Work Text:
Whippies.
Fucking whippies.
That’s what Ed had called it. Why anyone would get even the slightest ounce of pleasure from swinging a lethal weapon around was a complete mystery to him. The one thing he did know for sure was that Calico Jack was a complete and utter arsehole.
He could here poor old Buttons shouting across the deck, explaining the various benefits of moon bathing to an awestruck and barely lucid crew.
“Sorry Buttons! You know, maybe he’s right guys, shall we pack it in?”
He was surprised to hear that Ed was agreeing to end the antics, especially as he had demonstrated nothing but loyalty to Jack ever since the bastard had arrived on ship. A series of cheers and shouts of agreement followed the suggestion, indicating a general consensus and desire to end the games before somebody got seriously hurt.
Of course, Jack on the other hand seemed to think that everyone else’s opinion didn’t matter, continuing on with a somewhat threatening demand.
“No! No, nobody goes to sleep!”
That was that then. If Jack wouldn’t go quietly, it was up to him to remove the reckless and unfriendly man from his ship. His crew came first, and if anyone had any issue with that, they could follow the lunatic back to his own boat.
God knows it would be in Edwards best interest if the whole occasion came to a swift and casualty free close.
He emerged onto the deck, eyes locking with those of Lucius, who looked somewhat shaken by the sudden turn of events. He began to approach the crazed man, intending to politely discuss the terms of his departure, but instead found himself assaulted by a series of less than savory sensory experiences.
The smell of whiskey as the Jack and Ed laughed.
The sound of thunder as a whip cracked against the air.
The touch of ice as rough leather made contact with his skin.
The taste of metal as his mouth filled with blood.
The sight of the void as his vision turned to to black.
Jack’s whip had struck him straight across his face, rendering his only means of seeing the world around him completely useless. Even if the man had been sober, Stede wasn’t sure he could have hit a more valuable target.
It was the pain that hit him first, a burning white hot agony that seemed to set the nerves in his face on fire, as if he had been struck with a piece of molten metal.
Then, came the panic. He could hear screaming coming from somewhere close to him, the sound seeming so very raw against the silence that had spread across his crew. Maybe it was Lucius, or Frenchie; both men had a tendency to be a little squeamish when it came to blood and gore.
“It’s ok Stede...shit, fuck! It’s all going to be alright...”
He identified the voice as belonging to Roach, the self-certified medic desperately attempting to peal his blood-soaked fingers away from whatever was left of his eyes. The sudden and unwelcome rush of air that seemed to slap him caused a ragged and hoarse cry to tear itself from his throat.
Oh.
Oh…
So, the person that had been screaming was him.
The others were around him now, their voices thick with concern as they attempted to offer him words of reassurance.
But none of it really seemed to matter.
His sight had been stolen from him, and nothing anyone could say or do was ever going to bring it back again.