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It started the night Stede ran him through. Stede insisted on helping Ed back to the cabin, and then further insisted that Ed lie down in his bed while Stede cleaned and bandaged the wound, all the while shaking his head and murmuring admonishments. By the time Stede measured out a second layer of dressing Ed was drifting off, and he was fast asleep when Stede started extolling the virtues of this or that healing ointment among his collection. Ed woke up the next morning with Stede’s stockinged feet wedged into his side, one of Stede’s hands resting gently on his calf. Ed tried to scoot himself up and away but was promptly reminded of the open wound in his gut - yeah, maybe not the best idea - and so settled back down and tried to remember the last time he had shared a bed with someone. The last time he had slept in a bed, even.
Stede usually wore a ridiculous getup to sleep. It involved frills and a dainty little hat and a velvet mask, which Ed had marveled at with such wonder that Stede eventually let him try it on, and then he’d had no choice but to chase Stede around the cabin with his eyes covered while Stede laughed bright and loud, loud enough for Ed to find him easily and tackle him to the chaise lounge. But that morning Stede was in his clothes from the night before, his shirt rumpled, his cravat undone and dangling from his neck. For some reason, Ed found this ensemble even more precious than the usual fare. Stede looked less put together, less perfect. It was like a crack in the armor, one that Ed could squeeze into and maybe poke at and explore. Ed was struck by an overwhelming urge to learn forward and ruffle Stede’s hair, but, you know, stab wound. Instead, Ed gave Stede’s ankle a light squeeze with his thumb and forefinger, and Stede gradually emerged from sleep with a bleary, confused expression that made Ed’s stomach do a curious little flip. Stede apologized and slipped out of bed, but then they just carried on as normal (Ed a bit more gingerly for a spell because fucking ouch), sneaking marmalade up to the crow’s nest and regaling the crew with bedtime stories. And every day one of them would join the other in Stede’s bed without comment, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
***
It’s maybe a month after what Stede calls “The Stabbing Incident,” and Ed flops down onto the bed while Stede is thumbing though an impossibly long book. Stede jumps, losing his place.
“Edward,” he huffs. “I was just getting to Prospero’s soliloquy.”
“Oh right, Prospero’s whatever-the-fuck. Wouldn’t want to miss that.”
“You’re awful,” Stede says, hunkering down to pick up where he left off. Ed can practically hear his smile from behind the pages.
“I am, I’m absolutely awful. You should throw me overboard.”
“Well I can’t throw you overboard until I’m fully satisfied with my blood-thirsty pirate education, and I’m sorry to say that the instruction is leaving much to be desired.”
“Hey! I’m a fucking incredible teacher. I might open my own posh school, call it Blackbeard’s Academy for Fancy Lads.”
“Ed, every time I ask you for constructive criticism you just tell me to ‘be more screamy.’”
“Because that’s half of what pirating is, mate.”
While this debate rages on, Ed finds that Stede has placed the book on the floor (take that Shakespeare) and is now leaning over him where he lies at the foot of the bed. Ed really likes looking up at Stede - he does it when Stede’s reading to the crew, or making an announcement at dinner, or here in the bed while he’s flat on his back. It’s a weird feeling, like the sun warming the deck after a storm, or a sail filling up with wind.
“Plus,” Ed continues after Stede starts in about the etiquette of looting, “you’ve got to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Last week you missed a raid because you couldn’t decide what outfit to wear.”
“It was my first Dutch ship, Ed! One has to consider making an impression.”
“And look at this,” Ed says. He picks up one of Stede’s hands, runs a finger across Stede’s palm. “Zero calluses.”
“I thought part of the appeal of captaincy was delegating the calluses to someone else."
“Delegating the…” and Ed can’t help it, he presses his head back into the sheets and laughs, gripping Stede’s hand in his.
***
The rain has been hammering the Revenge for hours, but the wind is finally starting to die down. Ed and Stede spill into the cabin, exhausted. They’ve been battling the elements since midnight, and each of them is soaked to the bone. Buttons assured them that the crew can handle it from here on out - “Karl tells me it’s all downhill from here, Cap’n” - and before Ed could reply Stede had grabbed his hand and pulled him below deck.
Ed’s peeling the leather from his damp skin, which always takes some doing. Stede is already down to his pants and is unbuckling his shoes.
“My God, I thought that would never end,” Stede says. He kicks his shoes across the floor, then tries valiantly to fold his dripping shirt with limited success. Ed finally wriggles out of the last of the leather, which starts up a whole new round of shivering.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” he mumbles. Stede stands and pads over to the auxiliary wardrobe, disappearing inside. When he returns he’s carrying Ed’s favorite dressing gown. “I like this one,” he notes when Stede hands it to him.
“I know,” Stede says. He wiggles into a nightshirt and tumbles into bed with a heavy sigh, and Ed follows in near identical fashion.
“Fuck,” Ed sighs, yanking the covers over them both. Stede is shaking next to him, so without thought Ed rolls over and pulls him into his arms. “This usually does the trick,” he says. He can feel Stede stiffen a bit, but then he relaxes on a long exhale. Ed pulls the covers up until they’re completely submerged, heads and all. Stede chuckles, breath puffing against Ed’s chest.
“It’s been some time since I’ve hidden under the covers.”
“Who says we’re hiding?”
“Feels like we are. I used to do this when I was a child.”
“Do what? Cavort on pirate ships with notorious criminals?”
“Ed,” Stede laughs, swatting his arm. Ed tries to picture Stede as a child, but only succeeds in conjuring a mop of blond hair atop a pile of oversized frills.
“What were you like?”
“What, as a child?” Stede cranes his neck up to look at him. He’s not shaking anymore. Ed raises his eyebrows, fascinated by the pink flush that sweeps up into Stede’s cheeks. “I was aloof, I suppose. Daydreaming. I was a source of consternation to my father. I think he wanted a son who would gladly follow in his footsteps instead of running off to look at butterflies.” Ed sees it now, a tiny version of Stede with wide eyes and soft hands, gazing at pretty things in a world that wasn’t built for him. He sees Stede beneath the covers in a big, cold room.
“What were you hiding from?” Ed asks. Stede’s head is resting on Ed’s shoulder, and he can feel his brow furrow.
“So much,” he breathes. The rain patters against the window in a steady rhythm, like the tapping of quick heels on stone.
***
It’s late morning, and they have no excuse for lazing in bed other than they’re the fucking captains, goddamnit. Ed never did this on his own ship. If he wasn’t working on deck he was pouring over maps or getting pissed below deck with Izzy and Jack. He was always moving, it seemed. Now he sits perfectly still as Stede completes a comprehensive inventory of his tattoos, inquiring about the origins of each one in detail. Stede is nothing if not thorough - he’d started on Ed’s right arm and his now halfway down his chest, lightly poking each illustration as if to count them.
“And this one?” Stede asks, prodding the ship below Ed’s collarbone.
“That’s my girl, back when I first courted her.”
“The Queen Anne?” Stede traces the lines of her with his fingers, the sails to the prow, the hull back around to the stern. Ed is suddenly overcome with the desire to show Stede his ship, walk him through the memories she holds and watch Stede fall in love with her, as any pirate worth his salt would. This is the longest he’s been away from her, he realizes with a start. How did that happen?
He comes back to the feeling of Stede’s hand on his skin. “Yeah, that’s her,” he whispers.
“She’s beautiful,” Stede says, covering her outline with his palm.
“You’ll meet her,” Ed says gruffly. “Once you’re an honest to goodness pirate we’ll arrange a rendezvous. But you’d better be on your best behavior - she’s not easily wooed.”
“Oh, don’t you worry,” Stede grins. “A gentleman always comes prepared.” And maybe it’s strange that Ed’s chest flutters a bit, like a bird flapped its wings against his ribs. But then again, this is only one of a handful of times that Ed has just sat and relaxed, no plan for the next fuckery, no expectations hounding him down. It really is an odd business.
Stede’s hand is moving, landing on the curl of a wave etched next to the ship. “Tell me about this one, Ed,” he says.
***
Ed realized Stede was ticklish the day they swapped clothes. Ed was smoothing out the leather vest when he brushed over a spot on Stede’s side with his thumb - the soft huff of Stede’s laughter was like a bolt of lightning in his gut. He’s kept this knowledge to himself, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
It comes when Stede is lying on the bed one afternoon. He’s so engrossed in a book that Ed can sneak up behind him unnoticed. Ed has never tickled anyone in his life, and there are about a million ways that this could go wrong, but he’s been literally itching to do it for months. Once Edward Teach sets his mind to something, God help whoever stands in his way.
He tiptoes forward like a cat, hands outstretched. He pauses when Stede sits up slightly, but continues when he just turns a page and hunkers back down. This is really one of the most absurd things he’s ever done, Ed thinks. It’s so much fucking fun.
Stede notices him just as Ed is about to pounce. “Ed, what - " he starts to say, but it’s too late. Ed is on him immediately, hands gripping his sides. He has a vague idea about how this should go, so he flexes his fingers under Stede’s arms as he looms over him on the bed. Stede’s reaction is instantaneous. “Ed!” he squeals, but then all his fancy words desert him beneath peals of laughter, his breath quaking with it. Ed is merciless, his fingers dodging Stede’s hands as they dart forward to fend him off. Stede is gasping with laughter, his eyes crinkled shut. Ed has been privy to a trove of wondrous sights in his tenure as a fearsome pirate. It would be hard to top this one.
Stede accidentally knees him in the chest as he flails from the onslaught, and Ed is tossed back long enough that Stede can make an escape. He’s panting, face red with mirth. “You absolute fiend,” he wheezes. Ed makes a big show of clutching the spot where Stede’s knee landed, and Stede rolls his eyes. “You deserved that!” But he still crawls over, lays his hand over Ed’s. “You alright?” Stede is breathing hard, his lips parted as he hauls in air. Ed’s eyes drop to his mouth.
“You’ve got pointy knees, mate.”
“Knees are pointy by definition, you loon.” He drops his forehead against Ed’s shoulder, smiling wide as he shakes his head. Ed raises his arms as if to resume the attack. “Don’t you dare!” Stede shouts, and he chuckles as Ed wraps them around his shoulders instead.
***
Ed can sense the feeling approaching like a black cloud. Stede knows him well enough now that he seems to know it’s coming too. He always shifts a little closer to Ed on these days, gripping his elbow with a gentle hand, clasping his shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. But Ed still sinks down, withdraws into himself and disappears out of sight without a word. He keeps the cabin dark, curls into the corner of the bed with his knees tucked in. He’s aware of nothing but the boiling rage that grips his throat. It always completely overpowers him, like little else can.
Stede usually gives him a few minutes, but then he appears at the side of the bed. Ed doesn’t say anything as Stede sits down next to him. The first few times this happened Stede tried to talk to him, ask him questions. But now he just sits quietly, his hands folded in his lap. He leans his shoulder against Ed’s. Ed centers on it like a lifeline.
Sometimes Ed tips his head into Stede’s neck, and Stede brushes his hair from his face and tucks it behind his ear, holds his cheek in his palm. They spend minutes or hours like this, Ed breathing slowly and deeply until the tide recedes. It always does.
***
The curtains are drawn, but bright light still seeps in. Ed is alone in Stede’s bed. He considers screaming but sobs instead, the lighthouse hovering above him. He hates this place, hates how it holds him in a familiar embrace. He hates it, and he knows that if he leaves there’s a part of him that will be lost, maybe for good. He folds into the hurt and stays.