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“Aim!”
Simultaneously, the rifles pointed at Edward’s chest, and all he could do was close his eyes.
He’d been here before, more than once. If Blackbeard was good at anything, he was fucking good at making an escape. This time is different. This time, he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Ed was bleeding profusely from a wound on his shoulder, the blood loss already making him light-headed, and he knew his ankle was broken from how hard he fell. Cuts from blades from all sides littered his skin as he tried to fight his way out of the navy. Some were deeper than others, but they left a litany of wounds all over his body. His energy was depleted, his fight extinguished as he watched his crew abandon ship, abandon him.
There was nothing left. There was no one left. His crew, Izzy, St— all of them left in the end. This was always how it was going to end for him; he was an idiot to think otherwise.
Edward wasn’t even allowed any dignity as he faced his death, his broken ankle leaving him in a useless pile of limbs on the deck. Somehow, that was what rankled him the most. At least the bullet in his shoulder hurt too much for him to raise his arms in surrender; he’d never give them that satisfaction.
“Any last words, Blackbeard?” a snippy British voice asked, and Ed almost laughed. What was the point? There was nobody he cared about to hear his last words, anyway. So, he kept his eyes closed and waited for the gunshots to ring out.
But they didn’t. Instead, there was the sound of water hitting the deck, the marching of boots, and confused murmurs. Ed didn’t open his eyes, though frustration battled against his resignation: why couldn’t they get this over with?
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re doing, but put down your pistol and stand aside.”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t be happening.” Ed knew that voice, prissy and stubborn and ridiculously polite. He never thought he would hear that voice again. Edward’s heart lept to his throat, and he opened his eyes.
Only the back of Stede’s drenched shirt was visible from where Ed had fallen, but he could see that his blond locks were wet and dripping, and his trousers clung to his ass and thighs in a way that he couldn’t help but find appealing, despite literally everything else happening around him. God, I’d missed that sight, he thought, dazed and drifting
Then, it all clicked in Edward’s mind: Stede was here. Stede was standing between Ed and a firing squad. Stede was going to die with him.
“Get out of here,” Ed hissed through the blood in his mouth, trying to put some venom into his voice, some of his old bitterness and hatred for the other man, but Stede didn’t move.
“If you don’t get out of the way, then I’ll have no choice but to fire!” the English commander was losing his patience, and frankly, so was Ed, because why the fuck wasn’t Stede moving?
“We have another plan in mind,” Stede said, and Ed could hear the self-assured smugness in this voice, and fucking hell, he really did miss this lunatic, didn’t he? Ed swallowed down the fondness, and focused on trying to get Stede out of there alive.
Before he could devise a plan, chaos erupted on the deck. Gunfire rang out and Ed winced, but he felt no bullets pierce through his muscles and bone. Instead, he felt a strong set of arms around his middle, hoisting him upward. Ed cursed as a current of pain ran down him, head to toe, but Stede held on, anyway.
“I’m getting you out of here,” Stede promised, his mouth set in a straight line as he led the two of them forward. And even though Ed had absolutely no reason to believe in him – there was still an ocean of hurt and betrayal between the two of them, no matter how dashing Stede looked while rescuing him – Ed decided to trust him, if only for this last time.