Chapter Text
He does love a good fuckery, is the thing.
The theater of it. The pageantry. Creating a scene, embodying a character, truly digging deep into the audience's psyche and pulling out the things to make them laugh, cry, gasp.
It's tremendous fun planning one with Mary. They've never before had so much to say to one another. She's a wonder, his erstwhile wife -- creative and fearless with a flair for the dramatic that rivals his own.
"And then I'll start crying," Mary laughs. "Or do you think I should faint?"
"No, no, we don't want to oversell it," Stede replies. "But I like your instincts!"
Alma wants to come but Mary wisely says no. "I know it's only make-believe, sweetheart, but it will be a bit gruesome if all goes well. I don't want you to see your father like that."
"I don't care!" Alma protests. "A little bit of blood won't bother me."
"Darling, remember when we played pirates and you had nightmares? Pretend things can be scary too. And I intend this to be very scary! Rawr!" Stede lunges for her and they have one last game of chase around the barn, his children's peals of laughter echoing from the rafters.
He'll miss this. He had been uncomfortable in a married state, but never in a paternal one. "Remember, Alma, Louis -- I may be gone but I still love you, no matter what. And I'll see you again one day, I promise."
Stede kisses his children good-bye and joins Mary on the coach into town. Doug has gone ahead to arrange the piano and print up the jungle cat poster, among other things, so Stede and Mary go to Evelyn's to collect their last two cast members.
They drive around to the back of the undertaker's shop. Evelyn waves them in, "Quick, quick, don't want anyone to see you. Not yet anyway!"
Stede and Mary scurry inside, a dun coat draped over Stede's finery to avoid catching the sun. They clatter through the door and Evelyn locks it behind them.
"Marcus found one for you," Evelyn says, leading them past Ned -- Stede rubs one giant spotted ear as they pass -- through the parlor into the workroom. "A bit too slim but we wrapped some layers of linen around him to thicken him up before we put on the shirt."
Stede frowns as Evelyn pushes open the door. "I don't think I like your implication there --"
And then he's face to face with the corpse dressed in his clothes.
It -- he -- it has the same coloring as Stede. Same height, same weight. Evelyn has cut its hair to match Stede's curls.
This is what I will look like, Stede thinks. When I'm dead.
It's what he would have looked like, if Ed hadn't saved him with his Act of Grace. Or if he'd lost the duel with Izzy. Or if he'd died on that Spanish frigate -- Ed again, keeping Stede's body and soul together. He would have looked just like this, flat out on a table, stiff and grey, surrounded by uncaring strangers discussing whether he'd be more useful in death than he'd ever been in life.
And he will look like that, sooner rather than later. He's averaged about one brush with death a week since his initial foray into piracy and Ed can't save him from everything, if he even lives long enough to find Ed again. Maybe one day it'll be him on the table and Ed standing where he is now, feeling --
Feeling --
"We'll have to do something about the face, of course," Evelyn drawls.
Stede comes back to himself with a start.
"The nose is a dead giveaway," Mary agrees, holding up her thumb in a painterly way to gauge its size. "You did a wonderful job on the hair."
"Thank you. I'm an artist in my own way," Evelyn fluffs the dead man's curls a little. "Stede, do you think you could put his head under the carriage wheel when you make the switch? No one will see the nose after that, even if the piano misses."
"Of course," Stede manages in a voice a bit squeakier than he'd intended.They'd both be just as happy if that were really me. Happier, even.
"All right, let's get him in the coach. Grab his feet, will you?"
"Are you okay, Stede? You look a bit pale." Mary asks, one hand on his arm and the other on the poor wretch's sleeve.
Stede shakes off the gloom, patting her hand to reassure her and maybe himself as well. "Right as rain, my dear. Thank you."
Then he picks up the corpse's legs.
~~~~
The fuckery itself goes brilliantly.
Stede has a fantastic time wrecking the empty bookbinders' shop and smearing himself with pig's blood while the crowd cries out in shock outside. Not the sad drunkard of last night now, am I? Stede Bonnet may be many things, but he's a man who would fight a leopard! It's hard not to let his fake-screams turn into laughs of delight.
He's particularly proud of his little improvised flourishes -- the broken flowers, pleading with them not to blame Ned -- and the euphoria carries him through the delicate timing of the carriage maneuver. He barely flinches as he yanks his 'corpse' from the coach and arranges it just so, head beneath the wheel.
More screams, and then he's galloping away in the rocking carriage, laughing his head off, the piano falling in the distance with a crash of resounding chords.
~~~~
"Well then, Jenkins?" Stede laughs as he hops down from the coach as they arrive at the little grove outside of town. "What did you think?"
The coachman, employed for more than thirty years first by Stede's father and then by Stede himself, strokes his chin. "Well, sir. I can't say I've ever seen anything like it."
"I should think not! A genuine Bonnet original. And you were magnificent yourself -- such dramatic timing! Such presence! You could have been on the stage, Jenkins."
"Thank you, sir."
"It's a shame not to get a curtain call. No applause for such a tremendous show! A tragedy." Stede looks back down the road, thoughtfully. "You think I could sneak into the funeral? Wouldn't that be a sight!"
Jenkins coughs, awkward. "Best not, sir."
"Oh, yes. Quite." The visions of weeping mourners in black, bemoaning the loss of their beloved friend and patriarch, fade into a much more realistic picture of a sparsely attended service presided over by a casually smoking Evelyn, with few tears and fewer regrets. Surely if he were really dead there would be some genuine tears? Had there been a funeral the first time? "No, no, you're right. I could hardly stand to hear all the wailing without giving myself away!"
"Right you are, sir."
"Do tell Mary thank you for playing her part so well, will you? And Doug of course. He's quite a charming fellow, all things considered -- no hard feelings on my part, please give him my thanks as well."
"I'll do that, sir."
"I say Jenkins, why so glum? We've just pulled off a splendid fuckery and both Mary and I are free! I did try to keep the blood off the seats like you asked."
The coachman shifts in his seat, looking forward at the road rather than at Stede. "I know, sir, and I'm happy for you both. It's only that...not to talk out of turn, but I'll miss you, sir."
Stede is...not sure what to say to that.
"I've known you, man and boy, half my life. Saw your ma bring you out to see the sun your very first day on Earth. Taught you to ride. Drove you and your pa to your wedding day. Your father, God rest him, was a hard man and I won't speak ill of the dead, but he shouldn't ought to have done that to you and Mrs Bonnet."
"No," Stede manages. "Jenkins, I--"
"It's all right, sir. Just wanted to say, I know there's some who might be glad to see you put in the ground for true, but there's some who'd mourn, just the same."
He doesn't even know Jenkins' first name.
Jenkins turns back to the road and gathers up the reins. "Well, sir. I wish you luck."
"Here, wait!" Stede gets a hand on the reins before Jenkins can start the horses. He pats himself down, but there's nothing in his pockets. So he pulls off his rings. "Here. I know it isn't much, but that one is an emerald, I think."
"I don't want --"
"No, please. I couldn't have done this without you. And your wife -- she'd like a nice bauble or two, wouldn't she? And -- and I haven't done enough for you, all these years. My mother would box my ears; she was always fond of you."
Jenkins weighs the rings in his palm, weighs Stede himself with his eyes. "All right. For the sake of your ma. You look after yourself, now."
"I will. Good-bye, Jenkins. Thank you."
Jenkins drives off, not looking back despite Stede waving.
Once the coach is out of sight, he gets to work. It's easy digging -- lucky, because he doesn't have a shovel -- and it's only a few minutes before he hits paydirt.
Doug has come through again -- he really is wonderful -- and there's a little sack not too far under the surface. It's not much: a jacket, waistcoat and loose trousers in a solemn black, cheap fabric but well-made, with a simple white linen shirt for underneath. He finds no stockings or shoes but boots instead, cut high for riding and just a pinch too small. There's even a little black hat with a flat brim and a little piece of green and blue tartan flannel that puzzles Stede for a moment before he realizes it's a neckerchief like the one Lucius wears. Not a fashion Stede would have ever chosen himself, but it looks a good fit and it won't be recognized.
Stede changes his clothes, giving one last regretful pat to his favorite seafoam green coat -- such a favorite that he had three identical copies made, all now ruined. "You've served me well, old friend. Now you must disappear."
It's only the work of a moment to bury his fuckery outfit in the hole and cover it back up. He smiles as he digs, thinking of Ed and their 'treasure hunt'.
Maybe he'll make a map, ha! X marks the spot and everything. He'll crinkle it up and singe the edges. And then some other would-be pirate or adventure-seeker will walk ten paces from that palm tree, dig down four inches and find a bundle of extremely fine, extremely bloody clothes.
"No headstone, I'm afraid," Stede tells the little mound of dirt when he's done. "That'll go on the proper grave. But it really should go here. Rest in Peace, Stede Bonnet. And happy birthday...er, probably still Stede Bonnet, I suppose. Never did get around to picking a cool new name. But a different Stede. Maybe a better one."
"No," a voice behind him. "You'll never be better."
Stede spins around, knife in hand, to see --
Himself. Or -- someone in his clothes, the fancy bloody ones he just buried, but with a face smashed beyond recognition.
"It should have been you," the specter says with its destroyed mouth. "It should have been you."