close until he can feel the heat of him.

“You were amazing before,” He says, softly. “You are amazing.”

“Oh, shut up,” Stede says, flushing. He tucks some loose hair behind Ed’s ear and lets his touch linger. “You really think so?”

“I really know so,” Ed says. “That bloke just about shit himself.”

Stede smiles, evidently delighted, and leans in for a kiss.

“I might’ve been practicing in the mirror,” He admits, after a moment. “You know, being intimidating. That – that ruins it a bit, doesn’t it.”

“No,” Ed says, grinning. He cups Stede’s face and kisses his nose, laughing when Stede grumbles at him. “You’re off your fucking head, mate, that’s why I love you.”

It’s like all the noise is sucked out of the world for a moment. Ed’s heart seizes in his chest, hot and terrified for one dreadful, endless moment.

Stede smiles. It’s more beautiful than the golden sunrise, more beautiful than any sight Ed’s ever seen before.

“Oh,” He says, his voice small.

Ed has to kiss him, then. He has to slip a hand into his soft hair, has to shudder into Stede’s mouth when warm, broad hands find his waist and hold on tight.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Jim calls from the other side of the deck. “Can that wait ‘til we get back?”

Ed pulls back, laughing.

“Let’s go home,” He says, taking hold of Stede's hand.

-

The next day, they laze in bed for most of the day, drifting in and out of sleep. During one period of wakefulness, Stede is cataloguing Ed’s scars and tattoos with his fingers. He recalls the stories behind each with startling accuracy, even ones Ed doesn't remember telling.

“That one,” Stede says, gentle fingers brushing raised skin on Ed’s inner thigh. “Harpoon when you were twenty five. Straight through to the bone.”

“You remember all of that?”

“Of course,” Stede says. His hand moves with reverence over Ed’s skin, like a blessing, finding the little knot of scar tissue on his hip. “This one here, you were messing around with knives with…some bloke. Jeff? James?”

“Jake."

“Jake! That’s it. And he was drunk, so his aim was off. Got you in the hip. Just a small one.”

“Bled for ages, though,” Ed says, breath catching in his throat when Stede brushes the scar with his thumb.

“I bet,” Stede says, softly. His hand moves, trailing across Ed’s abdomen, finding the cluster of scars there. He lingers against the pinkest, tracing it with his fingers.

“A fearsome bastard did that one,” Ed says, hoarsely.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Real tough nut. Scourge of the high seas.”

Stede flushes, rolling his eyes a little.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Never,” Ed says, leaning in to kiss him. It’s beyond belief, really, how every kiss can feel as thrilling as the first.

“Hey,” Stede says, pulling back a little. “Can we go back to, er. What you said yesterday?”

Ed’s stomach rolls, his heart lurching in his chest.

“I said a lot of things yesterday,” He says.

“You know what I mean,” Stede says, hesitantly, avoiding his eye for a moment. “On the ship. After all the looting.”

Ed swallows, hard, irrational fear as cold as ice in his bones. He pictures Stede laughing at him, Stede scrambling away from him like his skin's scalding. He pictures Stede leaving again, this time never to return.

“Said you’re off your head,” Ed says, slowly, his palms damp. “Which you are, mate, in the nicest way possible.”

Stede shakes his head at him, his gaze pointed.

“Edward.”

Ed laughs, nervously, pulling him close. It’s easier here, with his head tucked into Stede’s neck, Stede’s arm pulling him even closer. Ed feels safe, and hidden from view.

“Sorry,” He mumbles into Stede’s skin. “I’m just fucking with you.”

“Arsehole,” Stede says, pressing a kiss into his hair.

Ed touches his chest, gentle and reverent. Stede is largely unscarred, and Ed intends for him to stay that way.

“I meant it,” He admits, quietly. “I did. I know I – I don’t say it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it, y’know?”

“Feel what?” Stede asks, the words barely a breath.

Ed moves, pulling back just enough that he can look Stede in the eye. He’s so lovely, a miracle in the shape of an absolutely barmy bloke who makes Ed happier than he’s ever been in his life.

“I love you,” He says. Stede looks at him, his eyes wet. Something about the look on his face gives Ed a courage he hadn’t thought possible. “I love you. Always have. Think I always will.”

“Ed,” Stede says, softly. “Oh, Ed. I love you too. So much.”

There’s no laughter. There’s no cruelty, no mockery, no fear. There’s just Stede, sleep-warm and smiling, like Ed just plucked the sun from the sky and handed it to him.

Ed doesn’t realise he’s crying until his vision blurs. Stede brushes the tears away with his thumbs, then kisses his cheeks where they fell. Ed wants to explain - wants to unspool the tangle of his thoughts for Stede, but the words won’t come just yet.

For now, he lets himself be held. For now, Ed lets himself love, and be loved in return.