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Ed jolts awake, choking around a scream of Stede’s name. He’s covered in sweat and gasping, hair a wild mess from all the thrashing he must have done in his sleep—and he’s alone.
Stede’s side of the bed is empty, despite the Gentleman Pirate taking a bullet to the shoulder not forty-eight hours prior. He’s been unconscious since he passed out from the pain of Roach having to dig around in his shoulder for a bullet that didn’t pass through cleanly.
He passed out in Ed’s trembling arms as he bit down around the worn black leather of Ed’s belt, fighting to keep his eyes open, to remain conscious, until his body could handle no more. It took everything Ed had not to shake the man awake, terrified he would never see those hazel eyes open again. Christ, there had been so much blood—and now there are faint traces of blood on the sheets.
Ed’s heart seizes in his chest at the thousand jumbled reasons his mind creates for Stede to be out of bed. Had Roach come in to check on him and found something wrong? If so, how could Ed sleep through something like that?
Or, fuck, was it like his dream? Where Stede had torn his stitches and developed such a bad infection they’d had to take his entire arm? As terrible as that might be, it was still preferable to the one where Stede died in his arms before Roach could even manage to get the bullet out, but fuck, where was Stede?!
Sleep and waking begin to twist in Ed’s mind until he’s desperate to lay eyes on Stede, just to prove to himself he is not misremembering the events of that damn ambush on the beach after getting citrus from Jim’s nana.
“Stede?” he calls, voice hoarse from the amount of crying he’s been doing.
Ed doesn’t bother pulling on a robe, padding through the darkened interior of their cabin in nothing but his smalls. “Stede? Love? Where did you get to?”
The longer he goes without a response, the more cold seeps into his bones in a way that has nothing to do with his nudity. The auxiliary closet is closed, the library empty, and Ed is at his wit’s end.
He turns to the hallway leading from their cabin to the main deck and his stomach fills with dread. A spike of ice impales itself in Ed’s heart when he notices a dark substance smeared across the hallway wall. What if Stede had stumbled out onto the deck and into the dark waters, lost to the Revenge, to Ed, forever?
“Stede?” he calls. “Please, sweetheart, if you can hear me, just say something.”
Muted coughing reaches Ed’s ears. He freezes to better hear the sound, practically crumpling in relief when he realizes it's coming from the washroom at the end of the hall. The muffled coughing coalesces into miserable retching and Ed unsticks his feet from the floor and races to the closed door of the washroom.
He yanks it open without bothering to knock or announce himself and feels guilty for the flush of relief he gets at the sight of Stede hunched over and curled around a chamber pot, stomach emptying itself of what little broth Ed had managed to coax down his throat.
“Stede,” he sighs. “Thank Christ.”
Stede looks up from his place on the floor miserably. He’s half-tangled in the maroon bayan Ed had bundled him in once they were aboard, sweating and pale and swaying woozily. He frowns upon seeing Ed, harsh shadows falling across his face in the light of the single candle he managed to light.
Ed doesn’t even want to think about how he managed that, the simple act of imagining Stede striking a match to do so conjuring images of burning ships and lost loves in his mind, so he files it away for later.
“Sweetheart,” Ed breathes. “There you are.”
His knees crack as he kneels on the ground next to Stede’s forlorn huddle. Stede’s reply is interrupted by another bout of coughing and retching, his body attempting to purge itself of illness despite there being next to nothing in Stede’s poor stomach.
“Shhh, you’re okay,” Ed says, crooning softly as he brushes sweaty curls away from Stede’s sweaty forehead. He’s hot, not clammy, and Ed isn’t sure what that means—but he knows he’s going to get Roach just as soon as he’s assured himself Stede isn’t going to disappear in the time it takes to get him.
Sniffling pitifully, Stede’s bottom lip quivers with the effort of holding back tears. “S-sorry,” he croaks. “Din’t wanna wake you. Tried to be quiet.”
“You don’t need to be quiet,” Ed chides. “You need to let me help you, you sweet bastard. You just got shot.”
Stede blinks up at him, eyes clouded in confusion. “I got shot?”
Ed’s eyes dart down to Stede’s wrapped shoulder, finding the linen spotted with a good amount of blood—nothing too alarming, but Ed won’t be surprised when Roach is cursing them both for fools as he repairs the torn stitches.
“You sure did,” Ed replies. He pulls a bathing sheet down from its peg to dab at Stede’s sweat-covered skin. “Pushed me right out of the way, you fuck. Trying to go all romance hero and sacrifice yourself.”
Stede picks at the knot holding his bandage together until Ed intervenes, lacing their fingers together to keep him from unraveling the miles of linen around his shoulder. “Worth it,” he declares. “And ‘splains why my shoulder hurt so bad,” he mumbles.
“You can’t even remember it,” Ed protests, eyes stinging.
Even half-dead and delirious, Stede manages a weak smile for him. “Always worth it if it’s you.”
A manic laugh tears its way from Ed’s throat. “You gorgeous idiot,” he sniffs. “I’m gonna wring your neck when you’re better. Can I trust you to sit here while I go get Roach?”
“I don’t think I could get up even if I tried,” Stede admits.
“Good,” Ed replies, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll be right back.”