Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stede Bonnet was seven when the idea first entered his mind.

He and his mother were on a rare walk together through their neighborhood—or, more accurately, around the pond that Stede had often been told not to go near, despite sometimes seeing other children play and even swim in the shallows. Today there were no children, but there was a man in funny overalls standing where the water got waist-high on young Stede, with a pole in his hand that he flicked and made a whizzzz sound with. Being seven, Stede tugged on his mother’s sleeve and pointed.

“Mother? What’s that man doing?”

Mother Bonnet had cast her dreamy gaze towards the pond, where her eyes sharpened as soon as she saw the man.

“That,” she said sharply, “is a trespasser.” She tightened her hand on Stede’s shoulder, turning the both of them about and setting off back for the house. “Come along. Mummy has a phone call to make.”

“But what’s he doing?” Stede protested, a transgression he already knew he could get away with as far as Mother was concerned. Father, on the other hand—well—the less said about it, the better.

“He’s poaching from our beautiful pond, is what he’s doing,” Mother Bonnet sniffed.

“What’s poaching?”

“Stealing,” Mother Bonnet clarified. “Had the look of a vagabond to him, as well, and wouldn’t that be our luck, rogue fishermen in our nice community?”

Fishermen. That was something Stede could work with. While Mother was occupied phoning someone to complain about the vagabond, Stede reached for his trusty dictionary and thumbed through it, sounding out the word until he found it. Fisherman.

“A person who catches fish for a living or sport,” he read aloud. “See also: fishing.” Stede had heard that one before, usually in the context of Father scoffing about other people fishing for things like compliments or raises. And he knew what fish were, obviously. Seemed clear in hindsight, once he put all the context clues together. He supposed it was because he’d never seen anyone doing it before. Father just smoked cigars and swung a golf club around, and Mother’s trips outside had never strayed into any kind of interaction with sport before. Stede liked the sound the fisherman’s pole had made, and he certainly liked an excuse to get into the water, even if he had a hard time hiding the evidence later. Perhaps he, Stede, could become a fisherman one day.

Forty years, a miserable marriage, two children, a stifling career, and a jubilant divorce later, Stede Bonnet knew his time had come.

Mary and the children had moved to the penthouse, closer to her new studio and to the kids’ school and the hustle and bustle of urban life that Stede knew was their preference, just as he knew it assuredly wasn’t his own. Stede retreated to the ancestral seat, so to speak (if a McMansion his father had bought and then later died in could be called ancestral), the same big stuffy house and stuffy big neighborhood whose saving grace was the pond of his childhood, still beautifully green and now with picnic tables as the trees around the pond had grown up and began casting more plentiful shade. Stede had seen fishermen there, too—always on his early morning walks or his evening constitutionals, and to his fascination, always looking a bit jumpy every time he passed a little too near, as if they were ready to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. Stede supposed this was fair; if his mother had been in possession of a cellphone back in the day, the rogue fisherman of his youth would probably have been more careful, himself.

As for Stede, he had the tacklebox and the fishing pole he’d bought on a whim (the whim generated by Mary being the brave one and broaching the subject of separation, a welcome but ultimately still jarring event), and the waders that had been her encouragement to him to try new things the day the divorce was finalized, and a brand-new fishing license that on the one hand undercut some of the clandestine feel of the thing, but on the other hand did go towards national park conservation, which felt more transgressive anyway. The ink dried on his resignation to the development firm his father had built and then reluctantly handed over, the key to the house that was only his tucked in his pocket, Stede Bonnet girded his loins with his fishing equipment and struck out for the pond.

He'd chosen early morning for this first foray, it being less populous in general, and what a spring morning it was—clear, cool, fog still clinging in whisps to the surface of the water, dew in the grass that would most certainly have soaked Stede’s shoes if they weren’t safely tucked into the waders. The sun was barely peeking over as Stede took a deep breath of fresh air. This was the life, he was certain, a man sallying forth to do battle with the elements and armed with a collapsible pole. Perfection.

And, to Stede’s delight, as he approached with his waders squeaking away, there was already one of the fishermen he recognized there—an older gentleman with long, scraggly blond hair and a bald dome on which a seagull, of all things, perched. He turned at Stede’s less-than-silent approach, large pale eyes wide, expression blank, a delightfully worn and tatty shirt with bass printed on it draped over his shoulders and unbuttoned. His skin was sun-worn, his hands were rough, and stuck into a hole dug in the grass was his fishing pole.

“Hello there!” Stede chirped, practically vibrating out of his waders. He was doing it! He was speaking to a real outdoorsman! If only he had his hands free to take a picture of the moment. “Great morning to catch some fish, eh?”

The man stared, as did the bird on his head.

“Mind if I set up shop nearby?” Stede asked, hefting his tacklebox in one hand.

The man continued to stare.

Stede fidgeted.

“I won’t be any bother,” Stede said, feeling the wind drooping out of his sails a bit.

The man nodded once.

“Oh! Thank you ever so much!” Stede gushed, shifting his pole up into his armpit to hold out his hand to the man. “I’m Stede, by the way!”

The man stared at his hand, and, slowly raising his bulbous eyes to Stede’s face again, reached out his own hand and shook Stede’s in a slow, formal sort of way.

“Ye can call me Buttons, if ye not be any sort of ghost or phantom,” Buttons intoned in a heavy Scottish accent Stede hadn’t been expecting. “This is Karl.”

“Ah,” Stede said, then gave a short bow of the head to the bird, who in return made a short chirping sound. “Lovely. I’ll just be…over here, I suppose, then?”

“Suppose you will,” Buttons agreed, and turned to stare out at the pond. Stede took that as his dismissal and scurried to the nice fresh patch of shore next to Buttons’ spot.

Stede hummed, then whistled, as he began to set up his equipment—assembling his pole, spooling his line to his reel, attaching the various bits and bobs (rather, bob, singular, he wasn’t completely hopeless, after all) to his line. The sun was halfway up by the time he was done, but as Stede stepped close enough to the water’s edge to get the toes of his boots wet, he felt nothing but elation. Now, just as he’d practiced in his (cavernous, echoing, devoid of all life—) living room, he drew his casting arm back—

And immediately hooked his hat off his head as he flicked his arm to cast his line. Away it went in a whirl of bucket-shaped canvas.

“Bother,” Stede pouted as he reeled his hat back in and went to disentangle it. Buttons didn’t snicker or laugh, which Stede appreciated, but Stede did rather have the feeling of being watched, and it was a tad unnerving as he struggled to get his hook undone from his hat without too much damage to either. He managed it in the end, and with a more careful hand, Stede went to cast again.

And, oh, there it was, the whizzzz of the reel, the graceful arc of line and lure, all just as Stede had imagined it would be. His heart swelled in his chest until he felt he was floating.

“A fair cast, cap’n,” Buttons said. Stede flinched and fumbled his rod, but didn’t drop it, which he counted as a victory. “Word of advice: next time, avoid the reeds. She’ll tangle and ye’ll lose your hook and all in ‘em.”

“Right,” Stede said, noticing now that his line hadn’t landed in open water at all, but indeed in a patch of reeds. Just the edge of it, but enough that it was something of a struggle to reel it back in, and the bait was long gone and buried under the mud and verdure that stuck to the hook. “Thank you, Buttons.”

“First time, then?” Buttons asked, not offering to help Stede with his messy hook but watching him from the corner of his eye all the same.

“Is it that obvious?” Stede sighed, shaking pond mud from his fingers.

“Seen worse,” Buttons said. “Seen a lot better, too, mind, but seen worse. Once had a young lad rip his scalp clean off with a bad cast. Now that was an ill throw and no mistake.”

“Ah,” Stede squeaked. “Um. I—I see.”

“Morning, Buttons!” someone called from the tree line, and from what was as far as Stede knew an empty field walked four other gentlemen, two with fishing poles (one quite big and one quite bald), one with a cooler, one with a guitar. They stopped as soon as they saw Stede, and the one with the guitar turned to Buttons with raised eyebrows. Buttons said nothing, and with a shrug the lanky man with the guitar continued his approach, the other three trailing along behind. Stede did his best to smile in the face of the suspicious looks being cast his way.

“Mornin’, laddies,” Buttons replied once the four of them were starting to set up on the other side of Buttons’ spot.

“Make a new friend?” the guitar guy asked, flicking his chin in Stede’s direction. Stede waved. “You look familiar, mate, you fished here before?”

“Oh, no, first time,” Stede replied. “I live in the neighborhood. Just there, you can see the double chimneys.”

The new arrivals froze mid-setup, exchanging glances.

“Suppose maybe we ought to get going,” the biggest of the men said, starting to put his chair back in its bag, and the other three followed. Stede’s heart dropped.

“Oh, don’t feel as though you need to rush out on my account,” Stede protested.

“Yeah, thing is, though,” the man with a bald head and a lisp said, “folks in this neighborhood don’t like us being here, so if it’s all the same to you, we’d rather clear out before you call the cops on us.”

“Why would I do that?” Stede frowned. “It’s a pond, isn’t it? Made to be fished in.”

The group of four plus Buttons exchanged another round of looks. The man with the cooler, who had opened the lid of it and then shut it again, shrugged and opened the cooler back up.

“I brought breakfast. Might as well eat that first.” He glanced over at Stede. “Need our energy up if we’re going to be outrunning the law again, eh?”

“I walk by here all the time and I’ve never seen any policemen,” Stede protested.

“Happens often enough ye learn to be cautious, cap’n,” Buttons explained, accepting a foil-wrapped package from the man with the cooler. “Reckon this one’s fine, lads, first time caster and all.”

Stede blushed a little at the knowing “ah” from the collective group of them.

“Name’s Roach,” the man with the cooler said. “And I don’t have any more breakfast burritos, but I’ve got beer, if you want one.”

“Oh—me?” Stede asked, when it became apparent Roach wasn’t speaking to one of his friends. Of course he wasn’t, he’d said his name, and Stede was the odd one out. Of course. “Er—bit early for beer for me, but thank you.” He gave another wave, being unsure if it would be welcome for him to approach for a more polite handshake. “Stede Bonnet.”

“Frenchie,” the man with the guitar waved back. “That’s Wee John and Black Pete.”

Wee John, the big one, set up his chair with a grunt of acknowledgement. Black Pete’s eyes were narrowed at Stede still, not looking away even as he unwrapped the foil from his burrito and took a bite. Stede felt the pained edges of his smile starting to curdle and looked out to the water instead. Well. That could have gone better. He would just have to make sure they knew he was serious about not calling the cops.

Still, being even on the fringes of what soon settled into friendly conversation beside him was nice. The guys had clearly known each other a while, with references a-plenty to things like Pete’s boyfriend and Wee John’s mother’s tailor shop and Frenchie’s latest open mic night. Stede let the evidence of camaraderie sweep over him. Even proxy friendship was more than he’d experienced in a while. Or maybe ever.

“Hey, Stede,” Roach called out, which startled Stede so badly he fumbled his pole. Again.

“Y-yes?” he replied, hoping his face wasn’t red again.

“You’re standing too close to the edge,” Roach said from where he was sitting cross-legged on top of his cooler. “Scares the fish if they can see you coming.”

“Oh,” Stede said, looking down at where his boots were touching the water. “Oh, I see.” He took two steps back. “How’s this?”

“One more step,” Roach said, and Stede obeyed. Roach nodded. “There you go.”

“And try to keep your grip more relaxed,” Pete advised.

“Like this?”

“Nae, fish’ll yank the pole straight out, adjust your fingers a bit.”

It was getting perilously close to fun, Stede thought as he accepted the advice from the other clearly more experienced fishermen. That was nice. At least they weren’t laughing at him. Not that Stede would have blamed them if they were, but it would have been a bummer if they had.

By the time the heat of the day was starting to set in, none of them had caught anything, and the collective failure rather than individual failure did make Stede feel much better about the venture as he reeled in his line and started to collapse his pole. The others’ poles didn’t seem to do the same, he noticed, but as they hadn’t made a comment about the difference, neither would Stede.

“We usually meet up here alternating mornings and evenings, if you need more pointers,” Wee John said as Stede returned his hook, bob, and sinker to his tacklebox.

“I would like that very much,” Stede said, not bothering to hide his smile. “Maybe if we catch anything, we can take it to my place, have a proper fish bake.”

The noncommittal hums and grunts that followed didn’t put Stede off much. They had just met, after all.

The following evening brought along Oluwande and his partner Jim, as well as a curious man whom everyone just referred to as the Swede (when Stede asked what his name was, The Swede told him, and gave a knowing shrug when Stede’s attempt at pronouncing it fell…a bit short. So the Swede it was), and Pete’s boyfriend Lucius, who mostly sat in a camp chair with a sketchbook and a travel tumbler full of wine. Jim didn’t say much, just cast an eye over Stede that gave him the distinct impression of being scanned and dismissed, and sat against a nearby tree, pulling out a knife and a block of wood and starting to whittle. Stede, appropriately cowed, turned back to his fishing pole.

“No offense, Mr. Bonnet, but why are you wearing waders if you’re not getting in the water?” Oluwande asked about forty-five minutes into the evening. Stede looked down at his waders, then over at the rest of the group, none of whom were wearing similar.

“Ah,” Stede said, and Lucius coughed, though Stede thought it sounded distinctly snicker-adjacent. “Well. I suppose I don’t have to. Roach did say standing back was best.”

“You should keep ‘em on,” Frenchie said. “In case someone loses their pole or something, we can just send you out to get it.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Stede said. “I don’t know, they just make me feel…official. Like a real outdoorsman, you know.”

“Because nothing says real outdoorsman like overcompensating,” Lucius said. Stede looked over his shoulder, frowning, and Lucius grinned at him. “Sorry, did that come out a little sarcastic? Just how I talk.”

“Well…alright, then,” Stede sighed. “Sorry.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, followed by another sigh, this one from Lucius. “No, really, wearing heavy rubber overalls is a good look. Not just anyone can pull that off, you know. Even if it is overkill.”

“Well, you’ve seen my house,” Stede replied over his shoulder. “Overcompensating does tend to run in the tax bracket.”

Lucius snorted again, clearly laughter, and Stede flashed him a smile that, oddly enough, was returned with sincerity.

“So long as you own it,” Lucius said with a marked increase in warmth.

“Got something!” Wee John announced, and indeed his pole was bending towards the water, the line taut. Stede’s heart caught in his throat as the group immediately began shouting encouragement and advice. How exciting! The real first catch Stede was seeing! At last Wee John reeled his catch in from the water, and it was…tiny. But it was there! A real, wiggling, live fish!

“Barely a minnow,” Roach scoffed. “Wouldn’t even use that guy for bait.”

“It’s a great catch, Wee John,” Stede said. The stars tattooed on Wee John’s face raised with his eyebrows, but he was smiling.

“Thank’ee, cap’n,” Wee John said, and unhooked the fish from his line with surprising gentleness and dexterity, for having such large hands. He knelt and released it back into the water. “Maybe I’ll get him again when he’s a bit bigger.”

“Hate to be burstin’ any bubbles, but with the size of this pond, that fellow’s not likely to get much bigger’n that,” Buttons said, and a curious sort of glazed look came over his face. “The ocean, now, that’s where the good game be. Just a man, his wits, and that seductive siren, the sea—”

“Here we go,” Lucius sighed.

“Buttons, your line’s tangled,” Oluwande said, and as Buttons leaned over to pick up his pole, mumbling to himself, Oluwande leaned over to Stede. “Buttons used to be a huge deep-sea fisherman; if we don’t cut him off now, he’ll start wailing about it after an hour.”

“I see,” Stede whispered back. “He misses it, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Oluwande nodded. “We don’t really know why he had to leave it behind, but it messed with his head a bit. S’why he started fishing here, we think. Biggest body of water we’ve got without having to travel too far.”

“Hmm.” Stede tucked the thought away for later.

“Also…think you’re using the wrong line for the pole you’ve got, Mr. Bonnet.”

“What?” Stede yelped, then put on a bright smile when the guys looked his way. “Oh, sorry, thought I saw a…bass. Just a rock.”

Oluwande huffed. “Yeah, was watching you string up your reel. You’ve got a light collapsible pole and your line’s too heavy. Gonna mess up your reel if you get anything bigger than John’s minnow on it. Surprised it hasn’t broken already.”

“Oh,” Stede said, his shoulders dropping. “I…didn’t realize.”

“Not a big deal, man, let’s just redo your reel,” Oluwande said, and very kindly spent the next few minutes helping Stede fix his mess, showing him where to find the weight limit of the line on the box it came in, respooling the reel with fishing line that was indeed finer than what he’d been using.

“There we go,” Oluwande said, handing Stede back his pole. “Might make your casts a bit more accurate, too, with the right line in.”

“Thank you,” Stede said fervently, and took a step to the side. He breathed deep. Then he swung his arm to cast.

This time it was Oluwande’s beanie that wound up on the hook instead of Stede’s own hat.

“Happens all the time, man,” Oluwande assured him as Stede mournfully reeled it back in. “Just need more practice, that’s all.”

And more practice Stede got, though if he was being completely truthful, he didn’t think he was improving much. By the second week of his occupation with this group, Roach started bringing him breakfast burritos. By the third, Stede managed to go an entire four hours without hooking anything he didn’t expressly mean to while casting. Buttons’ nickname of “cap’n” had caught on, to Stede’s bewildered delight. No one had accepted an invitation to Stede’s home yet, but that was alright when Roach was bringing truly outstanding burritos and sandwiches. Jim finished their carving—a turtle—and started on something else. They still hadn’t said a word to Stede, but they also hadn’t said a word to anyone else, so Stede considered that an implicit acceptance. Lucius had shown Stede his sketchbook, an ordeal that had Stede swallowing his bite of sandwich whole without chewing and nearly choked him to death.

“Incredible detail,” Stede gasped around chugs of beer.

“Isn’t it?” Lucius grinned, and patted Stede daintily on the back, which didn’t help dislodge the food but was appreciated all the same. “Sorry, should’ve warned you what I meant by still life.”

“Was it…modeled, then?” Stede stammered around coughs. “Or…from memory?”

“Bit of both,” Lucius winked. “Open for commissions, if you’re in need.”

Stede must have checked out for a moment, because Lucius touched his shoulder this time and the look on his face went from coquettish to concerned.

“I, ah…I’m not sure,” Stede said. He wasn’t blind, he’d noticed the stickers on the back of Lucius’ sketchbook and the pins on some of the guys’ hats, various flags and symbols he wasn’t too familiar with but knew enough about to get a gist. That was something else he and Mary had discussed, when separation finally came up. Mary was much easier to befriend, Stede had discovered, once the expectation of being attracted to her in any capacity was soundly put to rest. It wasn’t that Stede didn’t really know himself or his preferences; he just hadn’t given himself any room to think about it before. He was at once immeasurably grateful to have fallen into a group of friends with a younger crowd in it—they were so much more open about this sort of thing than Stede had grown up with.

Lucius’ hand squeezed his shoulder. “You’re in a safe space with this lot, if you ever need to talk it out,” Lucius said quietly. “Reckon none of us have drowned you in the pond yet for being a danger to yourself and others with a fishing pole, you’re probably good to stick around.”

Stede’s laugh tore out of him unexpectedly, and to his shock his eyes were wet. He wiped at them and took a more measured sip of beer, nodding as he did.

To Stede’s immense surprise, Lucius seemed to sort of…adopt Stede, after that.

“Hey, we’re all going to Spanish Jackie’s to hear Frenchie’s performance after this,” Lucius informed Stede one night the following week. “Wanna come?”

Stede stared at him with huge, round eyes for probably longer than was socially acceptable, because when Lucius opened his mouth again Stede somehow unglued his. “Yes! Yes, I would—yes.”

“Good,” Lucius winked. “Leave the waders. We’ll pick you up.”

Stede had been so excited to even get the invitation that he hadn’t asked Lucius about the vehicle they would be riding in. As it turned out, he needn’t have asked, but probably should have been informed anyway—when he stepped out of his house, dressed in a smart turquoise suit with far more ruffles than he would have allowed himself pre-divorce, there was a fifteen-seater monstrosity rumbling in his driveway, painted sea-green with large rust spots and bearing the moniker “THE REVENGE” on a mermaid-encrusted plate on the front bumper. Buttons was driving, Wee John in the front seat, and the side door slid open to reveal the rest of the crew beckoning Stede towards them and into a seat by the door so he wouldn’t have to climb over anyone.

“This is quite a sight,” Stede remarked, buckling himself in as the Swede closed the door and Buttons began backing out, perilously close to Stede’s brick mailbox. “Where’d you get it, Buttons?”

“Was cheaper than an RV,” Buttons replied. “Served me well to live in for a time, afore my cousin died. Left me his house. Van stayed.”

“Oh.” Stede swallowed. “Why…why did you have to wait for your cousin to die before living in his house?”

“He kept cats,” Buttons said darkly. Karl the seagull, nestled on the back of Buttons’ seat, squawked.

“Can’t blame you for that, mate, cats are evil,” Frenchie said fervently.

“Are they?” Stede asked, to a general wave of moans and protests.

“Look, deny it all you want, cats are witches, alright!” Frenchie said loudly over the noise, and if Stede could say one thing, it was that at least this group knew how to keep it interesting.

Spanish Jackie’s was a dive bar of a particular sort of clientele, which Stede couldn’t fail to notice even as he followed his friends to their usual corner booth and wedged himself in the middle of it—there were several clearly queer couples interspersed around the walls getting cozy, even intimate, in the low light and smoky atmosphere. Despite the sticky floors and the cheap vinyl cracking under his rear, Stede had never felt quite so at home. Classic rock played from a vintage jukebox as Lucius and Pete went to get their drink orders—beers to start, shots were for after Frenchie was done, out of support to his craft, or so Roach told Stede.

“How did you lot find this place?” Stede asked.

“Oh, Jim and I used to work here,” Oluwande said, and for the first time Stede saw Jim smirk. “Then Jim had a…disagreement…with one of Jackie’s husbands, we got thrown out for a bit, then Jim and Jackie patched things up, so we came back.”

“Rest of these knuckleheads just followed,” Jim grunted, to general agreement.

“Jim’s the coolest one of us, so if they think this place is good, we were good to come with,” Wee John said. Jim ducked the brim of their hat a bit and Oluwande elbowed them with a grin.

“And how did the fishing group get started?” Stede asked. “I’ve seen you bunch around for a while before I showed up.”

“Happy coincidence,” Oluwande said. “Your neighborhood’s kinda famous for having the best-stocked pond no one’s allowed to fish in, and we all like to fish, Jim and Lucius excepted. And Roach.”

“I like to cook the fish, you lot can do the hard work and catch it for me,” Roach said, at which point Lucius and Pete returned with the beers and one water bottle, which Pete passed to Frenchie. Frenchie gulped it down, then slid out of the booth with his guitar strapped to his back.

“Reckon it’s time I report in, lads, wish me luck!” Frenchie said. Stede raised his glass along with the rest of the guys.

“Break an arm!” Pete said cheerfully.

“It’s break a leg, man,” Frenchie corrected. “You’ve gone and jinxed it now.”

“Eh, three counter-clockwise turns and a spit should do the trick,” Roach shrugged. “Get going!”

Frenchie hustled off, turning in circles as he went. Stede sipped his beer—tangy and oddly nutty—and let himself bask in the little bubble of friendship he’d found himself at the center of.

But Stede Bonnet couldn’t just let himself have nice things, which is probably why the next question came out of his mouth so readily:

“And have you had much trouble with…the law? Since you started fishing there?”

There was a collective wince, a sharp inhale through the teeth, and a wide-eyed stare and nod from Buttons, who had left Karl with the van.

“Aye,” he intoned solemnly. “There was the Great Karen Plague of ’17.”

“Woah,” Stede breathed as a group-wide shudder happened around him. “What was that?”

“Same old, same old, bunch of white suburban housewives with nothing better to do started calling the cops on anyone loitering around the pond or walking in the neighborhood,” Jim summarized. “Put up a bunch of signs and stuff, ‘keep out’ and ‘no fishing’ and ‘trespassers will be prosecuted’.”

“They kept disappearing, though,” Roach said with a twinkle in his eye. “They were just plastic, you know, like those political signs people put in their yards. Very easy to uproot and get lost somewhere.”

“So some of us figured out when the best times to show up would be, when the soccer mommies were busy getting their kids to school or picking them up from clarinet practice, and we just kinda worked in the blind spots,” Black Pete shrugged, looking very pleased with himself. Stede grinned.

“Resourceful,” he nodded. “Very clever, all.”

“Well, when the only thing you’re gonna get to eat that day is a fish from a stuffy rich people pond, you do what you’ve gotta do,” Black Pete sighed. An odd little twinge of something cold pulled in Stede’s heartstrings.

“Don’t be so dramatic, it weren’t that bad,” Wee John scoffed. “’cept maybe for Buttons. But that’s why Roach brings the cooler.”

The cold little twinge vibrated harder.

“Well,” Stede said, casually as he could with odd temperature phenomena happening inside his body, “you know…if anybody needs anything…place to crash, bite to eat…my door’s always open. If you like.”

There was a moment of silence around the table.

“Thanks, cap’n,” Black Pete said.

“Decent of you, cap’n,” Wee John agreed. Buttons said nothing, but he blinked slowly, which Stede had come to interpret as almost a smile from him.

“Do you have a hundred bucks?” Jim asked, and cracked a wide smile when Oluwande nudged them hard. “Kidding. Unless you do.”

“Why do you need a hundred bucks?” Stede asked, and in that moment the microphone set up in the corner of the bar let out a searing feedback loop into the speakers that squashed most conversation in the room.

Frenchie’s set was wonderful, folksy and shanty-heavy, and Stede wasn’t sure when the last time he’d heard anything so wonderful was. Frenchie rounded out the night with what he called an acoustic cover of a classic, the first notes of which had the whole bar whooping and clapping along.

“How does everyone know this song?” Stede asked over the ruckus.

“Stede, everyone in the world knows Blackbeard’s ‘Queen Anne’s Revenge,’” Lucius yelled back. “This song’s older than I am!”

Stede frowned, then listened hard, trying to find something familiar about it. With an acoustic arrangement being sung over by drunk bar patrons, it was a bit difficult, but…he did know this one, didn’t he? It tingled something in his brain, anyway, something that stuck with him the rest of the night. Or maybe that was the tequila shots after Frenchie’s set. Either way, when Buttons dropped Stede off and drove away to make his rounds with the rest of the crew, he stumbled through his nightly routine, humming and thinking.

When he woke up in the morning with a cotton-fuzz mouth and a pounding headache, Stede checked his phone, only to find he had a YouTube video pulled up of the song Frenchie had played in its original iteration. He frowned, and once he had a cup of coffee and two painkillers in him, he pressed play.

Oh! He did know this one!

All at once Stede was back in college, regretful mullet phase and all, holed up in his dorm trying to study while his roommate blasted the radio in the kitchen with his friends. They were air-guitaring and screaming along and thoroughly enjoying Stede’s gifted top-shelf whiskey without him, and despite the pit-in-his-stomach loneliness, despite the utter boredom with the economics textbook in his lap, despite it all, Stede found himself humming along with the song. It felt powerful and angry and—and—he didn’t have the words for it, for the feeling of being at the prow of a ship coursing through the waves, of being master of his own fate and who cared what his father thought of it, who cared what anyone thought of it—

Stede had heard the song a few more times throughout his life, because as he recalled, the band Blackbeard was indeed one of the greats, immortalized alongside Bon Jovi and Ozzy Osbourne. He heard their songs on occasion used in commercials or movies, his eyes had scanned across tabloid headlines through years of grocery shopping just to get out of the house, headlines about frontman Edward Teach going on a no-doubt overdramatized “bender” or “spiral” and getting into fistfights with paparazzi and bar patrons, about the whole band trashing hotel rooms and throwing guitars into swimming pools. Stede listened to the song from the bar one more time, then idly typed the band’s name into Google just to see where these legends had wound up.

Where they wound up, as it turned out, was still on tour—no new album in over a decade, but the greatest hits from their late-eighties heyday more than enough to keep them going. And—Stede could hardly believe it—they were going to be stopping right in Stede’s own little town! The tour was a few months out still, and one song didn’t mean that the crew were fans and would want to go, but…well. It was an idea to keep in the back of Stede’s mind, at any rate, a fun factoid to bring up during a lull if nothing else.

It was Sunday, and an evening day for fishing, already looking like the perfect weather for it. Stede nursed his hangover back to the depths and wandered his house, still looking more or less how it had while Stede was growing up in it. He found himself stopping in his father’s den, dark wood paneling and severe masculine furnishings. At least the hunting trophies were gone; Mary had gotten rid of them when Louis kept having nightmares about them coming to life, and Stede had been more than happy to cart the lot of them to a thrift store, one of the few moments of complete marital harmony between them. Still, even without the deer and elk and the one odd squirrel staring down at him, Stede had always felt about twelve years old in this room.

He walked to another room, a parlor where his parents had entertained business partners and their wives. Upstairs, Mary’s old painting studio and where Stede had unfortunately discovered Mary’s own indiscretion (his name was Doug, he was absolutely lovely, and if Stede never accidentally saw the man nude again it would be too soon).

Stede’s skin itched. The house was his now; both of his parents were dead, and the kids only came around once a month. The children’s rooms had been theirs to decorate as they pleased, but Stede had never felt really able to touch this place—if any changes happened, they were Mary’s doing, modernized and tasteful but still not really Stede’s style. His own hands felt unworthy, somehow. Stuck.

Stede’s phone was in his hand. He made a call.

“Lucius,” Stede greeted. “Are you well?”

“Fine as I can get, sure,” Lucius groaned, clearly still waking up. “What’s up?”

“Do you know any interior designers, perhaps?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a minute, and then a much more awake Lucius responded, “Why do you need one?”

“Call it a mid-life crisis,” Stede smiled. “Place could do with more color, I think.”

“How much more color?”

“How many colors are in a rainbow?”

The smile on Lucius’ face was audible. “I’ve got just the thing.”

Lucius showed up around lunchtime with his usual cocky smile, a tablet instead of a sketchbook, and linen dungarees that could have been used for painting coveralls but the way they were cuffed and slouched just so made Stede reconsider that assessment.

“I took some interior design courses in school and dated a designer for about six months, I know what I’m doing,” Lucius informed Stede as he swanned into Stede’s kitchen.

“Works for me,” Stede smiled. “Charcuterie?”

“Oh, please,” Lucius nodded, snatching up some gouda and grapes and popping them into his mouth as he took in the space. “Alright, are we thinking a full-house remake, or just one room?”

“The whole thing,” Stede said. “Top to bottom. I’m even willing to consider a remodel, if necessary.”

Lucius nodded to himself, looking around and tapping his stylus to his lips. “Lots of potential, I think. Lots of room. Rooms, good lord.” Lucius looked over his shoulder. “Budget?”

“Unlimited,” Stede said, and felt a bit of a matching feeling unfurl in his chest at the slightly-feral grin Lucius gave him.

“Well, then, we’d better get started,” Lucius purred, and grabbed a handful of crackers. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

Renovations to Stede’s house took a few months. The children’s rooms remained untouched, but everything else, from crown molding to baseboards, from attic to basement, had Stede’s touch, worked into the very fibers of the upholstery and the complete kitchen remodel (with Roach’s input, as Stede had a feeling Roach would be the one using it most). The final product would never make it to a showroom or television show, unless it was about home remodels gone wrong, but Stede loved every inch of it, from the vintage wallpaper to the mother-of-pearl tiles in the bathrooms to how his father’s den had been gutted and opened up into a much more comfortable hosting space. There were touches of Rococo design elements in the sink fixtures and the wall décor, pastels and jewel tones on the walls, and an antique nautical whimsy that tied the place together. Lucius, so invaluable during the process, had long been promoted from freelance designer and starving artist to Stede’s personal assistant, and it was his gentle and sometimes less-than-gentle guidance that kept the place from becoming an overstuffed nightmare of Stede-flavored overcompensation.

“It’s finally done,” Stede sighed happily at the fishing spot on a Thursday morning, after the last of the workers had cleared out and the maid service had finished their final polish. “I’d love to have you all over to see the place, it’s hardly recognizable.”

“Given that none of us ever saw the old place, we’ll take your word for it,” Oluwande said.

“Would you all be free Saturday afternoon? Maybe have a cookout?” Stede asked. “Got a fire pit in the backyard now I think someone here would appreciate.”

Wee John’s face lit up, and he looked to Frenchie, who shrugged, and to Roach, who had intimate knowledge now of Stede’s kitchen workings and nodded.

“Could Karl come along, cap’n?” Buttons asked. “Ye’ve no cats or the like, do ye?”

“No cats,” Stede shook his head. “Karl is more than welcome, of course. If you like, you can text me your food and drink preferences and I’ll be sure to provide what I can.”

“And we can go fishing after?” Black Pete asked.

“I’d be disappointed if we didn’t,” Stede smiled, and laughed when the group cheered. His heart bubbled in his chest. Friends. Finally!

“Did any of you see the news?” the Swede said when the cheering died down. “Blackbeard’s tour is passing through this weekend. Shows on Friday and Saturday.”

“Blackbeard’s performing here?” Black Pete shrieked, dropping his fishing pole entirely.

“Friday and Saturday,” the Swede nodded.

“Oh, yes, I did see that,” Stede recalled. “Several weeks ago. Forgot all about it, with the whole. Home remodel. Thing.”

“We have to go,” Black Pete begged. “I used to be a roadie for those guys—” There was a disbelieving sort of groan from the group, which Black Pete bravely pushed through, “—and they’re legendary, okay!”

“Babe, tickets have probably been sold out for weeks,” Lucius said, not looking up from his phone.

“I’ll pick the backstage door locks and sneak in. They’ll never even see me. I have to see them live,” Black Pete said, looking almost as fevered as Buttons during a tirade about the sea (which Stede had heard now in its uncensored glory, much as he had unfortunately seen Buttons in all his own uncensored glory moonbathing by the pond. That was a memory best left alone).

“I’ll help,” Roach said, the same sort of manic look in his eye he got whenever he got out his kitchen knives gleaming all over his face. “You need a lookout, I’m your guy.”

“I’ve got some lockpicks I can—” Jim started.

“No, you don’t,” Oluwande interrupted loudly. Jim muttered under their breath but didn’t contribute further.

“Probably best to try and see this band legally, or as legally-adjacent as we can get,” Stede interjected. “I can look around, but I’m afraid Lucius is probably right, if they’re as popular as all that…” Stede shrugged. “Sorry, guys.”

Black Pete sniffed a little, then picked up his fishing pole before it slid into the pond. “It’s fine,” he said, though the little quaver in his voice didn’t escape Stede’s notice, nor did Roach’s eye-roll and subsequent arm-crossed slouch. A stirring of guilt flared up in Stede’s gut. If only he hadn’t gotten so distracted with his own problems—he could have secured tickets to the tour months ago. A voice that sounded a bit like Lucius and a bit like his therapist told him it was unreasonable to feel guilt over something like that, since he hadn’t even known the guys were such huge fans back then, and that he should be proud of what he’d done with his home, but still. Black Pete’s sullen mood rather soured the morning, and though Stede collected affirmatives from all of his friends, even Jim, that they would attend his Saturday housewarming, it still somehow felt like he’d let them down. Or at least let Pete down, whose morose sighing did have a way of cutting right to Stede’s center.

“He’ll get over it,” Lucius promised Stede as he packed up his camp chair. “Go enjoy your new fancy house and text me if you need anything, alright? Maybe wait an hour or two for a response, so if it’s an emergency—”

“I’m fine, Lucius, you don’t have to worry about me,” Stede smiled and felt brave doing it. “Think he needs you more than I do today.”

Lucius patted Stede’s shoulder and booked it to catch up with Black Pete, and Stede turned back to start packing up his own tacklebox.

“A word, cap’n.”

“Of course, Buttons,” Stede straightened. Buttons didn’t look any different, but there was something grave in the corners of his mouth that caught Stede’s attention. “Everything alright?”

Buttons stared silently for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Just wanted to offer my thanks, cap’n. Mine and Karl’s. And on behalf of the crew.”

“Oh,” Stede said. “Um. Whatever for?”

“Weren’t for you, we’d likely have been chased off again,” Buttons said. “Would have come back eventually, mind, wouldn’t be the first time we’d laid low and waited for the fancy folk over yonder to stop their squawkin’, but I reckon some of the lads were thinking of moving on to other watering holes before you showed up, so. Thank you for keepin’ us together, cap’n. Been nice.”

Stede smiled and blinked back…something in his eye. “Well, thank you for letting me stay, that first morning. And not letting me take an ear off with my bad throws.”

“Ye have improved somewhat on that front, cap’n,” Buttons nodded, turning to his own equipment and packing up. “Suppose what I mean is, for an old sea dog, it’s hard to find a crew ye can trust. Been nice to put down some roots with this one.”

“I’m pleased to have obliged, Buttons,” Stede replied. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Suppose ye will,” Buttons said. “Karl prefers sardines and blackberries, if y’have any on hand.”

“I will make a note of it,” Stede said, and waved goodbye to Buttons as he trudged his own way home. Once his equipment was put away in its designated closet in the mud room, Stede wandered to his office, booted up his laptop, and started searching around for spare Blackbeard tickets.

When an hour of hunting turned up nothing, Stede made another phone call.

“Hey, Stede.”

“Mary,” Stede greeted. “Have an odd question for you.”

“If it’s got anything to do with the Baroque chandelier you put in your closet, I told you it was a bad idea—”

“Rococo, and no, the chandelier is fine, thanks,” Stede sniffed. (And it was. Just…not in his closet, where Stede finally had to concede that maybe it was too much for such a small space. So second chandelier in the library it was.) “Have you heard of the band Blackbeard?”

“Me and the rest of the world who had a Walkman as a kid, yeah,” Mary replied, amusement clear in her voice. “What about them?”

“Oh, they’re playing here this weekend and I wanted to grab some tickets for the guys. Wondered if you knew anybody with spares,” Stede said.

“Time to do that would have been months ago when the tour was announced,” Mary said, and Stede grimaced at the repetition of his own thoughts back at him. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, figured it was a long shot anyway,” Stede sighed. “How did Louis’ math test go?”

“Worse than his last one, so you are officially off math tutoring duty,” Mary said, not unkindly. “Alma’s recital is next week, don’t forget. Wednesday.”

“Of course,” Stede said, glancing at his calendar, which already had the information recorded on it, and knowing Lucius, he had probably done his thing to attach bells and whistles to the notification on Stede’s phone calendar as well. “Doug keeping well?”

“Doing fine. He says hi.”

It was infinitely odd, Stede thought, that he felt much more connected to his family now that he was distant from them. Most middle-aged men with estranged wives and children that Stede knew of didn’t have this. Sure, the house felt a little empty with just him in it, but he had the guys, and it wasn’t like the kids were too far away. His visitation rights were practically wide-open. He should be wanting for nothing at this juncture, really. Mary must have said something else he missed, because he heard her voice but had no memory of what she’d said.

“Hmm? Sorry?”

Mary sighed. “I wanted to ask how you’re feeling, now that the house is done.”

“Oh.” Stede looked around himself, at the comfortable space he’d designed, and let himself smile. “Great, actually. Finally feels comfortable.”

“Then I’m happy for you,” Mary replied. “I told Lucius already, he really needs to sign you up for a dating app one of these days. You deserve to bring someone home to your nest.”

“Mary!” Stede squawked. Mary gently needling him about meeting people wasn’t new, but Mary pushing him towards dating certainly was. Mary laughed. “I think I’m a bit too old for that now, aren’t I?”

On the other end of the phone, Stede heard Alma shouting something, and Mary burst out laughing again.

“What?” Stede frowned.

“Alma says to tell you, and I quote, ‘our school librarian met her husband on a dating app and she’s a million years old, so you should get one too,’” Mary chortled.

Stede pinched the bridge of his nose but didn’t try fighting his exasperated smile. “Tell her it has been duly noted, but I don’t think I’m ready for that quite yet.”

“It’s your life now, Stede,” Mary said gently. “You ought to find someone to share it with. Someone you actually picked, for a change.”

“I know.” Stede heaved a sigh. “Anyway. Nice to catch up. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Sorry again about the tickets. If I hear differently, I’ll let you know.”

“Ah, long shot anyway. Thanks for trying.”

Stede put his phone down when Mary disconnected and looked around his office and second library again. It had a similar look to the main library downstairs, warm reddish wood furnishings and deep blue and gold wallpaper in a peacock-feather pattern, and he had been terribly proud of it when he picked it out, of course. Now he wondered…what would a potential partner think of all this? What did the house say now about Stede Bonnet?

Foolish question. Stede wasn’t looking to bring home a partner. What Stede was looking for was tickets to a highly popular rock band, and being robbed of that, he had no further purpose for the day.

It was afternoon, and as the crew had told him, fishing was best done in the cool of morning or shade of evening; he’d just been out there this morning, but all the same, Stede had an itch to be back in his spot, his line cast, maybe a book in hand in lieu of other company. It sounded idyllic, really. So Stede went back to the mud room, grabbed his pole and tacklebox, shouldered a camp chair, left his waders, and set off for the pond again.

It was hot in a late summer way, dreadfully so, but in the shade Stede felt much better as he set up. The shade had, admittedly, moved directly under the trees, which was further from the shore than he was used to, but if he left his pole in one of the little holes Buttons liked to dig to set his own pole in, he could stay in sight of it and stay out of the sun quite easily. Stede found that lounging in his white linen suit with a paperback was incredibly relaxing, actually. Lucius had recommended the series, some doorstopper pirate romance novel that was, surprisingly enough, about two gay sailors from rival crews falling in love on the high seas, and it was utterly engrossing. So engrossing, he didn’t hear the car pulling up nearby, nor the sound of someone getting out of it, nor indeed even the heavy tromping of boots nearby.

“Think you’ve got a bite, there, mate.”

Stede flinched so hard he dropped his book, staring baffled up into the face of a stranger. Or what bit of it could be seen—he was tall, the stranger, with a voluminous iron-grey beard and long silver-streaked curly hair. His eyes were large and dark and currently sparkling with mirth as Stede collected himself. It became a more difficult task as he took in the cut-off black shirt and strip of tummy, the tattooed arms, the high-waisted leather pants, the heavy boots. Stede cleared his very dry throat.

“P-pardon?”

“Your fishing pole,” the stranger said, flicking his head in the pole’s direction. “Bending like crazy. Think you’ve got something.”

“Oh,” Stede breathed. Then the words caught up and he leapt from his chair. “Oh! I think you’re right!” As the stranger said, Stede’s pole was bending hard, and he scooped up the pole to begin reeling in his prize. His first catch! And he’d almost missed it!

“Slow down, mate, line’s gonna break if you keep fighting that hard,” the stranger said, and Stede followed the instruction. “That’s it, give it some slack…now reel it in some…bit more slack, there you go…”

It was a big one, whatever it was; it fought hard. Stede could feel the tension in his pole all the way through his back, the stranger’s warm and amused voice coaching him as he finally saw it. It looked like a catfish, and a decent-sized one at that. Oh, if only the crew was here to see this!

“I got it!” he cried. “I’ve—I’ve actually got it!”

“Last hard push, man, really give it your all,” the stranger urged, and Stede did, the creature fighting with all its strength and causing a palpable burn in Stede’s arms as he reeled it, splashing and writhing, to the shallows. Then it was in the air, dangling from Stede’s pole, and he gasped. It must’ve been a foot long at least, the largest thing he’d ever seen anyone in the crew catch!

“I can’t believe it,” Stede breathed, panting. “I really did it! I caught a fish!”

“Sure did,” the stranger said. Stede looked at him, and the stranger’s beard didn’t hide the smile. “Should get a picture of that.”

“Oh—yes! Would you please? My phone’s with my chair,” Stede indicated with his head, still rushing with adrenaline over a successful fishing venture at last.

“Nah, got mine. I’ll send ‘em to you,” the stranger said, shimmying a phone with a vaguely familiar logo printed on its case out of his pocket. A horned skeleton with a spear…he knew that, why did he know that? Victory was cooking his brain. “Say cheese.”

After a few photos, the stranger put his phone away. “So. What now?”

“Oh,” Stede said, looking at the gasping thing on the end of his line. “Well, I…suppose I throw him back.”

“Not gonna eat it?” the stranger asked. Stede looked at the fish. The fish, somehow, seemed to be looking back at him. Nausea grew in the pit of his stomach.

“Um,” Stede said faintly.

The stranger chuckled. “Guess that’s a no.” The stranger approached, reaching for the fish. He was wearing fingerless leather gloves, Stede noticed blankly as the stranger unhooked the fish as expertly as any of the crew had with their smaller catches. Cool people wore fingerless leather gloves. Stede knew that much.

“Do the honors?” the stranger asked, his hand gripping the fish’s lower jaw and holding it out to Stede. Stede put his pole down and carefully took the fish from him, trying not to make some sort of embarrassing noise when their fingers brushed, and replicated a move he’d seen Buttons do, tossing the fish into the water. It darted off with a series of splashes, and Stede’s legs wobbled suddenly.

“First time?” the stranger guessed, and suddenly his (lovely, inked, brown) arms were around Stede’s, helping to lower him to the ground. “Woah, there. You alright?”

“That was my first fish,” Stede said, one of his hands gripping the stranger’s wrist, and the silly smile that spread on Stede’s face couldn’t be stopped. “I can’t believe I actually caught one.”

“Congrats,” the stranger said, his free hand patting Stede on the back. “Ought to get these pics framed.” There was a moment of silence where Stede worked on getting his breathing under control and the stranger didn’t say anything, but he did clear his throat after a bit. “So. Uh. Who should I make these pictures out to?”

“Oh,” Stede gulped, and released the stranger’s arm. What was he thinking? The stranger settled on the grass next to Stede, pulling his phone back out. “Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry. Stede Bonnet.” He held out his hand. The stranger looked him over, then wiped off his hand—still wet from the fish—and shook Stede’s.

“Ed,” he replied. He passed Stede his phone. “Go ahead and put your number in.”

Stede did as requested, hearing his phone ping when the message was sent. He handed Ed’s phone back, catching another glimpse of the case, and finally it hit him.

“You’re a fan of Blackbeard?”

“A fan of—” Ed startled, then slumped, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. “Huh. Never thought about it like that. Suppose I am, to a degree. Used to be, anyway.”

“Strange choice of phone case if you weren’t,” Stede said, and Ed snorted.

“Nah, Izzy picked these out, thought they’d be a good revenue stream. Happens to be made pretty well so I kept it.” Ed leaned back on his hands, looking over the pond. “So. You fish here often?”

Stede giggled a bit. Never thought he’d hear a handsome man ask him that question before. Or an un-handsome man, come to think of it. Ed waggled his eyebrows, which set Stede off again.

“Yes,” he gasped around laughter. “Yeah, there’s a whole group of us. Bit of a rogue fishermen crew.”

“Rogue fishermen crew?” Ed raised his eyebrows. “That’s a thing?”

“It is when it’s illegal,” Stede said. “Well, sort of. I live in the neighborhood and residents technically can, I checked, but people who don’t live here aren’t supposed to. So it’s illegal enough.”

“Illegal fishing and it’s not done by major corporations, who’d have thought,” Ed huffed. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah.” Silence descended, but it wasn’t completely uncomfortable, actually.

“You live around here, you said?” Ed asked after a while.

“I do,” Stede nodded. “Can see my house from here—just there.”

“Double chimneys? Bit ostentatious, isn’t it?”

“My father was not a subdued sort of man,” Stede shrugged.

“Didn’t think anyone who lived in houses like these would be out here in the dirt with a fishing pole,” Ed said, “so already my entire worldview’s on its ear. On a yacht with nice cocktails, maybe. Not in a suburban pond.”

Stede laughed. “Usually we’re out here in the morning or later in the evening. Best times to fish, you see. Though the way you handled the fish earlier makes me think you already know that.”

“Do a bit of it myself, when I can get away,” Ed nodded. “Hardly ever any time when I’m on tour, though. Lucky if I can get a few minutes to myself just to grab some lunch and drive around a bit. See the locales.”

“I’d hardly call this neighborhood a locale,” Stede snorted.

“Nah, see, Mum used to take me for a drive when she needed me to go to sleep and I was too wound up, so we’d go driving through these big fancy neighborhoods with giant fancy houses like this,” Ed said. A shadow seemed to pass over his face, but it left as quickly as it came, and he smiled over at Stede. “Bit of a good memory for me, so I like to do that on all the stops, whenever I can get a minute.”

“That’s sweet,” Stede smiled. “I’m sorry your job keeps you so busy. What is it you do?”

Another look, one more incredulous, raised Ed’s eyebrows, and he quirked a smile. “Well, uh, bit more than a fan of Blackbeard, if you get my drift.”

Stede’s brow furrowed. “So…you work for Blackbeard?”

Ed snorted, grinned. “I am Blackbeard, mate.”

Stede stared. Then he clapped his hands over his mouth.

“You’re—you’re Ed Teach,” Stede squeaked. “Holy—you’re Edward Teach.”

“Appreciate you keeping it down,” Ed winked, which set off another round of hysterical giggles Stede couldn’t seem to stop.

“I’m sorry, it’s just,” Stede said, “I was just trying to find tickets to your show this weekend, for some of the guys in my fishing group.”

“What, none for you?” Ed asked. Stede wiped his eyes.

“Oh—well, I wouldn’t have minded, but they were really quite upset, poor things,” Stede sighed. “I’m sorry to say I’m not the most familiar with your discography.”

“Ah, not a metalhead, I see,” Ed said.

“I think my father would have disowned me if I had been,” Stede said, which drew another laugh from Ed.

“That’s the whole point, mate, sticking it to The Man, down with parents, rules are for squares,” Ed grinned, then grimaced and seemed to sink into himself. “Well. Used to be, anyway. Getting signed, getting famous—kinda kills the art of it, once you’ve been doing it for most of your life. Been thinking about packing it all in.”

“Suppose the magic wears off, once your joints start breaking down,” Stede said, and at that moment realized some of the straps on Ed’s leather pants looked remarkably similar to a knee brace. “Oh, I mean—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Nah, you’re not wrong,” Ed said, knocking his knuckles against the knee in question. “Tore this one up doing a stage dive and then getting kicked in a bar fight the same night. Lets me predict the weather, which is cool, but it’s a nasty trade-off to be doing shows every night and it’s swelled up so much I can’t get my pants off.”

“Yikes,” Stede said. “Suppose there’s no retirement for rock legends, is there?”

“Not when your bassist decided to become a tyrant of a band manager because the last one went to prison,” Ed grumped. “Won’t even let us try out new stuff, it’s always these nostalgia tours and singing the same songs over and over and over—I’m sick of it, man, bored out of my skull.”

Stede looked at Ed, who seemed smaller somehow, hunched, and reached for his fishing pole, still lying in the grass next to him.

“Well,” Stede said, “maybe you need to take a load off. Just for yourself, you know?”

Ed looked at Stede, then down at the pole, and a smile started to wind across his face.

“I find recreational law-breaking to be quite relaxing, myself,” Stede said, which brought the shine back into Ed’s eyes in a way that took Stede’s breath right from his lungs.

“You’re a lunatic, Stede Bonnet,” Ed said, accepting the fishing pole. “I think I like it.”

Stede dragged his chair closer to the shore and insisted Ed sit in it while he cast a few lines and the two of them continued to talk. Stede was surprised at how easy it was to talk to Ed, even knowing who he was—he laughed at Stede’s stories of the crew, he asked after Stede’s career path, he listened to Stede’s overenthusiasm for his home remodel. Nothing else found itself hooked on the line, but when Ed reeled it back in and passed it to Stede to break down, Stede was surprised to find that a couple of hours had passed.

“Reckon I need to hit the road before Izzy blows a gasket,” Ed said, levering himself out of the chair with a grunt.

“I suppose if you must,” Stede nodded. “Can I get you anything before you go? A drink, something to eat?”

Ed studied Stede for a moment.

“You said there’s ten of you? In your fishing group?” Ed asked, and Stede nodded. “Great. You’ve got my number, text me a list of their names and come to the backstage door tomorrow around eight, I’ll get your lot in.”

Stede’s jaw dropped. “Ed, that’s—are you sure? You needn’t put yourself out for us, really, we’re fine—”

“And miss out on a chance to meet pirate fishermen?” Ed grinned. “Not on your life, mate. Guy at the door’s named Fang, he’s security working for me. I’ll let him know what to be on the lookout for so he doesn’t flatten the lot of you on sight. Call it my thanks for a nice afternoon.”

“Well—thanks very much, Ed,” Stede stammered. “I’ll—I’ll let the crew know.”

“Great. See you then.” Ed winked at him again, then turned around and loped towards his car—a rather unassuming vehicle, if Stede was honest, but he supposed that was the point of a rockstar going incognito places. Stede sighed, clutching his fishing pole to his chest. Wow. Ed Teach. He couldn’t believe he just spent the afternoon with Ed Teach.

He had to call the guys.

.

“So let me get this straight,” Lucius said, “you spent a lovely afternoon with Edward Teach, star of legendary rock band Blackbeard, and not only did you not know who he was, but he helped you catch the biggest fish from the pond I’ve ever seen, and then he invited you and your entire group of friends to his show? Am I hearing you correctly?”

“That’s about the gist of it, yeah,” Stede said, and held his phone away from his ear as it exploded with sound, mostly shrieking, some demands for an explanation. He waited for it to subside, then brought the group call back within speaking distance. “So if anyone’s free to come with tomorrow night, it’s an open invitation!”

“Uh, is anyone not instantly free when a famous person personally invites you somewhere?” Pete demanded.

“Cap, have you been day drinking?” Jim asked. “Maybe smell burning toast?”

“I’m not drunk or having a stroke, thank you, Jim,” Stede sniffed. “I’m telling you, it happened!”

“Yeah, thing is, though, if we believe you and we go, and we get thrown out or arrested because you hallucinated this whole thing, I’m gonna be pissed, un poco,” Jim said, to general agreeing murmurs.

“And what if I’m not hallucinating and it did happen, and we go and have a nice time at a sold-out concert?” Stede asked, to stronger affirmative murmurs.

“The chances are fair either way, and either way, I’m in,” Roach said firmly. “Pete?”

“Totally. Frenchie?”

And around the group went, until Stede had gotten a yes from everyone but Jim and Lucius, who were both still making up their minds as to the stability of Stede’s sanity.

“Well, I’ll go, lord knows I can’t leave you idiots by yourselves,” Jim finally sighed.

“And I’ll be mad if this turns out to be real and I missed it, so guess I’m in, too,” Lucius said, which made Stede smile.

“Excellent,” he said. “Buttons, would you be willing to drive us all there?”

“Aye, cap’n,” Buttons agreed.

“Good! If I’m the last one picked up, then we should leave here by seven-thirty to account for traffic and parking,” Stede said. “This is going to be fun!”

“Unless it’s a disaster!” Roach said cheerfully.

“It won’t be a disaster,” Stede chided.

“Unless it’s absolutely a disaster,” Buttons countered.

“It won’t be!” Stede cried. “I’m hanging up now, I need to go pick out an outfit.”

“Twenty bucks says he’s calling me back to beg for advice within ten minutes,” Lucius said, at which point Stede ended the call, because rude.

And accurate, he sighed ten minutes later as his phone rang.

“That’ll be twenty dollars, boss, and whatever you do, white is not where you want to go with this,” Lucius said once he picked up.

“I’ll make a note of both,” Stede agreed. “Alright, suppose I go with the salmon waistcoat, should I match, do you think, or…”

.

The harrowing ordeal of picking an outfit done and the rest of his evening passed in hazy joy, Stede was just settling in to sleep when his phone pinged.

Ed: Hey Stede u up

Stede was approaching fifty, not fifteen, so he did not kick his legs or squeal or do anything of the sort. There may have been a small gasp of delight, possibly a wiggle of the feet, but that was all. Stede was an adult who happened to make friends with a superstar on par with Cher or Gene Simmons, nothing to freak out about at all. And he happened to be an absolutely lovely and down-to-earth person. Or closer to earth than Stede suspected most celebrities of that caliber were, anyway. He was getting off-track. Ed had sent him a text. Him! Stede! A text!

Stede: That I am! Did you make it back alright?

Ed: Yeah, totally fine. Rehearsals on a new stage can be fun. Lot more unexpected stuff can happen. Breaks up the monotony.

Stede: I know a thing or two about monotony. Are you excited for tomorrow?

Ed: Oh yeah, can’t wait to meet the rest of your motley crew. Wild characters on the high seas.

Stede: Well, I was talking about the show, but aforementioned motley crew is excited to watch you play! They thought I was senile when I broke the news.

Ed: Can’t blame them for disbelieving I guess. Oh btw Fang’s been informed. You lot are going to pass through the backstage area while the opening act is wrapping up and it’s first row from there, Fang’s good people and he’ll set you up.

Stede: Fab! Can’t wait to see my first real rock show!

Ed: Aw mate now I’m blushing. Your first metal concert and it’s to see little ole me. Shucks.

Stede: You’ve been millions of people’s first, I’m sure, the novelty has surely worn off by now on that account.

There was a long pause, during which Stede had plenty of time to notice his accidental Freudian slip, and so had Ed, judging by the way those infernal little dots kept bouncing and disappearing and reappearing. Stede’s breath was starting to stall out and he was drafting an apology when Ed’s next text finally arrived.

Ed: Wouldn’t say millions but probably a fair few. I’m a cheap date, what can I say :P

Ed: Nah in all seriousness now I get original fans in shirts from their first concerts back in like 89 bringing their grandkids to shows now, it’s kinda surreal. Nice to be circling back and nabbing some latent headbangers the first few albums missed.

Stede exhaled, biting his lips to stop from grinning quite so widely.

Stede: I did hear one song once, when I was a wayward business major studying instead of partying. It was magical.

Ed: Thanks mate. Too kind. It was Queen Anne, wasn’t it.

Stede: Afraid so. It was everywhere at the time. I’ll never forget how it made me feel, even for a few moments. Makes me wish I’d sought out your albums back then.

Ed: Can I tell you a secret?

Stede hesitated, but after a solid moment of lip-chewing gave in to temptation.

Stede: Of course, if you feel comfortable telling me one.

The three dots appeared again, and stayed up for a long time. Stede watched with bated breath. His ears were starting to ring with tension.

Ed: I have hated that song for twenty years. Can’t stand it anymore. Never want to perform it again. Then I did a little digging on your mate Frenchie’s Instagram cuz you said he was a musician and I’m nosy. Loved his acoustic cover of the song. Felt good. Made it new. Made me want to write again. First time in years I haven’t been bored stiff of myself.

Stede released a harsh exhale, hand traveling unbidden to his heart. He let it sit for a moment, then returned his hands to his keyboard.

Stede: I’m sure Frenchie would explode if you told him that. He’s very talented.

Stede: If you’ve been so bored, why haven’t you written more music that you want to write? Or quit the scene?

Ed: At some point in a meteoric rise to fame you don’t get retirement anymore, man. You’re a dancing monkey. People only want the classics, they just want what they know, they want BLACKBEARD. Too many artists made the mistake of trying out a solo career that just became a laughingstock. Nobody wants soulful guitar ballads by Ed. Yknow?

Ed: Or like. Tuvan throat singing by Ed. Musical water glasses by Ed. Xylophone by Ed, doesn’t matter, they just want the leather and the loud guitars and the screaming about an establishment our whole fanbase joined a long time ago. Nobody wants Ed.

Stede’s emphatic assertion to the contrary was on the tip of his fingers, but he instead stopped, took several deep breaths, and really thought about what he wanted to say before he typed it. Because nobody needed to read “Stede wants Ed”, that was a ridiculous sentiment. Obviously.

Stede: I think it’s nice to pay homage to where you came from, because it’s how you got your start, but if you wanted to branch out, I know there’s more of an audience for it than you’d think. Plenty of artists have had flourishing solo careers. Plenty of bands have changed direction or tried something new.

Ed: See that’s what I keep telling Izzy, but he’s the business guy, there’s no telling him something he doesn’t want to hear. Which was great when we were young, couple of scrappy punk kids breaking into the business, but like. Now he won’t let us leave. Just sick of it all.

Stede: I’m ever so sorry you feel that way, Ed. Take it from a man trapped in a loveless marriage for far too long: taking a step outside of what’s familiar is scary and you think you’re going to die half the time. But once you get that first taste of free air…nothing like it, my friend. I hope you find that.

This time, there were no floating dots to indicate that Ed was writing back, and no helpful little notification that Ed had even seen his message. Stede was getting ready to put his phone away when it pinged again, finally.

Ed: I hope so too. Thanks for listening. Nice to just get it all off my chest.

Ed: Anyway. Early start tomorrow, better go to sleep. See you.

Stede: Goodnight, Ed.

Ed: Night

Stede plugged his phone in and rolled over, intending on falling asleep quickly. It took rather longer than he thought it would, plagued with visions of twinkling dark eyes and clever fingers around a fishhook and a surprisingly warm and friendly voice.

“Get a hold of yourself, man,” Stede said to himself firmly, turning over. “You met him ten hours ago and he’s incredibly charismatic and famous, you are far too old to be getting crushes on handsome celebrities you will never see again after this weekend.”

It still took longer than Stede would ever admit to finally fall asleep.

.

The parking lot was packed solid by the time The Revenge finally made it to the community performing arts center.

“Good call to leave an hour earlier, Jim,” Stede commented. He was feeling very brash in his russet silk pants (tighter fit than usual, and Stede would very privately admit to admiring his backside in them, because he was trying his best to emulate a confident man and Lucius said dad bods were in; any hopes that certain bearded rockstars also thought the same would be summarily stuffed under the rug of Stede’s mind) and one of his ruffled shirts with black embroidery on the hems. Lucius had even wrestled eyeliner on him during the drive. The crew, too, all looked fantastic, ranging from grungy punk (Jim) to fully-closed fishing shirt and jeans (Buttons). Karl was away for this expedition, citing delicate avian eardrums, which made sense. In the front seat, Wee John was busy scanning for parking, which Stede was assured was a spooky gift of his.

“Alright, when we get to the door, let me do the talking,” Stede said. Lucius, who was fixing Pete’s face paint (which both he and Roach were sporting, with Wee John allowing a smear on half his face), rolled his eyes loudly.

“Yes, Dad, we know, everyone hold hands with their buddy so no one gets lost, don’t take candy or smokes from strangers, and if you decide to go home with someone, text the group with check-ins so we know you haven’t been murdered,” Lucius droned. Stede frowned.

“See, now I think you’re just patronizing me,” he pouted.

“Relax, cap, most of us have been to a show within the last decade,” Jim drawled, flipping around a butterfly knife uncomfortably close to Olu’s arm in Stede’s estimation, though Oluwande himself didn’t look bothered at all. “Thing we need to remember is to run in totally opposite directions if this is a trap and we gotta scatter.”

“It’s not a trap,” Stede said wearily. Wee John crowed and pointed, and Buttons mercilessly beat out a minivan for a spot wide enough to hold The Revenge, if not deep enough. The van shutting off sent Stede’s flighty heart up into his throat again, where it had been trying to lodge itself or else escape all day.

The majority of the crowd streaming in from the parking lot were making for the main entrance. The backstage entrance was on the east side, fortuitously close to where The Revenge had parked. Stede walked towards it, aiming for brisk yet casual, and the crew followed, chatter broken up by Pete and Roach singing fragments of Blackbeard songs and Frenchie humming along. No one stopped them as they entered the wide alley between the center and a parking garage, and standing at the lone door along the massive wall was a tall, broad man with a bald head and a beard and a studded belt wrapped around his head.

“Hello, there!” Stede called. “Fang, I presume?”

“You must be Stede,” Fang called back, turning to face the group as they approached. “Wow, Ed wasn’t kidding, there’s a lot of you. Are you all fisherman pirates?”

“That might be the nicest thing that anyone’s ever said to us,” Frenchie said.

“Indeed, we are,” Stede smiled. “Stede Bonnet. Ed said you’d be expecting us?”

“Yep,” Fang nodded, and reached inside his jacket. Several of the people behind Stede tensed, but relaxed when Fang pulled out a handful of what appeared to be passes on lanyards. “Pass these out quick as you can. Edward said he wanted ten backstage passes. These’ll get you your front row seats, and access to the green room after the show.” Fang winked as he handed them over to Stede. “He was very specific, Mr. Bonnet.”

Stede could feel his ears flushing, but he brusquely handed out the lanyards, ignoring the childish “ooh” noises several of the crew were making. “Come on, then, we don’t have all night,” Stede said, and put his on last. “Thank you ever so much, Fang.”

“My pleasure,” Fang grinned, and reached for the door. “Alright, everyone, stay together, keep your hands to yourself, and if you misbehave, I have the right to throw you in a dumpster for the night after breaking at least seven of your bones.”

“I like a little manhandling, myself,” Lucius said, and if Stede had to guess, he must have made some sort of lascivious face, going by how Fang’s cheeks went a little dark even as his smile grew.

The backstage of the performing arts center wasn’t much to write home about; Blackbeard was probably the highest-profile performer that the center had ever gotten. But there were posters from old musicals that Stede remembered wanting to attend, autographed walls from stand-up comedians and musicians over the years. The walls were close and hot as Fang led them through the labyrinth, and already Stede felt his pulse was being rearranged by the distant bass of the opening act, another band Stede didn’t know but wasn’t generating much gossip amongst the crew, either. Fang took them down a maintenance hall and out into the pit, already filled with people jumping and dancing to the ear-shattering music being produced by the band on stage. And how close it was! Stede hadn’t realized front-row meant he could rest his arms on the edge of the stage and potentially catch sweat from a head-banging guitarist gyrating around. He was glad now for the earplugs that Lucius had tucked into his pocket and withdrew them forthwith.

“Just head back to that door at the end of the show and I’ll come get you!” Fang shouted into Stede’s ear before the earplug went in, and Stede nodded and mouthed his thanks. Fang lumbered off, exchanging handshakes and back-pats with others in the crew as he went, and once Stede had his earplugs in, he turned to the rest of the crew, watching their excitement climb. He had to remember to thank Ed again, when this was all through. Even Buttons’ perpetually stone-faced expression was cracking on the edges.

The opening act—Stede thought they were called Charles Vane and the Rangers, unless the logo on the drum wasn’t theirs—finished up within a couple more songs, and the stage went dark and house lights went back up as techs swarmed the stage, dragging off the drum set and keyboard and setting something else up. Stede checked his phone—no new messages—and decided to send one off.

Stede: Good luck, Ed! You’ll be brilliant!

Stede put the phone away in his pocket, only to feel it vibrate immediately. He drew it out so fast he almost launched it out of his hand.

Ed: Thanks, man. Can’t wait to see you.

Stede’s ears probably could have shot steam, had they not been conveniently plugged up. That…that couldn’t mean what Stede thought it did. No, surely not. Just overly friendly Ed, that’s all. Might even have been a mistake, maybe something he meant to send to someone he had waiting on him back home, because surely he had someone, right? Someone should have snatched Ed up by now. No, Stede needed to stop reading into perfectly innocuous text messages from friends he had barely had for twenty-four hours.

His flustered internal monologue took him through the moment when the house lights went dark, and quiet settled on the previously-rambunctious crowd. Stede felt an arm loop through his, and looked over to Lucius, who was grinning at him bright-eyed.

“Hang on!” Lucius mouthed, and Stede didn’t understand what he meant until he felt a ripple of movement behind him, almost like an ocean wave, the moment smoke started to drift across the stage. When the smoke was thick enough, eerie green lights suddenly snapped on, illuminating an empty stage, and green and blue spotlights started roving the crowd. Stede, and the rest of the audience thousands strong, all held their breath.

Then: a powerful guitar chord, reverberating through the air. Just the one chord.

Stede felt the rolling, building voices of the crowd down to the soles of his feet.

The chord was followed by another. Then a progression of them, all played in a strange, stilted way. Lucius’ arm in Stede’s tightened.

On the stage, from beneath the mist, figures started to rise, and the progression played again, a little faster, and the audience screamed.

A single bright spotlight shone down on one of the figures, his back turned to the audience—dark silver-streaked hair pulled back in a half-bun, leather pants, a leather jacket with one sleeve missing, fingerless leather gloves pulling an iridescent blackish-green guitar into place. Ed held up one arm, the bare one, and Stede felt a push from the crowd behind him as bodies began to surge closer to the stage. Lucius’ grip on him felt important, in that moment, in keeping Stede anchored to reality. And also not crushed by the inevitable mosh pit that seemed intent on forming before the show had even properly begun.

Ed’s arm surged downward, and he began playing a series of notes that drew Stede up on his tiptoes with anticipation. The other figures onstage started to play along at last—a short intense bassist, a drummer with a half-shaved head and a moon tattoo on his scalp, another guitarist, a keyboardist—and the crowd swayed along, dull roar becoming decidedly less dull when Ed whipped around, a wild smile on his face, strands of hair like tendrils in the smoke and lights. He marched to the microphone and grabbed it close—and then his eyes darted down and fixated on Stede, whose breath vacated the building. Ed winked. Then he turned his dark, fierce glare out into the audience.

“Summon the Kraken,” Blackbeard growled into the microphone, and the show began in an explosion of sound.

.

Stede’s throat was sore. He was sweatier than he’d ever been in his life. He was pretty sure he’d almost broken a foot from getting caught in the mosh pit before Wee John fished him out. And his mind was absolutely, irrevocably blown from the show he’d just witnessed.

For all Ed’s talk of boredom, he poured so much animation into his performance, screaming out hit after hit to an audience that screamed the lyrics back. Stede couldn’t have remembered a single song from the set if he’d had a gun to his head, but he did remember Ed, incandescent and powerful under the lights, gleaming bronze skin and skillful fingers and tattoos that seemed to move as much as he did, brought to life by his exuberance. The leather jacket had gotten tossed off after two songs, and Stede didn’t blame him for that. His eyes darted once or twice to Ed’s knee, still mercifully braced up, but Ed didn’t move like it bothered him, even when he laid down and played his guitar with a series of pelvic thrusts that were going to take a while for Stede to not keep replaying every time he blinked. Ed was magnificent.

Somehow the crew managed to gather themselves at the door Fang had brought them through, though Stede might have floated there for all he knew. Pete and Roach’s face paint was running, Buttons’ shirt was open again, and if Lucius’ eyeliner was smeared then Stede knew his was done for, but it was worth it. Entirely worth it.

Fang collected them shortly, and Stede stumbled happily along with the group until Oluwande tapped his shoulder and indicated his ears. Stede then remembered his earplugs and took them out, surprised that despite them his ears were still ringing so hard.

“Alright there, cap’n?” Olu asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” Stede said, probably a bit too dreamily, because Oluwande was side-eying him still, but Stede thought he was allowed a little bit of dreaminess after a life-changing show like that.

“Just through here, guys,” Fang said, ushering them into the green room, which was surprisingly clean and well-stocked of snacks. “Help yourself to the nibbles, and Blackbeard should be ready to see you in a few.”

Stede would have stood swaying on the spot with a stupid smile on his face if someone hadn’t guided him by the shoulders and firmly sat him on the couch. Someone else shoved a water bottle in his hand, which he drained with no memory of having opened it in the first place. He was still terribly sweaty. It wasn’t all his own sweat, either—a good bit of it was from the mosh pit, but he knew, mixed in there, were a few precious drops of Ed’s, flung from his curls the livelier he got with the guitar.

Stede might need a brain transplant after this. The old one was clearly beyond repair.

A second bottle of water and a trail mix bag practically forced down his throat by Lucius had Stede’s capability of functioning back online, just in time for Ed to appear, looking like he’d tried to towel-dry his sweat-soaked hair and it had fluffed in retaliation. His stride was so confident he shut off all conversation in the room the second he walked in. Stede was on his feet before he realized what he was doing.

“Ed!” Stede chirped, and was probably the most surprised one in the room when Ed walked at him with open arms and hugged him, slapping his back and then stepping back to sling an arm around Stede’s shoulders.

“There he is,” Ed grinned, shaking Stede a little in his grip. “So! How was your first rock concert, Stede?”

“It was incredible,” Stede gasped. Why couldn’t he get enough air, all of a sudden? Ed’s arm around him felt white-hot, his side pressed along Stede’s a furnace. Someone cleared their throat, and Stede wrenched his brain back into some semblance of human working order. “Um—Ed, this is the crew. Crew, this is Ed.”

“So these are the guys, right?” Ed asked, and all at once it seemed like the room was full of noise—introductions, declarations of undying fanhood, compliments on the show, a flurry of activity that left Stede swaying on his feet without Ed’s arm and body to support him. Lucius very kindly led Stede back to his seat on the couch while Black Pete gushed about past concerts and how this one had blown every other show out of the water. Ed was gracious, shaking hands, patting shoulders, but all it took was one offhand comment about his knee to get a path cleared to the couch—next to Stede, Stede noticed with dim joy.

“Alright, enough about me,” Ed laughed as the crew settled around them. “Tell me about you lot—illegal fishing! How is that even a thing?”

“Posh knobs hoarding stocked waterways, mostly,” Frenchie said. Stede would have loved to follow the conversation after that, he really would have, but his adrenaline high was wearing down and it seemed he was crashing harder than expected.

He felt a hand on his arm, and jolted back to reality with a flinch; the hand lifted immediately, and Stede tuned back in to see Ed peering at his face, a frown crinkling the skin between his eyes.

“You alright, mate?” Ed asked softly.

“Big night, is all,” Stede croaked, and cleared his throat and tried to smile. “Right as rain with a little rest.”

The wrinkle between Ed’s brows relaxed a little. “Up past your bedtime, eh?”

“Well,” Stede huffed, “you don’t have to put it like that, you know.”

“Nah, I get it, aging sucks,” Ed sighed. “S’bit of a shame, was hoping you might want to go grab a bite. I’m starving.”

“I can cook something,” Roach immediately volunteered.

“Oh!” Stede lifted his head from where it was sagging against his hand. “Actually, that reminds me—we were planning on a little barbecue tomorrow afternoon. Would you want to come to that, Ed?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ed said, to immediate cheers. “What time—”

“Edward? You in here?” a hoarse voice interrupted from the doorway, and a man also wearing black leather and with sweat-slicked hair poked his head in—the bassist, Stede recalled, which meant this was the famed Izzy. Izzy’s face went from pinched to sour in an instant as he took in the room. “Not your usual groupie demographic, this.”

“Oh, piss off, Izzy,” Ed grumped, earning a few chuckles that seemed to go right to the tense set of Izzy’s shoulders. “You’re always telling me I should be networking.”

“Yeah, with industry professionals, not—whatever this is supposed to be,” Izzy sneered.

“I think you’ll find we’re friends here,” Stede found himself saying. Something about Izzy’s demeanor rubbed him in all the wrong ways. The feeling was quite mutual, if Izzy’s laser-focused gaze on Stede was any indication.

“Friends,” Izzy spat. “Right.” He turned his eyes to Ed in clear dismissal of Stede, who bristled quite without meaning to. “Anyway. If you’re done here, we have equipment to get squared away and a radio interview in the morning, so—”

“Yeah, alright, I’ll be along, gimme a few, would you?” Ed snapped. There was a moment of tense eye contact, then Izzy tsked and marched back out of the room, quivering like a bowstring. Stede released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Sorry ‘bout him,” Ed shrugged. “Been here since the beginning, band’s his whole life, you know how it goes. No outside hobbies and all.”

“A man needs his work and his life in balance,” Buttons intoned. “Else he breaks.”

“Huh,” Ed blinked, then turned to Stede. “Barbecue, you said? What time?”

“Oh—four, I think,” Stede stammered, caught a bit off guard by the eager look on Ed’s face. “And fishing after, but you have another show to do tomorrow, we wouldn’t want to keep you too late.”

“Eh, they can wait, not like they couldn’t get started without me,” Ed waved carelessly.

“I think the fans who paid for the tickets might disagree,” Stede frowned. Ed sighed, leaning his head back against the couch.

“Somehow that sounds worse coming from you than Izzy,” Ed groaned, then sat up. “Pond’s not far from here. Reckon I can hang out long enough to see some real pirate fishermen in action, aye?”

“Awesome,” Wee John whispered. Stede suddenly found himself on the receiving end of several pleading looks.

“Wh—Ed’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions and none of you need my permission,” Stede protested. When the looks didn’t abate, Stede sighed. “Oh, for—yes, of course you’re invited to fishing as well, Ed, so long as we aren’t interfering with your show. Does that work?”

“Works for me,” Black Pete said.

“Yeah, me too,” Ed nodded, to cheers from the crew.

They stayed and talked a little while longer, until Fang poked his head in.

“Izzy’s starting to get that thing where his eye won’t stop twitching, you’d better come along,” Fang said apologetically, and Ed stood, to general groans.

“Yeah, he’s probably right, sorry, all,” Ed shrugged. “But, uh, hey—thanks for coming tonight, and I’ll see you tomorrow?” The latter half of the sentence he directed towards Stede, whose throat decided to close up. Stede managed a smile and a nod, and Ed smiled back and wedged his thumbs in his belt loops. “Sweet. I’ll text you.”

“Bye,” Stede said as Ed walked towards the door, waving over his shoulder. Stede allowed himself one tiny dreamy sigh as the crew gathered itself up to follow Fang back out the backstage side door.

“Oh, he’ll text you, will he?” Lucius purred in Stede’s ear as they followed Fang out.

“Seems he will,” Stede said. “Or he might not. Busy guy, Ed.”

“Not too busy to drop everything and come to your backyard barbecue,” Lucius replied. “Y’know, I was skeptical, I don’t mind telling you, but seeing for myself, I think I get it.”

“Get what?”

“He’s lonely,” Lucius said, squeezing Stede’s arm, “and you attract lonely weirdos.”

“I hardly think that’s true,” Stede grumbled.

“Dunno, he seemed pretty attracted,” Lucius said mildly, then squawked when Stede elbowed his side. “What? Just calling it like I see it, you know me. He wasn’t the only one, either.”

Fang opened the door to the outside and the night air outside finally hit Stede’s face, and he had to hope that the streetlights were washing out the flush he knew was creeping back up his face.

“Don’t know what you mean, dear boy,” Stede said, and when Lucius opened his mouth, Stede barreled on. “Have we got the pre-barbecue checklist finished yet?”

Lucius shot him a sour look, but all he said was, “We can check it in the morning, boss.”

The drive to drop Stede off first was more subdued, the green room chat with Ed having expended the rest of the crew’s adrenaline-fueled energy reserves. Or maybe Stede was just zoning out too much to notice anything else around him. He dragged himself inside and took a cold shower, just to get the sweat off (bidding fond farewells to the particles of Ed sweat, wherever they were, and then stewing in mortified horror at himself for several moments), and by the time he crawled into bed, his body aching and brain mush, Stede saw he had another unread text from Ed.

Ed: Night, Stede. See you tomorrow?

Stede’s chest felt full of molten lava all over again, and he typed his response.

Stede: Goodnight, Ed. You were glorious. See you tomorrow.

Further embarrassment was for future Stede. Current Stede closed his scratchy eyes and let his tapioca brain rest.

Chapter Text

Stede’s entire body hurt the next morning, but it was nothing some Tylenol and light stretching couldn’t overcome. He had no new messages and was firmly not checking any text conversation that didn’t involve Lucius and barbecue planning.

He was just getting his tea made when there was a knock at the door. Stede frowned and checked the clock. He wasn’t expecting anyone until at least three o’clock, and it was barely half past ten. He set down his kettle and shuffled to the door, house shoes and robe and bedhead and all, and when Stede opened the door, he immediately yelped and slammed it closed again.

“Haven’t gotten that reaction since I was fifteen,” Ed chuckled through the door.

“Ed!” Stede cried, immediately running his hands through his hair to try and salvage it. Why, oh, why had he slept on it wet? “I didn’t—what are you doing here?”

“Bored,” Ed replied. “Let me in?”

“I—just a moment!” Stede yelped, and opened the door a crack. “Let yourself in, I’m just going to—I’ll be right back!”

Ed’s laughter followed Stede back up the stairs, where in a frenzy he tore through his closet. He hadn’t planned his outfit for the day yet, his teeth weren’t brushed, and he didn’t even want to look at his stupid hair, it was probably a total wreck. Stede’s poor heart thumped so hard he was half-convinced he was going into cardiac arrest as he scrambled into some lovely lilac slacks and a short-sleeved off-white button-up. The hair received the most vicious moussing of its life, going from “bird’s nest but built by blind birds” to “tousled, if one is generous”, which was apparently as good as it got. Swill some mouthwash, into some loafers, and back down the stairs to properly greet his guest. Stede had this.

His guest was not in the entryway, though the door was shut now. Stede peered around. “Ed?”

“Here,” Ed called from the library, just off the kitchen. Stede hurried to catch up, then needed a moment to catch his breath as he took Ed in, standing among the stacks with open curiosity. He was wearing the leather pants and jacket again, a stripe of tummy appearing between the two every other step. He should have looked utterly out of place, too cool and collected and dangerous for Stede’s stuffy fussy space, but…if Stede was allowed the thought…a very small part of him liked the juxtaposition.

“These all yours?” Ed asked, indicating the well-stocked shelves.

“Just my favorites,” Stede admitted, smiling at the incredulous snort that answered.

“Incredible,” Ed whispered, like he didn’t mean for Stede to hear. He turned around, then, and his eyes roved up and down Stede’s outfit, that shine in them brightening. “Sorry to just drop in, but. Like I said. Bored.”

“I was just making some tea,” Stede said. “Would you like a cup, and then I could give you the tour? Haven’t gotten to give anyone the grand tour yet.”

“Tea sounds great,” Ed agreed, and followed Stede to the kitchen, hopping up on one of the surprisingly comfortable bar stools lining his pale granite counter. Stede gathered an impromptu tea service on a platter and brought it over along with a couple of cups and a pot that didn’t match. Once upon a time he would never have been caught dead with a tea service not from the same set, but the mismatch was more charming to him now, the voice of his mother sighing over dreadful tacky presentations faded to nothing. Stede let Ed prepare his first and didn’t bat an eye at the seven sugar cubes that disappeared into Ed’s cup along with a splash of milk. He did have two children, after all, he liked to think nothing could surprise him after the gummy worm tea party Alma had once thrown. Ed glanced up at Stede as he sipped, almost as if expecting Stede to make a comment, and Stede was perfectly pleased to disappoint him—or, perhaps, please him in turn, if the way Ed’s shoulders seemed to relax when no comment was forthcoming meant anything.

“Great tea,” Ed said, taking another sip. “You said something about a tour?”

“Of course!” Stede beamed, balancing his tea on a saucer and standing up with both. “We’ll start in the foyer.”

“Foyer,” Ed repeated, exaggerating the French pronunciation Stede had used with amusement in every line of his face. “Right.”

“I’m a bit grateful to you for stopping by so early, actually, it’ll give me a chance to practice my tour-giving before the guys get here,” Stede beamed, perching by the front door.

“Lead on, captain,” Ed said, winking when Stede almost choked on his tea. Ah. Yes. He supposed that nickname would have come up last night. Somehow, he liked it most when Ed said it.

“Right. Yes. Um.” Stede cleared his throat and threw back his shoulders. “If you’ll notice the hardwood floors, these are actually imported Brazilian cherrywood, a durable wood and very attractive for internal use in ships, a motif I decided to carry through the entire house…”

On the whole, Stede was used to people’s eyes glazing over while he talked, and that was best-case scenario. His children had been different, for a time, but one could only entertain them with pirate stories and battling sea creatures for so long before they began to grow up. As Stede walked and talked Ed through his design process, showing off knickknacks he hadn’t the courage to display before and telling stories about mishaps during redecoration, Stede was astounded to find Ed’s eyes alert the whole time, following the motions of his gesturing teacup, asking relevant questions. Before long, the whole bottom floor had been shown but for one room.

“And this,” Stede said, “is a bit of a point of personal pride for me: the den.”

“Looks cozy,” Ed noted. “Open without feeling too exposed.”

“And intimate without being stifling,” Stede nodded. “I took some walls out, replaced the paneling…it, um. Was my father’s room. Before.”

“Hmm.” Ed looked from the handsome ceiling fan to the luxurious carpet to the enormous dark teal suede sectional surrounding a good-sized television set. “And what was the room like, before?”

“Dark,” Stede said, the word out before he could really think about it. “Claustrophobic, I think. I’m sure the room was to his comfort, he spent most of his time here, but…not very fond memories for me, I’m afraid. Mostly remember getting s-scolded here.”

“Scolded,” Ed said. Stede resisted the urge to bite his lip over his own vocal wobble and in the process accidentally met Ed’s eyes, Ed’s gaze intense and penetrating. Stede didn’t know what Ed saw, but it caused that divot to form between his brows, and he reached over and grabbed Stede’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Sorry to hear that, mate. Seems like redecorating and tearing out his old stuff was the right call, yeah?”

“Yes,” Stede said, and when Ed’s hand didn’t move, Stede smiled weakly, his own hand twitching towards Ed’s. “Yes, I—I quite agree. I don’t think it was very…healthy of me, to live with all these ghosts for so long.”

“Self-exorcism via interior decorating. Love that.” Ed’s beard twitched and his eyes twinkled. Stede smiled back. Ed took his hand back and fidgeted with his empty teacup. “Go on, then, mate, show me the upstairs.”

They took a brief moment to deposit their teacups back in the kitchen, and up the sweeping staircase they went, Stede pointing out various features of the living room below that could better be seen from a higher vantage point. He showed Ed the series of guest rooms, the closed doors of his children’s rooms, and was about to move on when Ed stopped before a particular room that was a bit of a sore spot, in Stede’s estimation: Mary’s old studio. It still looked more or less the same as she left it, if with newer floors, and Ed was staring around at it with a furrowed brow.

“This one doesn’t look like you,” he said.

“Ah—no. No, this was Mary’s. My ex-wife’s.” Stede stepped up beside him. “Her painting studio. And, um. Also where she…”

“Was bumping uglies with another guy,” Ed said. Stede winced, and Ed’s eyes went huge. “No. Mate, I’m so sorry, I was just joking—”

“Oh, please, no, don’t apologize,” Stede hurried, flapping his hand as if to wave away Ed’s concern. “No, in all honesty, it was the best thing that could have happened. Forced me to confront some things about myself and how I really felt about it, and in the end, I was more happy for her than I was upset about being cheated on. Was a relief, really. Heaven knows I wasn’t making her very happy, on any conceivable front.”

“Still, though,” Ed said. “Bit of a shock, yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Stede nodded. “But Doug is fantastic, really an amazing partner to her and a dad to the kids.” He fiddled with his fingers. “They…deserve him, really. They all do.” Stede huffed a laugh, dashing his hand across his alarmingly wet eyes. “I’m—sorry—”

“I dumped my guts about hating being in a famous band, think the least I can do is listen about your first marriage,” Ed said gently, and with Ed’s hand patting his back, Stede pulled himself together.

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. This was Mary’s room. I had no idea what to do with it, truth be told. Could have turned it into another guest room, but it just didn’t feel right.”

Ed walked into the room, turning and looking at the bare walls, and when he was in the center of it, he stomped his foot. The sound echoed a little off the hardwood floors and the lofty ceiling.

“Dunno, man, get some soundproofing and this wouldn’t be a half-bad recording studio,” Ed said. “Roomy enough for it. Good light. Nice view. Walking distance from a kitchen.”

Stede felt some part of himself go numb as Ed analyzed the space. Yes…it rather would look good kitted out with instruments and sound boards and whatever else a recording studio needed, wouldn’t it? Maybe a piano. Why a piano? Why not a piano? Pianos were for people with clever fingers, like Ed’s.

“Walls would need a completely new color, though,” Ed said, pulling Stede out of a vague fantasy involving a baby grand and a bowl of grapes.

“What would you suggest?”

“Black,” Ed grinned, which made Stede laugh.

“I will take it under advisement,” Stede smiled. “If we go down this hall, though, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

“Ooh, time to see the master suite?” Ed teased (or, for the sake of Stede’s blood pressure, he hoped Ed was just teasing).

“Not quite,” Stede smirked, and opened the door onto his second library.

“Another one?” Ed crowed.

“Well, I use this one as a study, too,” Stede said as Ed ran his hands over the chaise lounge by the fireplace. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Unless it involves nipple rings, absolutely,” Ed said. It was a testament to the quality of the time Stede had spent with Ed over the course of the past two days that he didn’t immediately implode, but rather shot Ed a mischievous grin and gently cranked a lever disguised as a figurine sporting a miniature of one of Stede’s favorite coats (long deceased, unfortunately). One of the bookshelves began to swing out on silent hinges.

“No,” Ed gasped. “No way.”

“Yes, way,” Stede beamed.

“You barking mad—you made secret passages? In your fancy rich people house?”

“What’s the point of a fancy rich people house if you can’t have secret passageways?” Stede asked, and led Ed into one of the passages to the thing he was most proud of when it came to his remodel. “The house was so bizarrely built anyway—designed by people with more money than sense, you know—so I thought, why not take some of these weird empty spaces, and make something of them? This one leads to my auxiliary wardrobe.”

“Right, because the one wasn’t enough,” Ed said, pure wonder in his voice as they turned a corner and Stede flicked on a light to showcase the sizeable walk-in closet, wedged in a strange crawl space between the study and Stede’s bedroom. “Mental. Completely mental.”

“Well, a gentleman does need to swap out his seasonals, you know,” Stede winked, running his hands over the winter jackets and autumn ascots. The far side of the closet hosted a vintage vanity table with glass bulbs wired into the light switch, and a decorative perfume bottle on the desk tipped forward to expose another hidden door. “This one leads to the master suite, if you—um—well, actually, it’s a bit of a mess, wasn’t expecting company this early and certainly not—there—”

“Don’t have to see it if you don’t want me to,” Ed said, his voice a bit strangled. He was still staring around him in awe. “Be honest with you, man, never thought I’d ever see anything like this. There’s not a secret passage to a basement sex dungeon, is there?”

“Of course not,” Stede scoffed. “My sex dungeon is in the attic.”

Stede had the distinct pleasure of seeing Ed be the one purple in the face and stammering this time, before catching on to Stede’s wide grin and laughing himself stupid. Stede found himself joining in, because if two grown men couldn’t giggle in a hidden closet, where could they?

“This is amazing, Stede,” Ed declared, settling himself on the vanity chair. “Look at you—life handed you a raw deal, and you turned it into a magic castle with secret passageways.”

“Well, I must be in good company,” Stede remarked, walking closer as Ed got the last of his chuckles out. “You’ve certainly built something extraordinary for yourself, too, Ed.”

Something in Ed seemed to catch, finally, his exhale putting a more serious look on his face. “You know,” he said, looking down at his hands and picking at his fingers, “I…worked pretty hard to hide where I came from, for a long time. I mean, people would ask, I’d give ‘em the spiel, ah, I’m just a kid from a rough part of town, working my way up to the top with the power of rock, the whole shebang. Was as easy as not opening up about it, for a while, then people started digging, and. Well. Wasn’t hard to find, but not like you want to see some voyeuristic tabloid schlock about your alcoholic deadbeat dad and your—your mum doing her best to provide for a punk snotnosed brat who couldn’t stay out of trouble for five minutes.” Ed looked over at Stede, eyes dry, but something heavy in them, something that settled on Stede’s shoulders with importance. “Mum had a thing she’d say, whenever we drove through these neighborhoods, trying to get my hyperactive brain to sleep. Used to say we just weren’t those kind of people who had big houses full of expensive things, never would be.”

Stede’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt as Ed gathered himself.

“Just sucks she died before she saw me make something of myself,” Ed said. “Had this dream of buying her a house like this one day, where Dad could never touch her and she could keep a flower garden he wouldn’t stomp on or throw at the wall. Then buy one myself, maybe. With forty kitchens and a waterslide down to an indoor pool. You know, practical stuff.”

Stede smiled, but didn’t take the derailment bait, instead cautiously reaching out to lay his hand on Ed’s where it was draped on the vanity. Ed didn’t flinch or pull away, so Stede let his hand rest more fully.

“My father destroyed my flower gardens, too,” Stede said gently. “If ever there were people deserving of big houses full of beautiful things, Ed, I think your mother was one. And. You are, too.”

Ed’s eyes got big and round, liquid dark and full of stars. Stede couldn’t look away from them if he tried.

“You’re a remarkable man, Edward Teach,” Stede murmured, squeezing Ed’s hand. “And your mother would be so proud of you.”

Ed chuffed, a little wet around the edges. “Don’t think Blackbeard would’ve been her scene, mate.”

“But if it made you happy, I’m sure she would have loved it,” Stede said. “If I’d ever done anything like that, my parents would have sent me to military school, I’m sure—they nearly did anyway.” Stede pulled his hand back, sighing as Ed finally broke eye contact. “I remember the first time I ever heard a Blackbeard song, thinking to myself how it would be if I was that brave and fearless, if I could just tell my father that I was doing things my way instead of his way…things might have turned out very differently.”

“Yeah,” Ed grunted, “but I guess we probably wouldn’t have met up, so. Might’ve been for the best, yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Stede nodded, “but if I could’ve been as confident as you back then—if I could’ve been Blackbeard, even just for a moment—”

Ed’s head shot up, and his eyes twinkled as a visible smile grew under his beard. Stede almost took a step back from the sheer impish energy.

“You wanna do something weird?”

.

If Stede Bonnet had been asked at any point in his life what he thought the strangest thing he would ever do would be, at no point in time would “swap clothes with internationally acclaimed musician Ed Teach in his secret hidden closet” have been on that particular bingo card. And yet here he was, sliding out of his slacks and shirt and resisting as hard as he could the temptation to look over his shoulder as a small platoon of leather clothing items landed in a pile beside him.

“Zips might be a bit fiddly, stuff’s older than my career,” Ed said. Stede held up the pants first. He’d worn some high-waisted things in his lifetime; he was born in the seventies, after all. Leather…was new. He almost expected the pants to be stiff and uncomfortable as he slid them on, but to his surprise, they were softer than he expected, well-worn. Bit tight, but he was stouter than Ed. At least he was able to get them closed. Next, the shirt—crop top, Stede recalled, black cotton worn to perfect thin softness from no doubt many, many performances. Lastly: the famed jacket, the signature of Blackbeard’s frontman, an emblem as iconic as the skeleton and spear logo that graced every album. Stede felt humble slipping his arms into the thing, then a little off-balance; asymmetrical sleeves were a novelty he hadn’t the pleasure of experiencing before. He tugged things into place, tweaked a zipper on the jacket here and there, and then eyed the boots.

“Are we the same shoe size?”

“Don’t think so,” Ed replied. “Yours feel a bit loose.”

“I imagine the boots are going to be a bit tight, then,” Stede sighed. He turned around, boots in hand, and tried not to get lost in the perfect picture of Ed in pastels—weird, certainly, but much like seeing Ed in his library earlier, a pleasing contrast. He did look particularly fetching in purple—perhaps a darker shade, next time. Not that there was going to be a next time. Surely. Stede cleared his throat. “Would it ruin the look, do you think, if we stuck to our own shoes?”

“Ah, it’s just for a bit, get ‘em on,” Ed grinned, finishing with tucking in the shirt. “Go on and have a seat, I’ll lace ‘em up for you.”

“O-oh.” Stede swallowed hard, then sat on the vanity chair. Ed perched at his feet, and it occurred to Stede that Ed’s brace was on Stede’s knee, where it wasn’t doing Ed any good. “Ed, your brace—”

“Wear a compression sleeve under the pants, I’m fine for a bit,” Ed grunted, unlacing the boots with those beautifully clever fingers of his. “Right foot first, gimme.”

There was something holy about Ed sliding the boots on around Stede’s feet, tightening them around his legs. The positioning was wrong for Stede’s poor overworked mind to get other ideas (though certainly the thoughts would be there later), but…something about the intimacy of it, he supposed. It reminded him of the few times he had succeeded in tending to Mary, mostly during her pregnancies. Her feet would swell up and he would quietly volunteer to spend time massaging lotion into her skin and trying to alleviate her pain. Having children had certainly done wonders for bringing them closer, though no amount of children on earth could make them fall in love when they were so fundamentally incompatible. The small tastes of intimacy that he’d enjoyed, however, often plagued him during the lonely nights, thinking he would never find that again. Here, in the tender silence of Ed tying the laces of his boots onto Stede’s feet, Stede felt something familiar blooming in his chest.

“There we are,” Ed said quietly, then looked up into Stede’s face. The moment hung between them, tremulous as a water droplet. Then Ed held out his hand. “Help me up?”

Stede wrapped his hand around Ed’s and did as bidden, leveraging Ed back onto his feet. The water droplet moment dripped, and Ed fluttered away, practically sashaying around in Stede’s clothes.

“Love this, whatever this is,” Ed commented, running his hands over the fabric of the pants, down his thighs and over his backside, which Stede wasn’t looking at, thanks. “What is it?”

“Oh—cotton satin, actually. All the luxury of a satin weave without the finickiness of silk,” Stede smiled. “I do love silk, mind, but…bit excessive for everyday wear.”

“A bit, maybe,” Ed snorted, his hands running up over his chest in his own personal mission to kill Stede, apparently. “No ruffles today?”

“Alas, no ruffles,” Stede sighed. “The fashion industry has yet to catch up to my tastes.”

“Criminal,” Ed tutted. “Well, come on, up with you, let me see.”

Stede stood and walked out into the open floor space, and Ed circled him, stroking his beard.

“What’s the verdict?” Stede asked. “Could I pass for a rock star?”

“In those pants, you can pass for anything you please,” Ed said, and whistled. “Man. Think it might be time to retire after all, the pants have clearly chosen a new host.”

“I hope I’m not stretching them out,” Stede said, resisting the urge to do as Ed had done and feel how the pants fit for himself. “I don’t imagine leather is very forgiving in that regard.”

“If anything you’d be doing me a favor, maybe I’ll get a breeze now and then with some extra room,” Ed chuckled, then slapped Stede’s back. “Come on, I’m starved. Let’s get lunch.”

“Ooh!” Stede smiled, leading the way back out the way they came. “I have a very good orange marmalade from a sweet lady at the farmer’s market, it’s absolutely to die for.”

“Love marmalade. You know I licked some off of David Bowie once?”

.

In the excitement of hosting Ed and playing dress-up, Stede completely forgot about Lucius.

That is, until around three in the afternoon, when Stede’s front door banged open and Lucius’ voice rang out. “Stede! Learn to pick up your phone once in a while, store was out of potato salad so I—what the—”

“Oh,” Stede said meekly as Lucius, apparently startled at the sight of Stede lounging in black leather and Ed sitting on the kitchen counter in lilac pants, dropped the bags he was holding and clutched his heart, breathing heavily. “Um. Hello, Lucius. Ever so sorry about that, been…um…busy?”

“Busy,” Lucius wheezed. “Right.” He bent over and started gathering the groceries again, shooting a look from under his lashes at the two of them. “Busy…doing what, exactly?”

“Oh, we thought up the best game,” Stede smiled as the groceries made it to the island. “If you could pick a different profession, what would you be?”

“I’d have to settle with one first,” Lucius said. “And this game involves you two swapping clothes?”

“Nah, that’s just for fun,” Ed rumbled. “Stede said competitive fisherman. For the game.”

“And Ed said restaurant chef that sells seafood,” Stede glowed. “We figured it would be a sound business model if I caught the fish and he cooked it. And we could get the rest of the crew in on it, too!”

“Call it Blackbeard’s Bar and Grill,” Ed added. “And other delicacies. And delights. And fishing equipment.”

“And a gift shop!”

“No, I told you, the gift shop’s a no-go, where’d I put it?”

“Out the back, obviously. So when you go and take people’s order, you can tell them, oh, enjoy your meal, and have you seen the gift shop?”

“Well, what would they say?”

“Oh, no thanks, I’ve just come for a nice meal. Snake snacks and such.”

“Well, that’s a problem now, isn’t it? Now they’re angry. They’re gonna leave a bad review. Yelp is gonna come take my business license away.”

“Well, that’s when some other bloke goes, oh, I like gifts, I’ll have a look.”

“That’s the guy I’m catering to, he’s the one I’m after. Who’s he?”

“That’s me,” Stede grinned smugly.

“Aww,” Ed groaned, eyes twinkling away. “Got me.”

“Well,” Lucius said delicately, “not to interrupt, but Stede, did you maybe want to check these food items?”

“Oh, right,” Stede said, walking to the island and sifting through the groceries Lucius had brought. Nothing too fancy, just standard barbecue fare—different cuts of meat for Roach to play with, some dips and chips, including— “Oh! Ed, you ought to try these, they’re fantastic!”

“Voodoo chips,” Ed read as Stede pulled the bag open. “What’s in ‘em?”

“I can’t even describe it, you’re just going to have to taste them,” Stede said, handing one over to Ed. He sniffed it, licked it, then popped the thing in his mouth. An errant crumb tumbled to the expanse of his beard, unnoticed by Ed, who immediately moaned in a way that very nearly drove thoughts of the crumb out of Stede’s notice, too.

“Aw, mate, that’s incredible,” Ed said, sticking his fingers in his mouth to lick off seasoning. “Like—like barbecue and salt and vinegar all mixed together, but better.”

“Aren’t they?” Stede smiled, then his eyes flicked back down to Ed’s beard. “Um—you’ve got a little bit—just in your beard there—” Ed’s fingers traveled, getting close, but not quite there. “No, up a little—to the left—here, let me—” And without much thinking about it, Stede reached out, and Ed leaned in, and Stede fished the chip fragment out of the beard—at which point, Ed ducked down and stole it from Stede’s fingers, effectively blue-screening his brain when Ed’s lips and tongue came into contact with Stede’s skin.

“Oh, this is really happening,” Lucius breathed, just loudly enough to return Stede to reality from where he had been busy swimming in Ed’s soft brown eyes.

“What?” Stede squeaked, just as Ed said, “What is?”

“The barbecue, obviously,” Lucius said in a much more brisk tone, but he was visibly fighting down a smile. “Well, if Blackbeard’s going to lounge around, might as well help move things to the fridge, right?”

“Sure, yeah,” Ed said, hopping off the counter. “Where do you want me?”

It took a surprising amount of force to banish Stede’s immediate thought of “on every conceivable surface,” but like a true hero, he just smiled and carried on like there wasn’t a butterfly garden in his chest.

The crew began to arrive soon after—Olu and Jim surprisingly first and bearing drinks, followed by Wee John, Pete, the Swede, and Frenchie carrying cookie trays. Roach and Buttons arrived together, Roach wearing an apron and a belt that held a concerning amount of knives, Buttons with Karl perched on his head. All of the crew had noticed Ed with no small amount of trepidation, but Ed’s jaw dropped when he saw Karl—and it occurred to Stede that Karl hadn’t been at the show, so Ed wouldn’t have known.

“You’ve got a bird guy,” Ed said, looking like all his birthdays had come at once. “You never mentioned Buttons was a bird guy!”

“Karl conveys his warm regards, Blackbeard,” Buttons intoned.

“And Karl’s the bird?”

“Karl’s the bird.”

“Wild.” Ed stroked his beard. “I’ve gotta tell Izzy, we should totally have a bird guy for a show.”

“Birds are majestic but delicate creatures. I hope if ye employ any ye’d treat them with respect and care,” Buttons said, a hint of danger to his voice. Stede kept an eye on Ed, but Ed just nodded.

“Absolutely right, man, gotta be careful with live animals.”

“And preferably not bite their wee heads off onstage.”

“Bite their—nah, man, that kind of thing was never my vibe,” Ed said, and Stede relaxed along with Buttons’ shoulders and went back to helping Black Pete gather firewood for Wee John to start up the fire pit outside.

“What exactly is…happening, here? With the…” Black Pete indicated Stede’s attire, and Stede realized he and Ed hadn’t swapped clothes back yet.

“Oh! Um. Well. Ed came over a little early, and we…I don’t know, it seemed like a lark,” Stede said, feeling his face getting hot despite his wishes.

“Can I wear it? Since he let you wear it?” Black Pete said, reaching for the sleeve of the jacket.

“Hands off,” Ed barked, causing both Pete and Stede to flinch. Then Ed laughed. “I’m kidding. You can touch.”

“Amazing,” Black Pete whispered as he immediately ran his fingers over the sleeve. Then the Swede wanted a turn, and before Stede knew it, the whole crew, minus Roach, was lining up to touch Ed’s jacket.

“Bring it to me! I’m making meat magic in here!” Roach called from the kitchen. Intent on not leaving anyone out, Stede did as bidden, and when he came back, he walked up to Ed, who was overseeing the minor pyromania unfolding in Stede’s backyard with interest.

“Should we…ought we to swap back, do you think?” Stede asked. Ed shrugged.

“I’m comfortable. Got a while before I need to head to the show. Why rush it?”

“Sure,” Stede agreed, and that seemed to be the end of that.

The barbecue turned out amazing, in Stede’s estimation—his guests all seemed happy, he managed to show off bits of the house to them, and when the leather jacket got too hot, Ed supervised the passing of the jacket around the group as everyone got a turn trying it on; when Jim shrugged it on, they fixed Ed with a glare that Ed returned.

“I could run away with this. You’d never see it again,” they said.

“I would hunt you to the ends of the earth,” Ed vowed, voice dark and stormy as his eyes. Jim’s eyes glittered. Stede wasn’t sure if he should intervene or not, looking to Oluwande, who flashed Stede a smile and then nudged Jim’s bare arm.

“Not quite your style, mi amor.”

Jim deflated, then shrugged the jacket off. “Fine. Spoilsport.”

“I like you just fine like this,” Olu said, his smile widening when Jim ducked their head against his shoulder and grumbled at him in Spanish. Stede retrieved the jacket and folded it over his arm.

“I’m going to set this in the mud room,” he told Ed. “It’ll be ready for you when you want to change.”

“Cheers,” Ed nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Stede took the jacket to the mud room off the foyer to hang up, and while in there, he went ahead and grabbed his tacklebox and pole. It would be fishing time soon, once everyone finished eating.

The migration from Stede’s backyard to the pond was a leisurely one, the stories inevitably turning to that sacred fisherman’s pastime of telling whoppers about fish they’d caught.

“I’m telling you, it was a sturgeon, and it was a monster,” Black Pete, reigning champion of whoppers, insisted. “Taller than me, bigger around than me—it was a real man versus nature showdown.”

“Whatever, man, it was probably a carp,” Roach scoffed.

“You wouldn’t know a carp if it bit you on the—”

“I ever tell you lot about the time I fished up the Kraken?” Ed said, which, to his credit, did immediately silence the squabble that always followed a Black Pete fishing story.

“The Kraken’s not real, though,” the Swede said politely.

“Oh, it’s real, alright,” Ed said, voice going dark and smooth again. He was sitting in Stede’s camp chair, leaning forward with his arm on his knee, eyes glittering, and Stede felt more than saw the crew lean in as well. “Not just a bit I do for audiences. No, the real Kraken, I saw as a lad, just a young waif with a plastic pole and more dreams than sense, night fishing off a pier. Ahead of me, I see an old fisherman, stumbling drunk and half-tangled in his line.”

Stede felt his grip on his own pole slackening, but under the power of Ed’s voice, he found he didn’t much care.

“Then,” Ed continued, “I see something, stirring in the brine, massive and slimy, tentacles as big around as a man’s waist. I tried to call out to the fisherman, cast my line, but it was too late—the creature had him, flinging him this way and that, wringing him out like a wet bar rag.” Ed wrenched his hands in time with his words, and a collective gasp rose from the crowd. “Then it dragged him to the depths, but not before catching a tentacle on my fishhook. I tell you, lads, it would have dragged me down, too, if I were made of weaker stuff—I fought the beast, reeled him in with all my might, and just when it seemed we’d be deadlocked forever, the Kraken’s tentacle popped right off, and away it swam, leaving me with a piece of itself but taking its prize down to the Locker below.

“And that poor wretch,” Ed said, eyes drifting a bit but not losing intensity, “that was my dad.”

“Bruh,” Oluwande whispered, hushed. The rest of the crew exchanged similar murmurs, nodding to themselves.

“Well, good news is, dear old dad was a dick,” Ed said, seeming to come back to himself and smiling in a more familiar way. Stede released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“What happened to the tentacle?” Black Pete asked.

“Ah, cooked it up and ate it for dinner,” Ed shrugged. “Calamari, you know. Good stuff.”

“Best fried,” Roach nodded.

“With Szechuan sauce,” Wee John said, and the conversation turned to best ways to eat squid. Stede firmed up his grip on his pole again, sneaking glances at Ed, whose gaze remained faraway as the attention shifted off of him. Stede turned back to the water, thinking. Ed had mentioned his dad, earlier, but not what had happened to him. Stede wondered if Ed’s Kraken story had any truth to it, or if it was more a story Ed told to himself because it was what he needed to hear. It seemed far too personal to ask, particularly in present company.

Frenchie cracked his guitar out, and after a few shanties, Stede was very surprised to hear Ed say, “Mind if I borrow that for a bit?”

“Borrow—absolutely, Mr. Teach, sir, you can have it if you want, I can save up for another,” Frenchie babbled, passing over his sticker-covered acoustic, and Ed laughed, setting it in his lap.

“Wouldn’t deprive you, mate, just kinda miss this,” Ed said, acquainting his fingers with the strings and playing a few experimental chords. “Mind if I mess with the tuning a bit?”

“Whatever you want, man,” Frenchie said, and Ed grunted, turning pegs and playing notes until he apparently had it where he wanted it. Stede gave up all pretenses of trying to fish and reeled his line back in, setting his pole down and turning to watch as Ed plucked at Frenchie’s guitar.

“Been a while since I did this without a pick,” Ed said. “Reckon I still got it, though.” With no further ado, Ed started playing, and Stede knew by the looks on the other’s faces that this wasn’t a familiar tune. His heart thrilled in his chest. Was…was Ed playing something new?

After an introduction more quiet than hesitant, Ed started singing—not the raw scream of his stage voice, but a very nice timbre, if a bit quavering, as if he hadn’t sung that way in a while. The lyrics were a bit rough, and the whole piece was small, but as Ed sang the last note, wobbling on it, Stede took a moment to really take Ed in—the wild hair and beard at odds with his flashy suburban dad clothes, acoustic guitar in hand, expressive eyes half-lidded and soft and vulnerable.

Someone started clapping, and Stede was startled to realize it was himself.

The rest of the crew joined in, and Ed’s uncertainty melted into bashfulness, ducking his head a bit but clearly grinning.

“That was…different,” Jim said.

“In a good way! It was—visceral!” Roach scrambled.

“Super visceral!” Black Pete nodded.

“A bit of a lyrical tune-up and I think you’ll really have something there,” Lucius nodded.

“Thanks,” Ed said, handing Frenchie back his guitar. “Bit hard to put yourself out there and try something new.”

“I’d buy a whole album of that,” Black Pete said immediately.

“Moody guitar ballads? Sign me up,” Wee John beamed.

“Told you,” Stede said, and Ed’s head jerked up to look at him. Stede smiled. “People love you. No matter what you choose to do, you’re brilliant at it.”

Ed huffed, blinked a bit, then furrowed his brow. “What time is it?”

“Nearly seven,” Buttons answered. Ed swore, heaving himself up out the chair.

“Gotta go get changed and get to the show, unless I want Izzy to burst an ulcer,” Ed groaned, then frowned. “Do ulcers burst?”

“Not sure. Think they’re more like canker sores,” Stede said, walking along with him back to the house. “You know, start off as little fluid blisters sometimes, then turn into craters that hurt like hell.”

“Are they? Maybe I’m getting ulcers mixed up with cysts, then.”

The idle medical chit-chat took them back to the house, where, in the privacy of the mud room, Stede and Ed stripped down again, swapping clothes back. This time, Stede did allow himself a little peek—those tattoos really did go everywhere, he noticed, turning an already-attractive man into a beautiful brown canvas. Stede hurriedly got his own clothes back on and turned around just in time to notice something red and slithery plopping to the ground as Ed picked up his jacket.

“Oh—hang on, just a—just a thing,” Ed babbled, snatching it up, and Stede would know the texture of that kind of fabric anywhere.

“That’s a fine bit of silk,” Stede said, and Ed froze, like he’d been caught. He forced a laugh.

“What, this tatty old thing?” he said, not looking up at Stede. Stede was getting that feeling again—that water droplet feeling, a precarious moment trembling and on the verge of dropping.

“Well, sometimes the old things are the best things,” Stede said gently. “May I?”

Ed’s hands stopped fidgeting with the cloth, which Stede took as permission, and further solidified that impression when Ed didn’t fight Stede sliding the silk from his fingers. He folded the silk—which was indeed tatty and old, stained in places, but overall a quality piece—into a simple pocket square, then stepped forward to gently slide open the zipper of the breast pocket of the jacket. Ed’s breath caught in his throat, so quietly Stede wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t so close, and Stede tucked the silk into the pocket, careful not to snag on the zipper teeth.

“There,” Stede murmured, stepping back as Ed ducked his head to get a look at the effect. “You wear fine things well.”

Ed’s head snapped up, his eyes sparkling and huge. Stede couldn’t have helped his smile even if he wanted to. The moment quivered.

Ed took a step forward.

Stede opened his mouth.

A phone rang.

The moment dripped away as Stede fumbled for his phone—because it was his, it was ringing with the specialized ringtone Lucius had somehow set for him, and Lucius never called when he could text.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, I—should get this,” Stede babbled, his heart somewhere in his throat. Ed’s expression dimmed and he nodded, stepping back as Stede swiped his phone screen to answer the call.

“You’d better get down here,” Lucius said before Stede could speak. “We’re about to have a situation on our hands.”

“I’ll be right there,” Stede nodded. Lucius hung up, and Stede frowned.

“Everything alright?” Ed asked, voice a bit gruff.

“I don’t know,” Stede said. “I suppose you should go, you have your show to do—”

“Nah, wanted to say bye properly first,” Ed said, moving for the door. “Let’s go.”

The situation Lucius foretold was painfully easy to see once they got in view of the lake—one of Stede’s neighbors was gesturing at the guys, her phone in hand, and Stede could tell from the way his crew was tensed that this was about to turn into a full Meltdown Mode if he didn’t intervene. He heard Ed inhale next to him, and put his hand on Ed’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“Let me deal with this,” Stede said, and Ed grunted but nodded. As they got closer, Stede saw which neighbor it was, and grimaced.

“Eugenia,” Stede called, and Eugenia whipped around, her bob barely moving for all the product in it. “I see you’ve met my friends.”

“They aren’t allowed to fish here,” Eugenia sniffed. “They aren’t residents.”

“Ah, but they’re guests of mine, and I say they can,” Stede said. Eugenia’s glare darkened, and Stede braced himself.

“The HOA rules clearly state—”

“I’m a resident of this neighborhood, I have every right to invite whom I please to share in our community pond,” Stede said. “Section four, subheading three. If you check, you’ll see I’m right.”

Eugenia sniffed, folding her arms, her shoulders going back, a posture Stede knew well as the universal prissy signal for about to throw down a trump card. “Well, we’ll have to see about changing that at the next HOA board meeting, won’t we?”

“Of course, you absolutely could,” Stede agreed, which had Eugenia blinking, “but,” and he did some shoulder-wiggling of his own, “I do have to wonder what the HOA would think if the next community newsletter happened to feature what exactly you and Sebastian get up to when he’s supposedly trimming your hedges while your husband is at work.” The blood rushed from Eugenia’s face, and behind her, the low chorus of “ooh!” was unmistakable. Stede smiled benignly.

“You—you—that’s preposterous!” Eugenia blustered, but her trembling lip signaled to Stede that he’d won. Her eyes flicked to Ed, then did a double-take. Stede’s gut swooped like he’d missed a stair. “Oh my—is that—?”

Stede stepped forward, blocking Ed from view, and Eugenia shrank.

“You’re going to walk away now and not say a word about this,” Stede said in a low voice, “or the next thing I’ll do will be dropping a bug in your husband’s ear about how astonishing it is Daphne should be a blonde when clearly neither of her parents are. Quite a striking shade, only ever seen it on Sebastian before.”

Eugenia’s eyes bulged, and without another word she power-walked away, retreating towards her own house. Stede sighed in a rush as Ed put a hand on his shoulder and the crew surrounded him.

“That was incredible,” Ed said as Stede felt himself becoming the recipient of many back-slaps and cheers.

“Oh, just your run-of-the-mill suburban passive aggression,” Stede smiled back.

“Massive aggression, more like,” Ed said, and Stede wasn’t mistaking it now, Ed’s eyes were flicking over his face, specifically down and then back up to Stede’s eyes. “You didn’t have to do that. Scare her off from me.”

“I know,” Stede said, “but I wanted to. You don’t deserve harassment like that.”

For the second time in what felt like barely ten minutes, Ed swayed into Stede, but, mindful of the nine other people surrounding them, stepped back instead. Stede wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or…no, definitely disappointed.

“Go,” Stede said. “Your show.”

“I know,” Ed grumped, then cleared his throat. “Oi! Thanks for the party, you lot, I’m off!”

“Before you go—can you sign my guitar?” Frenchie asked, and Ed graciously took the sharpie being shoved at him and signed everything the crew put in front of him, until Stede had to insist that they really had to let Ed go now, or he was going to be late.

“Later,” Ed said, looking at Stede as he did.

“Bye,” Stede said back, and Ed turned back towards Stede’s house, where his car was parked. Stede sighed to himself. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“That was really amazing, what you did back there,” Lucius said, and Stede blinked. “Are you going to see him again?”

“See—he’s a busy man, Lucius, I don’t imagine any of us will be seeing him again,” Stede said, turning back to the shore. “And I’d do far more with far less provocation for this crew, I hope you all know that.”

“Yeah, that was brutal,” Wee John said happily. “Never seen a Karen on the warpath scarper like that.”

“Well, some people ought to learn to mind their own business,” Stede sniffed, picking up his pole and settling into his chair. “Because some of us work from home, and some of us listen to the gossip from the maid service and the landscaping company the whole neighborhood is required to use, and some of us like to treat these workers like people and hear what they have to say.”

“Folks like that do see everything,” Frenchie nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff I used to hear when I was doing pest control.”

“I can imagine,” Stede smiled, and let the taste of victory on a warm summer night distract him from the dull ache starting in the center of his heart.

.

Stede tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. Well, not entirely true, his bed was supernaturally cozy, but his mind wouldn’t settle.

Lucius had shot him another one of his penetrating looks before leaving with Black Pete, and Stede wasn’t thinking about it, because there was nothing to think of. Ed had a show tonight, and had to be on the road tomorrow on to the next one, and the next. He was on tour. He had obligations.

And really, Stede scoffed, it would be presumptuous to imagine that Ed saw Stede as anything other than a distraction—an amusement on the road, like the world’s biggest hay bale or a junkyard museum or something. Fun for an afternoon, but soon passing into the annals of memory, something fond to examine but not revisit. Stede Bonnet was not an attraction one came back to; he was too particular, too odd. A handful at best, a monster at worst. He wanted too much, he was too needy, he didn’t know how to properly care for other people without making their problems about him. All stuff he’d either heard before or had learned about himself the hard way. And Ed…Ed had his career to think of, his image. What he truly wanted to do if Blackbeard had run its course in Ed’s life. He didn’t need Stede around muddling things up. He was much too talented and full of life to have an odd little man like Stede around. Stede’s life ambition was to be a fisherman, for goodness’ sake—and he hadn’t even managed that until he was middle-aged! Pathetic, was what it was. Silly little Baby Bonnet with his daydreams and his ludicrous ideas of what fun was supposed to be. Stede hadn’t been called Baby Bonnet since he walked away from his father’s company, months ago now, but it still stung more than it should. Stede should grow up and get over it already.

He turned one way. Then he turned the other way. Then he huffed, threw back his covers, and went downstairs to make himself some tea.

The thing was, Stede winced as he walked through his house, the thing was, was that now that he’d taken Ed through every room in the place, every room now had a memory of Ed in it that jumped out at him, like one of those VH1 specials about musical eras Stede had technically been alive for but never listened to, with pop-up facts about the song or the band playing. Going down the stairs—pop! Ed wondering if he could slide down the banister and Stede dissuading him while laughing too hard to talk properly. Going into the kitchen—pop! Ed running his thumb over the quartz inclusions in the granite and asking what the shiny rock bits were all about. Making tea—pop! Ed took his with a dollop of milk and seven sugars.

Stede sighed. It had been a truly madcap couple of days.

He finished his tea, went back up to his room, and checked his phone. Message from Lucius reminding him that emotional support was a service he provided for free, notification from his phone that it would finish charging sometime around four AM…missed call from Ed, five minutes ago.

Stede swallowed around the lump in his throat.

Then he turned his phone face-down, rolled over, and tried to go to sleep. Needless to say, he was unsuccessful on that front.

Chapter Text

Ed called him again the next morning. Then again in the afternoon. Finally, he texted.

Ed: You fall in the pond after I left, mate? Need a rescue? One fish emoji for yes, two for no

Stede snorted. He bit his lip. He lifted his fingers to the keys.

His hands trembled.

Ed: Road’s so boring and Izzy won’t stop playing his depressing movie scores on the bus speakers. What are you up to today? Save me from this.

Stede’s hands shook.

Ed: Alright, guess you’re busy. Call me? We’ll be driving through the night, show tomorrow’s in a venue we’ve played before so they won’t need me for rehearsals.

A rather large water drop landed on Stede’s phone screen. Then another. Then another.

Ed: Miss you

The phone clattered to the counter. Stede buried his head in his arms and sobbed.

.

Ed’s texts and calls petered out after a few days. Stede was fine with it. Really, he was. It was for the best. They barely knew each other; they had no reason to keep in touch. They hardly had anything in common.

Stede showed up to fishing as normal, waders and all, and pretended not to notice that he was getting stares.

“So,” Lucius drawled, “how’s Ed?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Stede said calmly, and he was calm. He was cool as a cucumber. Placid as the pond.

“Haven’t you two been…texting, or something?” Frenchie asked.

“We exchanged a few messages, yes,” Stede agreed. “When it was necessary.”

“What about when it wasn’t necessary?” the Swede asked. “Just for fun?”

Stede’s lip didn’t tremble, because there was nothing for it to tremble about. He hadn’t heard from Ed in—weeks, now, actually, it had been two weeks. Entering into the third.

“Can’t imagine why we would,” Stede replied. “He’s a busy man. He has his career to think of. Shows to perform. The whole…thing. That he does.”

There was further silence.

“So…he never texted you back?” Lucius asked, and his voice was unbearably kind, and of all the stupid things, that was what got to Stede, in the end.

“He—might have,” Stede said, rather less steadily than he meant to.

“Might have?” Lucius asked, and it sounded like he was actually sitting up in his chair now. Stede refused to turn around and look, at him or anyone else. “You mean he did actually get in touch?”

Stede didn’t answer. Instead, he began reeling in his rod.

“Think I’m done, actually,” Stede announced, not bothering to break down his rod or do more with his tacklebox than flip the lid closed and hoist it under his arm.

“Cap’n, it’s barely been thirty minutes, where’re you—”

“Remembered some pressing engagements!” Stede said, a bit too loudly.

“You’re forgetting your chair,” Buttons called.

“Keep it!”

With that, Stede marched back to his house, dropped his stuff on the ground, and burst into tears all over again. Well. He could probably count those friendships as ruined, too.

.

When Stede was sad—which seemed an inadequate word for what he was going through, because catastrophic meltdown felt more appropriate, or apocalyptically depressed—he drank gin. He shouldn’t have kept it in the house, really, because when he drank gin, he called—

“Mary,” he slurred into his phone.

“Oh, no,” Mary sighed. Stede’s face crumpled.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, not oh no you, just—gin again?”

Stede processed the question, looked at the bottle in his hand, and hiccupped. “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Mary sighed, and sounded like she was moving, getting up and walking somewhere else. “Alright. Why are we gin drinking at two in the afternoon?”

Stede shrugged, then remembered she probably couldn’t see that. Phone and all. “I ‘unno,” he mumbled. “Just am.”

“You hate gin, because it was your dad’s favorite,” Mary said bluntly. “And you only drink it when you’re sad, and when you’re gin-drunk and sad, you call me, because for reasons unfathomable to me, you connect your sadness with me being able to fix it.”

“M’ making you do the ‘motional labor thingy again, aren’t I.”

“Yes,” Mary said, not unkindly, “but it’s much easier to deal with once in a while like this, and luckily for you I’m feeling charitable. So. Spill it. Why are you gin levels of sad and calling your ex-wife?”

Stede’s breath hitched, and then the whole thing came pouring out of him—Ed, and the strange heat that simmered in Stede’s belly whenever he thought about Ed, and the texting and the swapping of clothes and the vulnerable guitar song, and the not answering his phone and then avoiding his fishing group. When he was done, he was tear-soggy and had a sore throat again, and Mary sat in complete silence on the other end of the line.

“Let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You met Ed Teach. From Blackbeard. As in, Blackbeard.”

Stede honked as he blew his nose miserably. “Mm-hmm.”

“Not only did you meet Ed Teach from Blackbeard, but you flirted with Ed Teach from Blackbeard. And Ed Teach from Blackbeard flirted back. Hard.”

“Wasn’t flirting,” Stede said weakly.

“He agreed to let you and your friends into a sold-out show the day before it happened, he showed up at your house, spent all day with you, swapped clothes with you, and played a game with you where you two built a career together. He was flirting, Stede.”

“But—”

“Was there eye contact? Like, weird amounts of eye contact?”

“He’s forthright,” Stede protested.

“With everyone? Or just you?”

Stede squinted and thought back to Ed interacting with Stede’s friends.

“Um.”

“That’s what I thought.” Mary sighed. “So this very talented, very attractive man flirts with you, then tries to keep in contact with you, and you ghost him, and then leave your friends when they try to ask what’s wrong.”

“Yeah,” Stede mumbled. “Yeah, I—I did do that.”

“Why?”

Stede sniffed. Mary sighed.

“Stede?”

“Mm?”

“Call Lucius.”

“I can’t call Lucius. Lucius hates me.”

“I promise you, he doesn’t,” Mary said. “And I know this because Lucius has been texting me for days, trying to find out if you’re okay. Really, I should have seen this phone call coming, but I figured you were stuck in a book and would get back to him when you could.”

“M’ a terrible person,” Stede mumbled.

“You’re not a terrible person,” Mary replied. “You’re a flawed person. Like the rest of us. And it’s okay, you know? There’s not some worse version of yourself waiting to come out. I’ve seen you at your worst. You’re really not that bad.”

Stede huffed, not sure he believed her, but ready to be soothed a little. “Mary?”

“Yeah?”

“How’d you know? With Doug?”

“How did I know what with Doug?”

Stede groaned, but Mary didn’t relent. Finally, he mumbled, “How’d you know…you liked Doug.”

“Well, he didn’t call me day-drinking, for one,” Mary said, and it was a testament to her comfort prowess that Stede snorted instead of bursting into further tears. “But…it just kind of happened, I guess. Easy as breathing. He actually listened when I spoke, wanted to know the things I liked, what I’d been through. He shared my passion for painting and let me explore that. It felt like I was alive, finally.” Mary gave a quiet sort of chuckle. “Sound familiar?”

“Um,” Stede squeaked. “Um. Maybe.”

“Now, what I want you to do is to go drink some water, say those affirmations I know your therapist has been working with you on, and call Lucius. Alright?”

Stede thought about it. He hadn’t been saying his affirmations, had he? Really, it was easy to forget, when he was like this.

“Okay,” Stede said.

“And Stede?”

“Hmm?”

“You are not the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Mary said. “And if you didn’t ruin me after fifteen years, you can’t ruin anybody by being with them. You hurt them by assuming you know what’s best for them, and that what’s best for them is you not being in the picture. Let other people make their own decisions and stop making them for them.”

Stede heaved a huge sigh and rubbed his tired eyes. “Okay,” he said in a small voice.

“Water. Call Lucius. Bye.” Mary hung up.

.

“I am not the worst thing that happens to people,” Stede recited to himself as he took a cold shower to aid in the sobering up endeavor.

“I am not a plague, or a ruiner of beautiful things,” Stede said as he towel-dried his hair.

“I am flawed, but not more flawed than anyone else,” Stede said as he ate a bowl of cereal for fortitude.

“I make mistakes, but I can grow from them,” Stede said as he picked up his phone.

“I am adequate,” he finished as Lucius’ phone rang. On the last possible ring, the phone picked up.

“Yeah?” Lucius asked, disinterested. Stede almost hung up, but took a deep breath instead. Then another one. Lucius didn’t hang up, either, waiting silently for Stede to speak.

“I assume on principle that people don’t like me and push them away when they get too close so they can’t hurt me,” Stede said in a rush. There was a ringing silence in Stede’s ears after the fact, then a slow release of air.

“Alright,” Lucius said. “We can work on that.”

“Ed did call me. And text me. A lot. And I didn’t reply because I thought I was doing him a favor by not making him be friends with me.”

“Oh—wow, okay. Might be a harder fix, there, but I’ll add it to the list.”

“And I know it all happened so fast but I think I really like him, but he doesn’t deserve to get stuck with me and I don’t know how to handle that.”

There was another bout of silence.

“Make sure your door is unlocked,” Lucius instructed. “I want it to be spectacular when I kick it down for my grand entrance. I’ll be over in a few.”

“Okay,” Stede croaked, and Lucius hung up. Stede perched on his kitchen stool, tracing the smooth quartz patches in the granite, and when he heard a knock at his door, he timidly crept to the foyer and waited. As promised, after a moment, the doorknob twisted, opened a crack, and then Lucius kicked it open so hard it bounced off the door stopper and almost closed again.

“Normally, I’m much better at breakups,” Lucius announced, “but today, I’m assuming my new form as a matchmaker. Buckle up, buttercup.”

Stede gulped.

.

The first step, it turned out, was assuring Stede that the fishing group didn’t hate him, they were worried about him. Stede listened when Lucius told him, but didn’t really absorb it until he went to fishing that night and was nearly bowled over with cheers and enthusiastic cries of both his name and his nickname.

“Nice to have ye back, cap’n,” Buttons said. Karl squawked. Stede smiled and nodded and let it actually sink in that he had been missed, that his presence was wanted. He thought he liked it. He might even begin to believe it.

But before that, there came the second step: taking advantage of the luxurious master suite bathroom for a spa day, and Lucius cleverly using masks and creams and nail files and pedicures as an excuse to draw out every detail about Stede’s feelings regarding Ed.

Once the shape of it was laid out—the bare bones being, Stede liked Ed very much and subsequently got in his own way, despite there being ample evidence that Ed liked Stede, too—Lucius nodded and hmmed thoughtfully.

“It’s not completely unsalvageable, unless Ed is a salt the earth kind of guy, which some people are,” Lucius said. “My intuition, however, places him closer to the type who soaks up genuine attention because he’s been living in a spotlight for most of his adult life and is starving for any real meaningful human connection.”

“Oh,” Stede said faintly from behind the cucumber slices over his eyes.

“We must tread carefully, but the steps are simple,” Lucius said, turning Stede’s toes to fully spread the nail polish he was using on the nails. “First, establish baseline contact again, to see if he even wants to talk to you. Then, you apologize for your behavior, because I’m assuming you regret it and would be doing that anyway. The apology is important, because you have to convey that you’re sorry without enumerating the ways you find yourself lacking.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell him ‘I’m sorry, I suck and I should just kill myself because I’m the worst,’” Lucius clarified. “It’s not a real apology, it’s a cry for help that the person you’re apologizing to shouldn’t have to answer because they’re the wronged party, not you. Hard habit to break, but belittling yourself doesn’t show that you’re sorry, it just shows that you’re sad.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“If the apology goes well and he accepts it, then you work on rebuilding that intimacy, and see where it goes. Maybe it still goes nowhere, but maybe you get a friend out of the deal.” Lucius’ smile was audible. “Maybe more than a friend. I was there for the chip in the beard incident, don’t forget.”

Stede made an uncomfortable gurgling noise at the memory, but it wasn’t quite as painful to recall, for some reason.

“Best way to do it would be over a call,” Lucius continued, “but if you’re queasy, text is acceptable too. But you should really apologize with your real voice when you get a chance. More sincere, less easy to get tone mixed up and make the miscommunication worse.”

“I know,” Stede sighed, and once the mask was washed off and his toenails were dry (deep purple. Ed would look good in deep purple), he took a deep breath. “Alright. Pass me my phone.”

Lucius did so, and began neatening up the paint on his own toes as Stede did his breathing exercises and unlocked his phone. He navigated to Ed’s messages. The last one had been sent three weeks ago. Stede’s hands shook, but he put his thumbs to the keys and began typing.

Stede: I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your messages. I don’t have a good excuse. If you want to hear it, I can apologize over the phone, and try to explain, but you aren’t obligated to listen. Just know that I think you’re amazing and I’m lucky to have met you, and I’m sorry if my silence hurt you.

Stede showed Lucius the message, and with Lucius’ nod, he pressed send.

“Now, it’s just a waiting game,” Lucius said. “But you took the first step, and I know that’s a hard one.”

“I think I’m going to pass out,” Stede said faintly.

“That’s the personal growth talking,” Lucius smiled. “Let’s go drink some wine before you go put those ugly rubber overalls on over my hard work.”

Fishing went well, so well that when Stede checked his phone before bed and saw a message from Ed, he only hyperventilated a little bit. He opened the message, squeezed his eyes shut tight, counted to ten, and then opened his eyes.

Ed: Therapist said I should hear you out if you ever reached out again and I pay him through the nose for a reason, so. Shoot.

Stede: Would you prefer to continue texting? Or should I call?

Ed took his time replying, but when he did, it was in the form of a phone call.

Stede answered it. Ed didn’t say anything, but his quiet breathing and the sounds of a breeze and crickets were both audible. Stede didn’t say anything, either, adjusting to actually having Ed near again, even if only through the phone.

“Look, mate, I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so if you don’t have anything to say—”

“I’m sorry,” Stede said immediately, and Ed sighed. Stede took another deep breath but kept pushing forward. “It was wrong to not reply to any of your messages, and I did want to, I really did, but—I talked myself out of it.”

“You talked yourself out of it,” Ed repeated flatly. “Right.”

Stede wavered. His eyes stung. He pushed the tears back, however. This wasn’t about him.

“I did,” Stede said. “I do that. Whenever I’m scared.”

“Scared? What was so scary about—oh, right. Let me guess, jealous streak? Didn’t want to share? Or,” Ed snarled, head of steam clearly built and ready to vent, “or was it you weren’t expecting the guy to not live up to the fantasy? Hm? Had that one before, more times than I can count at this point. Meet someone, they stay around for a bit and soak up some of that limelight, then I open my stupid mouth and Ed comes out and like I told you, nobody wants Ed!”

Ed shouted the last bit, and afterwards heaved for breath. Stede waited until his breath evened out—both their breaths, Stede wasn’t faring too well himself on that front.

When all was calm, Stede opened his mouth. “Is…that how I came across? At first?”

Ed sighed again, harsher, more of a growl. “No, man, you came across as a fascinating lunatic I wanted to keep talking to and thought maybe I’d become friends with, but I guess the feeling wasn’t mutual, got too open and honest too fast—”

“Of course I thought we were friends too!” Stede cried. “Ed, that’s—that’s what I mean, you’re incredible! And—and maybe for other people, some of the things I told you and you told me would be too much, and maybe it was too much for other people, but—but it didn’t feel like too much with us, did it?”

Ed let out another breath, softer. “No. Felt—felt—”

“Easy,” Stede said. Something clicked into place. “It felt easy. Just like breathing.”

There was silence, but somehow it felt better—cleaner.

“We don’t trust people in my line of work, Stede,” Ed said, and he sounded tired. “You get to the level Blackbeard’s at, and any random person on the street could be a paparazzi rat, or a tabloid informant, or somebody looking to trap you and press charges and take stuff from you. Not saying that there aren’t people who don’t deserve that, and I’m not exactly a squeaky-clean boy over here, but. It gets lonely, man. And for once I really thought I’d met someone who—who maybe actually wanted to get to know me. Not Blackbeard, just me. Just Ed. You know?”

“I know,” Stede said miserably. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said.”

“I…” Stede swallowed hard. “Can I tell you something, without you feeling…obligated?”

“Obligated to what?”

“Obligated to comfort me, or to tell me it’s not true,” Stede said. The pause was awkward but ended with Ed sighing.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Thank you.” Stede took a deep breath. “I’ve never had friends before. Ever.”

“What, never?”

“Please just let me talk for a moment,” Stede said, strained, and got a grunt in reply. “I’m not exaggerating. Never. What I had were bullies. You know what kids are like to other kids who are…different. I was different. I—I planted flower gardens and daydreamed about pirates when I was too old to still be doing it and I cried. Easily.” Stede held the phone away from his face for a moment to sniff and mop at his face, which was starting to leak despite his best efforts.

“S-so. I—I convinced myself that you didn’t really want to keep talking to me. I wasn’t worth talking to, and I couldn’t understand why you would keep trying, so to keep you from having to pretend to my face that you were enjoying my company, and to really protect myself when you rejected me, I just…closed up. I ran away.”

There was a long exhale on the other side of the phone. Stede sniffed, unable to really keep that one to himself.

“So…you decided I didn’t really like you…and acted on that. Instead of believing that I liked talking to you, which I demonstrated by continuing to talk to you,” Ed said slowly.

“In a nutshell.”

“Is that what I came across as? Someone who jerks people around like that?”

“N-no, but I—maybe thought you were just being nice—”

“I’m not nice,” Ed growled. “I’ve knocked people’s teeth out for looking at me funny and I’m not joking, I really have. Got the scars and everything where I had to pick a bone shard out of my knuckles. I can’t go into a stupid supermarket without people mobbing me or trying to propose to me or be my best friend and it’s irritating as all hell. Got more places where I’m banned than where I’m allowed now. If I didn’t want to talk to you, Stede Bonnet, you’d know. If I didn’t like you, there would be no doubt and no miscommunication on that front. You would be buried in your backyard already. That clear?”

“Crystal,” Stede sniffled. He really couldn’t stop the waterworks now, could he? At least Ed couldn’t see him; the audio tour of Stede Bonnet’s Ugly Crying must be bad enough.

“Now, if you don’t mind, can you stop thinking you can read my mind and let me speak for myself?”

“Yeah,” Stede nodded, “yes. I can do that.”

“Phenomenal.” Silence again. Then another Ed sigh. “So. What do we do now?”

Stede shifted. “Well,” he said, “I could tell you about the trout that Buttons caught.”

Ed hummed. “Trout, you say?”

“Mm-hmm. Nearly as big as the catfish you helped me reel in.”

“Oh, proper-sized, then.”

“We cooked it. Everybody got a bite.”

“How was it?”

“Well, with Roach’s seasoning, it tasted incredible. The same he used on the brisket at the barbecue.”

“Ooh, remember that. Spicy.”

“Burned my tongue, I’m not too proud to say.”

“That’s because you have delicate sensibilities.”

“It’s called geographic tongue and it’s a real condition.”

“Always with the freak tongue excuse.”

“Feel free to examine my freak tongue at your earliest convenience, I’m right and it’s real.”

Ed laughed, and it felt good, finally, finally, to hear that laugh again.

“Maybe I will,” Ed said, with a little purr. Then he sighed. “Stede?”

“Hmm?”

“Um…please don’t just leave me hanging like that again? At least shoot me a message saying you’re done talking to me next time, alright? I’m a big boy, I can handle it if you just tell me straight out when you’re done. Hate guessing games.”

Stede’s eyes stung with more force. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of talking to you, Ed.”

“Great,” Ed said. “I’m taking that as a personal challenge now.”

“Well, we’ve already gotten to tongues tonight, I can’t imagine there’s much worse places we could go.”

“You underestimate me,” Ed said, then yawned. “Oof. Alright. I actually do have to get to sleep now.”

“I won’t keep you,” Stede said softly. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For talking to me.”

“Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it,” Ed said. “Night.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“I already said goodnight.”

“And I said it again. I’m winning.”

“Goodnight, Ed,” Stede laughed.

“Goodnight, Stede,” Ed replied.

“You can hang up now, Ed.”

“You hang up first.”

“Oh, for—Edward! We’re not teenagers in 1994!”

“Yet you’re still not hanging up first.”

“Suppose I’m not,” Stede sighed. “I guess we’re at an impasse.”

“Hmm. Pity. I never back down from a challenge. Suppose we’re just on the phone until we die. Very soon. Because we’re decrepit.”

“I am in the pinnacle of health, thank you.”

“Mm. I believe it. You looked healthy. No moles or anything.”

“No—now how would you know that?” Stede’s cheeks flamed.

“We changed in front of each other twice, and the first time, I watched you in the mirror,” Ed said, and Stede clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his hysterical laughter. “You didn’t even peek. Proper gentleman.”

“I might have looked the second time,” Stede confessed. Ed gasped.

“My honor! My delicate virtue! Besmirched!”

“However will you go on, I wonder,” Stede giggled.

“Dunno. Might have to throw myself into the sea.”

“Suppose that would be a good opportunity to take the crew deep-sea fishing, if we had to go find you in the depths.”

“Sea fishing, there’s an idea.” Ed sighed. “Can’t wait for this stupid tour to be over. Wanna go back to the pond, see if anything else happens with that neighbor of yours.”

“Oh, she’s quite firmly curbed, but if any others step up, I have plenty of material,” Stede said, and Ed laughed.

“I really appreciate you doing that,” Ed said. “Stopping her from being weird. About me.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” Stede said gently. “Now, I really think it is time for us both to go to bed.”

“Yeah, fine.” Ed huffed. “Stede?”

“Yes, Ed?”

There was a pause, and another sigh. “Never mind. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

This time, Stede did hang up. It was much easier to sleep with a lighter conscience.

.

The daily texts and calls continued. Fishing began winding its way down as fall rolled in. The crew spent more time at Stede’s—some of them had practically moved in, from the amount of stuff Stede kept finding in certain guest rooms, which was no hardship. The end of Blackbeard’s tour was coming up, and Ed sounded tired, but ready for it to be over, even excited about the last concert.

“Smaller venue, more intimate crowd—like those best, these days,” Ed said, his voice crackling over an unstable phone connection. “Thinking about announcing my retirement there.”

“And what does the rest of the band think?” Stede asked, turning a page in a magazine he was flipping through for want of aught else to do.

“Izzy thinks it’s your fault,” Ed said, “but the rest of the guys are with me, they’re tired and want to rest. Might do reunion shows and such, but I think Blackbeard’s more than ready to be put to rest. Might even let Izzy try to do it solo, worked out for that one band. Anxiety at the Club, or whatever it’s called.”

“Hmm,” Stede agreed, though he had no idea what band Ed was referencing. “Then what?”

“Dunno,” Ed said. “Be nice just to take a load off. Maybe do some recreational law-breaking.”

Stede chuckled. “Well. You know the best spot for it if you do.”

“Yup.” There was some background noise, and Ed sighed. “Gotta go. Text you tonight.”

“Bye,” Stede said, and when Ed rang off, he sighed, letting the magazine in his hands slide off his lap and to the floor. He’d been doing that a lot, lately. Sighing.

Days tended to blend together, but it wasn’t a bad blur, this time. Stede had never felt this steady and content. The blur was punctuated by important events—recitals, open mic nights, arbitrating arguments about fish stories, gallery showings—but all the same, it was a pleasant haze to sink into.

One evening was notable, however—the night of the last show on tour. Black Pete showed up to the pond dressed in a black veil that looked like a length of cheap department store black lace cut at a crooked angle, visibly sniffling.

“What happened?” Stede asked, looking from Black Pete to Wee John.

“Ed announced Blackbeard’s calling it quits,” Wee John said, and Black Pete gave a low wail as he baited his hook and got his lace caught. “Pete’s a bit upset.”

“I see,” Stede sighed. “Awfully sorry for your loss, Pete.”

“He’s taking a vow of silence,” Lucius puffed as he walked up with his camp chair. “Says he won’t speak again until Blackbeard gets back together.”

“Ah,” Stede nodded. “It’s unfortunate, but if it’s what must be done...”

“It’s the end of an era,” Roach sighed heavily, sitting on his cooler with a cigarette in his mouth. “Still. They haven’t made any new music in so long. Suppose it was only a matter of time.”

“D’you think Ed’s gonna go solo?” Frenchie asked. He still hadn’t fixed the tuning from his guitar from when Ed had played it, despite it putting a melancholy twist on his songs now.

“I think he’d be brilliant at it,” Olu said, abstaining from fishing in favor of serving as camp chair padding for Jim. “Maybe once he hires a better lyricist.”

“The guy’s like a hundred, think he deserves a break,” Jim added, smirking at Stede’s squinting glare. “Polvo eres y en polvo te convertirás.”

“Cállate, mood-killer,” Olu said, poking a specific spot on Jim’s side that made them squirm and yelp. “You get a certain level of eccentric when you’ve been that rich and famous for that long, though. Wouldn’t surprise me if Ed built himself a boat and went off to sea, really capitalized on that pirate image he’s been selling his whole career.”

“I used to dream about doing that,” Stede said wistfully. “Seemed a bit impractical by the time my son was born.”

“The sea takes all comers,” Buttons said. “Reckon she’d even take this lot and not wreck us all in an act of terrible bloodshed and violence. Not immediately.”

“Back to the subject at hand,” Lucius said loudly, “Blackbeard’s over. Ed’s retiring. What do you think he’s going to do now?”

Stede knew the question was aimed at him, but was content to let the contemplative silence build a bit before answering.

“Whatever he wants, now,” Stede said. “Wherever he wants to do it.”

“And…might that be here, maybe?” the Swede asked.

Stede shrugged. “Fishing crew could always use another experienced fisherman. If that’s what he wants, he’s welcome to do so.”

The levels of silent frustration building around Stede were really quite fun; he could see why Ed liked teasing so much.

“But did he say he was coming back here?” Black Pete finally blurted, and when the group turned to look at him, Pete scowled and lifted his veil back, still draped over his head. He looked directly at Stede, his nose red and his eyes looking bluer for the puffiness around them. “Well?”

“He hasn’t said anything of the sort,” Stede said gently.

“Did you ask?” Black Pete pressed.

“No, I haven’t.” Stede turned back to the water.

“Do you want to?” Wee John asked.

That, Stede kept to himself, but he thought the crew knew anyway.

.

Stede was drinking his morning tea on a day miraculously devoid of anyone else in the house when the doorbell rang.

He put down his tea and walked to the door, house shoes and robe and bedhead and all. He opened up the door.

“Hey,” Ed said. He was wearing a deep purple t-shirt and dark-wash jeans. His hair and beard were combed. He had a duffel bag at his feet. He had his arms crossed over his chest, showing off all those tattoos and stretches of exposed skin. Stede beamed. Ed’s face was stern, but his eyes were bright. “You stiffed me.”

“Stiffed you? In what way?” Stede asked, leaning his head against the door.

“You said you’d give me the grand tour,” Ed accused.

“I did,” Stede protested.

“You didn’t,” Ed said, kicking his duffel bag across the doorway into the house. “Not the full tour. Holding out on me, Bonnet.”

“Oh?” Stede shuffled it to the side, out of the way of the door.

“Y’see, I never got to see the master suite,” Ed said, and took an imperious step into the house, arms still folded, looming over Stede. “Seems like an awful mistake, to miss an entire set of rooms.”

“Of course,” Stede nodded gravely, like Ed’s warmth wasn’t seeping into him, like his hands weren’t itching to close around whatever parts of Ed he could pull towards him. “You’re right, I’ve fallen quite short in my duties as a host.”

“Also,” Ed said, “I forgot something.”

“Forgot something?” Stede frowned. “What on earth did you—”

Ed surged forward, cradled Stede’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

As far as kisses went, it was quite a chaste kiss—closed-mouthed, tender, hands above the waist as Stede gripped Ed’s shoulders and they swayed. The kiss ended and Ed rested his forehead against Stede’s, sharing breath.

“That,” Ed murmured. “Forgot to do that.”

“A grievous oversight,” Stede agreed. “Might want to do it again, just to make sure. Could have missed a spot.”

“Can’t have that,” Ed grinned, and kissed him again as Stede closed the door behind them.

.

Ed made it just in time for the last fishing morning of the season, according to Buttons’ calendar. It was the one morning Stede didn’t have to handle waking Ed up the same way he did his nearly-teenage daughter. Ed still draped himself all over Stede like an octopus as they got ready, making dressing quite the feat, but Stede was looking forward to learning how to navigate it.

“Why do you wear these?” Ed asked, voice still sleep-grumbled as he snapped the strap of Stede’s waders. They were walking down to the pond, a thermos of oversweet tea in Ed’s hand, tacklebox and pole in Stede’s. “You don’t even go into the water.”

“Well, they’re part of the brand, now,” Stede smiled. “Wouldn’t be cap’n without them.”

“Hmm. Just makes me wanna push you in the pond, really.”

“And I’d be perfectly dry if you did. Because of these.”

Ed shook his head, grinning. “Completely mental.”

To Stede’s surprise, they were even earlier than Buttons, the first ones at their usual spot. It was nice to reach out and hold Ed’s hand in the pre-dawn light and watch the sunrise with him. They’d had some hard conversations since Ed walked through his door, and there would be more to come—talking about fathers, and hidden scars, and meeting the children and Mary and Doug, and what to do to avoid paparazzi. Ed was considering shaving off his beard. Stede thought they’d have to agree to a Viking funeral for the thing if he did, especially if Black Pete still showed up wearing his veil. But there had been fun conversations, too, and would be plenty more to come. Right now, though…silence was just as good.

“Y’know, I never did ask,” Ed said, once a sliver of sunlight poked over the horizon. “Fishing. How’d you get into it?”

Stede smiled, squeezed Ed’s fingers between his own. This, the sharing of pieces of themselves between each other, this he would never get bored of. Even if the pieces were ugly, even if they were sharp or tender or hurt coming out, for Ed, Stede already knew it would be worth every scrape. Nothing had ever felt so natural as Ed solid and steady by Stede’s side. And for once, Stede’s impulse to push or to run felt faded. Easy to ignore, in favor of big brown eyes and warm clever fingers. Keeping him anchored. Being an anchor in turn.

Stede took a deep breath.

“Well, I was young, and my mother and I were going for a walk…”