Chapter Text
“Yesss! We fucking did it!” Ed hisses, gleefully throwing his arms around Stede. The other man throws up his arms, balancing the brandy bottle to prevent spillage, then gives a tiny grunt of pain. “Sorry, mate,” Ed adds, dropping his arms abruptly. “Forgot about the stab wound there for a second.”
“N- no,” Stede answers, taking a shaky breath. “It’s fine. We did it!” He feels overheated – from the pain, the lingering fever, the flames from the lantern, the strangeness of another person’s arms around his body. He clears his throat, and turns to look at Ed, finding, oddly, that he can’t quite meet his eyes. He glances instead to the deck below, where the crew is whisper-shouting in celebration as they start to pass around a bottle of rum. “Ought we to go down and congratulate the crew on their fine work?” he asks.
“Nah, man. They want to cut loose, having captains there would just cramp their style, make ‘em all twitchy,” Ed answers. This, of course, is a lie. Ed hasn't fully sussed out this crew’s relationship to their captain – they seem to think he’s utterly ridiculous but also seem oddly devoted to him, which, well, Ed can maybe see that – but he knows that everyone on deck would give a pinkie toe to celebrate their success with Blackbeard . He also knows that going down there with his arm around Stede would give the captain a much-needed boost of credibility, but he has only the smallest twinge of guilt as he says, “We can stay up here and keep watch, make sure the Spanish don’t come back.”
“Mmm, yes,” Stede agrees, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows a moment later. “But – ah – isn’t it still foggy?”
Ed feels his face flush – the legendary Blackbeard, with a ploy so clumsy that Stede Bonnet, a captain who didn't know how fast his ship went or what munitions were on it, sees through it immediately. “Have some brandy!” he says, to change the subject. “Tell me about your adventures, Gentleman Pirate.” He sits, stretching long legs across the floor of the crow’s nest, and pats next to him.
Cautiously, moving slowly and painfully, Stede lowers himself to sitting, closes his eyes, and takes a few shallow breaths. “Okay there, mate?” Ed askes, patting Stede’s knee, and studiously ignoring the hot electric flash that shoots through him at the feel of his leather trousers on another man’s leg.
“Mmm,” Stede says, taking a fortifying sip of brandy before answering. “Well! We had quite an adventure once, early on, when we raided a fishing vessel and obtained the most lovely plant, quite in need of care!”
And he’s off. Ed’s not sure how long he sits there, listening to Stede ramble on about fern care, his helmsman’s relationship with seagulls, and something about wax noses. He looks up at the stars to keep from staring at Stede’s face, letting the tales wash over him, enjoying the sound of the other man’s voice, soaking in the silliness of the adventures and the joy Stede clearly felt in experiencing them, until –
“Wait, what? Spanish Jackie had a dagger to your nose and… you’re still here? Your… your nose is still here?” Ed peers at Stede, as though he could’ve somehow missed a gaping hole in the middle of his face.
“Why, yes, it was quite the fright, though; I mean, I understand it was her nose jar broken, but I truly did my best to pick them all up, even though Lucius wouldn’t help, and obviously I would have paid for a nice new jar and whatever… liquid she uses to preserve them – which tastes disgusting, I really must say – but she really seemed intent on just taking my nose without even listening to my apology, until I found out that your first mate, Iggy –”
“Izzy.” The correction is automatic.
“Yes, yes, whatever, Izzy, but then that terribly rude bartender told Spanish Jackie that it was you , that it was Blackbeard , who wanted to see me, and goodness but I was shocked, and so was she it seemed, because she let me go!”
Ed’s head is spinning. Stede… picked up Jackie’s noses? With his hands? He drank the nose juice? Did Geraldo serve him nose juice? (Of course he did. Dick.) But mostly – Stede didn’t know Ed wanted to meet him?
“Izzy.” The tone is darker, this time.
“Yes, he’s dreadfully unpleasant, isn’t he, Ed, I really don’t know what you see in him, but I suppose I should thank him, as it was his information that saved my hide – well, my nose!”
“But he – he hadn’t told you that it was Blackbeard, that it was
me
, who wanted to meet you?”
“No, certainly not! Do you think I’d have passed up a chance to meet Blackbeard ? What a treat! No, he just said his boss; honestly, I didn’t think to ask who that was, I couldn’t imagine it was anyone important, given his… well. He’s your first mate, I do apologize.”
Ed is having a hard time keeping up with this barrage of words. No one thinks it would be “a treat” to meet Blackbeard ; it’s not a treat, it’s a death sentence. This guy truly is fuckin’ insane. And Izzy – what the hell is he playing at? Did he want to keep Ed from meeting Stede? And why? Ed is silent, letting his thoughts spin around, waiting for them to organize themselves into sense, but they seem intent on tumbling about, pausing every so often on –
“Ed? I am terribly sorry, I know you wouldn’t hire someone who wasn’t absolutely qualified, it was dreadfully rude of me to imply your management skills weren’t up to snuff.” Stede’s voice is small, worried.
“Nah, mate, it’s fine. He can be a bit of a shit sometimes.” Ed forces himself to focus, smile, and – oh – it comes more naturally as soon as he sees Stede’s face relax, brow unfurrow. “Gets the job done, though, y’know?”
“Mmm,” Stede says, as though he doesn’t understand, but doesn’t need to, as though he’d trust Ed to make the right decision, trusting him without even knowing him, as though –
As though he’s just fallen asleep. Ed shakes himself mentally. He’s losing it. He’s definitely losing it. It’s been, what, 6 hours and one Fuckery that he’s known this guy? Get it together, man. Focus. Stede is just some rich fuck, this ship is Ed’s for the taking, the crew might be loyal but they’re also wildly inept, all he needs to do is –
“Edward?” He hears the raspy call from below.
“Iz. Keep your voice down, captain’s asleep,” he calls back, a loud whisper.
“What the fuck? Who cares, Edward. Get down here, we need to figure out what’s next.”
“Nah, mate, I’m going to hang up here tonight. Keep watch, make sure the Spanish don’t come back.”
“Edward. It’s still foggy.”
Ed doesn’t answer, just settles back against the mast and stretches his legs and shoulders, then looks up at the stars and waits for sleep to come.
***
Stede awakens as dawn hits the crow’s nest, sun beams shooting into his eyes. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know who he is. Everything hurts: his head, his stomach, his ass where it’s been supporting his weight on fine Brazilian cherry wood for the last 8 hours. He’s desperately thirsty, he has to pee, and he’s… wearing leather? The events of the previous evening flood back in a sudden rush and – was that real ? Instantly, he becomes aware of a weight on his left shoulder, shifts his gaze, and is truly astonished to see the lanky, long-haired, bushy-bearded figure of Blackbeard, of Ed , next to him. The world’s most fearsome pirate is sound asleep, arms crossed, head lolling onto Stede’s shoulder, a thin string of drool hanging from his partially opened mouth.
Stede feels the breath catch in his throat. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept this close to another person. He thinks maybe he never has. He and Mary edged as far from each other as possible in their large bed. His body floods with something that’s not quite fear, not quite happiness, and deeply confusing. He takes a few steadying breaths, and hears movement below.
“Lucius!” he hisses at the scribe, who is extracting himself from a hammock that also holds Pete. “Can you send up some bread and marmalade? Maybe some tea?”
“Mmm, yeah, Captain, on it,” Lucius answers through a yawn. He steps over Frenchie and his lute to jostle Roach’s shoulder. “Captain’s ready for breakfast,” Stede hears him say. “Up in the crow’s nest, spent the night with Blackbeard.”
Stede feels a jolt in the general vicinity of his stab wound, opens his mouth to say something, realizes he has no idea what that would be, and stills. Ed shifts slightly, mumbles something incomprehensible, stays asleep. Stede is frozen. He can’t stop staring at Ed’s leg, clothed in his own breeches and stockings. Is that what I look like wearing those? He’s pretty sure it’s not. He’s a fop, a ponce, a lily-livered little rich boy. Ed is… Ed is… a real pirate, for one thing. He shifts his gaze to the leather on his own legs. Ed looked, well, majestic in these trousers. He’s pretty sure he just looks sweaty and weird. He wonders if Ed gets overheated in all the leather. It’s awfully impractical in the Caribbean. How does one clean leather clothing? He thinks about how much of Ed’s sweat must have soaked into this jacket, these pants. His stomach gives another little swoop, not quite disgust. He thinks about how his own feverish sweat is joining Ed’s. Another swoop, definitely not disgust. He wonders –
“Captain! I brought your tea and rolls!” Roach calls up. “Marmalade and two oranges, don’t want to be getting scurvy! I’ll hoist it up the seat!”
“Thank you, Roach,” Stede answers, slightly breathless. As breakfast makes its way into view, Stede shifts, as gently and slowly as possible, to loosen his shoulder free of Ed’s head. The other man’s head drops an inch, now that it’s unsupported, but he doesn’t wake. Stede leans forward, wincing as his wound pinches, to grab the tray from the seat, and calls down another round of thanks.
He butters and marmalades a roll, and takes a bite, looking down at Oluwande and Jim, chatting quietly as they stare out over the ocean. He can’t help but smile a bit. He’s not really sure what’s going to happen now, but he’s starting to feel like his crew is coming together, perhaps growing as people, and that maybe he might succeed at being a pirate captain after all. If he can avoid getting gut-stabbed again, anyway. He’s not sure how one goes about avoiding gut stabs, but maybe Ed can tell him, before he leaves.
Thinking of Ed leaving makes him feel preemptively lonely. It’s been so magical the last day, having someone he can just talk to, someone who seems to just get him. He thinks he ought to enjoy it while he lasts, so he leans down, elbows Ed gently, and whispers, “Hey, try this,” holding out his half-eaten roll as the other man jolts blearily awake.