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There is an intruder on board The Revenge.
Logistically, this shouldn’t be possible. This isn’t a situation that Ed should encounter.
Jeff might. Places like inns and bars and restaurants; Ed supposes they’d have to deal with all kinds of scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells. Sneaking in to loot or rob or ransack or try to claim they’ve got a coupon for a free meal when the establishment has never distributed such a coupon. Maybe drink all the gin in the mini-bar and then fill the bottle back up with water.
Intruders are expected on land. Intruders are a Jeff Problem.
Not an Ed Problem.
Because Ed is on a vessel traversing across the open fucking ocean, miles away from land and not having made port in several weeks. Other than gulls, there should be no possible way for any new forms-of-life to inhabit a fucking sea-bound ship.
The only explanation is that the intruder is a stowaway.
Back when Ed was Blackbeard, he’d have been able to compile an extensive list of ways to deal with stowaways, ranging from ‘cruel-and-unusual’ to ‘so-reliant-on-shock-value-that-you-kind-of-couldn’t-help-but-laugh, honestly’.
But that was before.
He’s not the captain now.
And truth be told, he’s at a total loss as to what the fuck he’s meant to do about this.
Because the intruder in question has…sequestered himself to Ed’s quarters. Ed’s personal quarters on board The Revenge.
Ed’s been doing this thing recently, where he tries to focus on the positives. Over the past couple of months, he’s been doing far too much…well, wallowing , if he were to put it lightly (and perhaps putrefying, if he were to put it bluntly). Enough is enough. He’s on a space ship now, a really safe one, and things aren’t going to get any better if he continues to let himself rot. It’s time to put in the work.
So. A positive is: Ed’s lucky enough that the crew of The Revenge have, despite his previous treatment of them all, deemed him worthy of having his own bedroom.
This is a privilege. He’s grateful for it. He brings it up at the sharing circle on Thankful Thursday.
If Ed were going to be…well, not negative. Not critical, just… realistic.
If Ed were going to think about things realistically, he might say that it's technically not-really a bedroom. It's a two-by-one lockable cupboard that was previously used as storage for blankets and medical supplies. And he might say that the bedroom (bedcupboard?) was gifted to him less out of kindness and more out of terror, because none of the crew wanted him sleeping anywhere near them.
He might say that.
In fairness, he'd had another option.
The captain's quarters had been offered to him.
Not the bed. Too fast. There was still a small sofa in the auxiliary wardrobe, one of the few pieces that hadn't ended up overboard.
"If the crew are…feeling a teeny bit hesitant about you sleeping in the berth, you're welcome to sleep with me! Well–well, not–I. No, I meant–I just meant in the. In my cabin. Not–oh, god, sorry, I really did mean–"
Ed had said slow.
Stede has been, in typical Stede fashion, exceedingly respectful of this. Of slow. Ed had known, even before Stede's red-faced, fumbling revisions, that Stede had not intended the double-entendre.
Ed could have taken up the offer. He could have slept in the auxiliary wardrobe. Stede wouldn’t try anything, Ed is certain.
But then Ed thinks of that kiss up on the deck; of the fingers slipping into his hair and caressing the back of his neck in such a way that’d made his fucking toes curl , of the fact that somehow, against all odds, Stede Bonnet knows how to kiss like that . Of the fact that Ed had been forced to end the kiss before the kiss ended him, just completely fucking obliterated whatever the hell was left of him, and–
And he’d realised he had no other choice but to politely decline.
There’s no way Ed can do this whole slow thing, if he’s sleeping anywhere even vaguely in the vicinity of Stede. There’s only so much his willpower can take.
And he’s not going to rush and fuck this up a second time.
So he’s appreciative of the cupboard. It’s a compromise. Sure, he can’t really stretch out properly, and when he tries to roll over it’s impossible not to whack his ankles or his elbows, unless he sort-of shimmies backwards until his spine is pressed flush against the wall first. And sure, it’s a little disconcerting the first few days, when the crew insists on making full use of the lock (‘ for our own protection, like,’ says Wee John ). And it gets hot. Sometimes too hot to sleep.
Ed would take a cupboard half the size; a box or chest, even, if that’s what it took to be allowed a second go. A do-over, one that he knows is undeserved.
But he draws the line at this.
Ed stands in the doorway to his bedcupboard, and eyes the intruder with apprehensive distrust.
The intruder eyes him back.
Eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes him. Eight times.
(One for each eye. Obviously).
At first, Ed thinks (hopes) that maybe it’s dead. Part of his new optimistic approach, you see. The power of positive thinking.
Maybe it’s dead.
It’s probably dead.
It looks dead.
How can you tell if a spider is dead?
Gingerly, Ed grabs the corner of the blanket on the ground, which has been acting as Ed’s mattress/pillow/sheet for the past few days, and gives it a sharp flick.
The spider is not dead.
Ed might be.
His heart cannonballs up to the back of his teeth, pounding frantically, and there’s a swift vise-like grip around his lungs. He stumbles backwards, tripping out of, then over his shoes, and an undignified bark of alarm is ripped from his throat. He’s immediately struck by the irrational and completely unreasonable thought that he can feel something crawling across his skin; several somethings, maybe - could be lots of them, hundreds, everywhere, and he runs manic, juddery hands all over himself to brush the phantom legs away. Just about keels over and dies when he actually feels something under his palm; something gossamer-fine and ticklish and moving , but it’s only a strand of his own hair, Jesus fuck .
He gives his whole body a little wriggle; tries to shake off the tension. Catches sight of that fucking stupid tattoo on his hand, and is very nearly thrown headlong into mindless panic all over again.
Idiot.
Ed forces his eyes up from where they’re burning holes in the back of his own hand. Best to keep his gaze fixed on the real villain here, lest it get away.
The spider has relocated. It takes Ed several seconds of frenzied eye-darting to spot it again, and once he’s won this little game of I-Spy he transitions seamlessly into a second game, which is a Staring Contest. He refuses to look away. He glares. Glarefully.
He’s not sure if the spider is actually fuck-off huge, or if this is one of those times where Ed’s perception of things is woefully unreliable, hamming it up like one of Stede’s fuckeries. The Theatre of Fear, he’d called it, which seems apt right now. It certainly appears to be fuck-off huge. Ed could swear that your standard ship rat would be smaller. It’s black, with thick, sturdy legs and an intimidating set of front-facing pincers, so big that Ed can clock them all the way from the doorway. It’s motionless, and so is Ed. They’re at a stalemate, and Ed could swear that fucking Hairylegs McGee knows it, and is absolutely taking Ed for a ride. It can sense Ed’s ridiculous, juvenile panic, and it’s gleeful about it. Probably giggling to itself. Smug little prick.
The problem is this:
If Ed walks away, he risks losing sight of the spider.
If Ed tries to flag down a passing member of the crew, he risks his last remaining shred of dignity.
If Ed simply stomps on the thing, he risks having it crawl up his leg and sink its enormous fangs into him and then bits of him will turn black and fall off, maybe. And he’s fairly sure Izzy’s keeping the extra unicorn leg as a spare, and would be most unwilling to give it up. Not to Ed, anyway. Which is fair, considering the circumstances.
So Ed is stuck.
He’s not sure how long he stands there. Arms dangling by his sides and shoulders hunched, like a fucking cryptid. He feels absolutely moronic about the whole thing, but definitely not so moronic that he’s about to make any sudden moves.
Ed will take on merchant ships and bounty hunters and assassins and the fucking Navy. He’ll take on the seven seas; perilous and untamed, with a wider expanse than hell itself.
But this fucking guy has him beat.
A sudden hand on Ed’s shoulder has him just about leaping out of his skin all over again.
“Ed?”
“Shitting fuck–” he hisses.
He jolts violently, whole body whirling to face his attacker who, at this point, Ed is only just short of fully convinced is a giant man-spider that's somehow learned his name.
Stede instantly steps back, looking alarmed at Ed's disproportionately volatile reaction to a greeting and a shoulder touch. He raises both hands in a calming sort-of way; like he's trying to appear as non-threatening as possible.
"Hey, woah, what's–"
" Shitting fuck–" Ed says again , this time in more of a rather mortifying yelp, because fuck, he's looked away and now he's lost it, he's lost the bloody–
"Ed, what's wrong?"
"The fucking–"
He spins back around, eyes frantically scanning the room, fuck fuck fuck –
The spider is exactly where Ed had left it.
So Ed assumes the position again.
Stands frozen, jaw set and eyes wide.
And stares.
This is good. Safe. Hasn't let him down so far.
"Ed, what on earth are you– oh."
Stede has apparently followed Ed's gaze and has located the object of his unwavering focus.
"Oh, goodness, look at the size of him!"
Ed makes a vague noise in response.
He doesn't take his eyes off his new arch-nemesis, not even for a second. Doesn't even blink.
"Are you…not very fond of spiders, Ed?"
Ed makes another noise, somehow more vague and less…responsey than the first.
His throat feels dry and tight. He wants to clear it. Wants to look at Stede. He can't.
Stede is glancing, with cautious interest, between Ed and the spider, like he's sizing up the both of them all at once. Ed can see him in his peripherals.
"I…would have assumed you'd be comfortable enough with them," he admits. "Forgive me, but…just seems rather an odd choice, for somebody that's arachnophobic."
He reaches out with tentative fingers to touch the tattoo on the back of Ed's hand. Ed waits for the touch to be light; to feel like legs and to make his skin crawl. It doesn't. It's as though Stede knows that such a touch would only exacerbate Ed's already mounting jitteriness, and the pressure is just right, pointedly firm and sure. A press and slide of his index and middle finger from Ed's wrist up to the border of his knuckles.
The touch does something to him. But it doesn't give him the heebie-jeebies.
Ed swallows roughly.
"S'a long story," he croaks. "Got it to try and do away with a fear of spiders. Didn't work."
Stede's fingers curl gently around Ed's wrist.
"That isn't a long story at all," he teases, voice warm.
Ed wants to smile at the callback, but he's still, humiliatingly enough, unable to meet Stede's eyes. He manages a tight twitch of his lips that he's sure probably looks more like a grimace than the genuine smile Stede deserves.
Stede strokes, tenderly, at the large blue veins that Ed knows map the inside of his wrist.
"Would you…like some help, Ed?" he offers, gentle and fond and so fucking patient it makes Ed want to scream. There's not even the slightest trace of judgement or mockery in his voice. Ed rifles through it, paranoid, as it passes through his ears and then his brain and settles comfortably in his chest. He can’t find a single speck.
"Nah, mate," he mutters, stupidly. "I'm good."
But he doesn't move.
He hasn't moved.
The spider is still watching him with obvious ill-intentions, and Ed is starting to sweat.
"...Okay," says Stede, in drawn-out bemusement. "Okay. Perhaps I'll just–"
And then Stede is sidling past Ed, who doesn't even bother with a cursory, polite shuffle out of his way. Just continues to stand there mechanically, swallowing and sweating like an absolute fucking imbecile, so Stede actually has to turn his whole body sideways just to squish past him.
(If Ed weren't so distracted, his heart might leap over the fact that the natural consequence of this is that he feels Stede's entire arse brush against his hip. His heart does, in fact, leap, but this is because Stede's sudden movement causes the spider to dart across to the opposite corner of his bedcupboard).
"Okay, little guy," Stede croons, in an endearing lilt, like he might be talking to a small child, rather than an ugly fucker with too many legs. It’s easy, for a moment, to imagine how Stede would’ve been with his own kids. Ed wants to bite something.
And then Ed actually does bite something, and that something is his own tongue, because Stede squats down and just…scoops the bloody thing up in his bare hands like it’s nothing.
The lining of Ed’s stomach liquifies and straight-up curdles. He feels the air in his lungs like splinters, and his heart thuds in about five different body parts at once.
Stede hauls himself to his feet with a horrifyingly adorable middle-aged man-grunt and a quiet there we go, both hands rounded to make a little cave that houses Ed’s worst bloody nightmare.
He takes a step towards Ed, and Ed takes an automatic one back.
“S’okay,” Stede soothes. “Not going to chuck it at you. You don’t even have to look at it if you don’t want to, but–”
“I don’t want to,” Ed bristles, trying not to visibly recoil. It comes out gruff and a little hostile, which isn’t fair.
“But,” Stede continues insistently, like Ed hasn’t said anything at all. “But I think perhaps you should. Can’t face a fear without…well, facing it. Looking at it.”
“No.”
“I won’t force you,” Stede says placatingly. He stands, calm and composed and looking at Ed with gentle, unwavering eyes like he’s not holding an entire spider in his hands. “Your call. But I promise, he’s really not so bad. You don’t have to touch him. I’ll hold him the whole time.”
“Honestly, I’ll pass.”
“Okay,” says Stede again. “That’s okay.”
But he waits.
Gives Ed a chance to actually consider his options, rather than running on instinct; his usual way.
Stede knows Ed.
And, despite the churning in his gut and the prickling along his skin, Ed finds himself taking the tiniest, most wary step forwards.
Ed’s had more than enough of quashing his own fears, his insecurities.
Look where it’s led him.
It’s time to put in the work.
He takes one more step, heart racing.
Stede lifts one hand, just enough for Ed to be able to take a peek at the creature huddled into his palms, without said creature having enough room to scurry away.
It looks…small.
So much smaller than Ed had anticipated, trapped in Stede’s hands.
It’s much smaller than Ed.
He watches it for a while. It sits quite placidly, regarding Ed in stoic silence.
Obviously. Not like the spider is going to give him a cheery ‘Hey, Ed!’
Buttons did turn into a seagull, Ed supposes. Stranger things have happened.
“Don’t suppose you’d like to hold him?” Stede asks; sweetly, a tad hopefully. Ed goes, “Don’t push your luck, mate,” and Stede just laughs.
Ed clears his throat. He’s been wanting to for ages, and it’s only just now felt safe to do so.
“So, uh. What do we do with the little bugger?”
“Hm,” says Stede thoughtfully. He keeps his hands cupped around the spider to keep it from jumping out and piercing Ed's jugular. It might not have definitively murderous intent after all, but Ed still doesn’t fully trust it. "Ordinarily, I tend to advocate for catch and release. But I can't exactly do that on the ship. It'll drown."
He advocates for catch and release. Of course he does.
Ed is very much tempted to tell Stede just to squash the bloody thing. But after the rather… bloodthirsty reputation he's gone and established for himself, as well as the way Stede is cradling it protectively in his palms, such a request seems wildly inappropriate.
Ed shrugs stiffly, and says nothing.
"I suppose you wouldn't be too keen on…just having it loose on the ship?" Stede asks hesitantly.
Ed continues to watch Stede's hands with uneasy trepidation. He barely even realises he's failed to respond, but Stede clearly sees something that he interprets as an answer on Ed's face, because he gives a brisk shake of his head and tuts, "No, no, certainly not," quietly to himself.
Ed releases a small breath.
"What about," says Stede, slowly, in a tone that makes Ed feel he's being negotiated with. "What if we kept it…contained. Perhaps popped it in a jar with a breathing hole or two? Fang's been wanting a pet for ages. He might be interested. Could even carry on the Kevin family tradition."
So the spider’s name is Kevin.
It’s much harder to feel oppressive, all-consuming dread towards something that is called Kevin.
Ed wonders if Stede has done this on purpose.
A jar is found for Kevin. Stede deposits him into his new home, and nicks himself trying to poke a few holes into the lid with a dagger far too big for such a job. He sucks his index finger to stop the bleeding. Ed doesn’t look.
Does a bit.
Very respectfully, though.
They sit opposite each other on the floor, backs against the walls of the cupboard (only after Stede, very accomodatingly, shakes out Ed’s blanket and checks around for more spiders, then spider eggs, then spiders again). Stede holds the jar, peering in at Kevin through the glass.
“Can I ask,” Stede asks (so the answer is immediately yes), “what it is you don’t like about them? What is it that makes you feel…”
“Scared?” Ed supplies, maybe a bit sourly.
“I thought Blackbeard doesn’t feel fear.”
“I’m not Blackbeard,” says Ed simply.
He meets Stede’s gaze, and there’s an expression on Stede’s face that Ed has seen before, but he can’t name. It’s the one where his eyebrows go up and make little creases in his forehead, and his eyes go all shiny like moonglow caught in the sea.
Stede doesn’t say anything, and Ed takes this to mean that he’s probably meant to answer the question he’s kind-of sidestepped.
He thinks.
“The eyes,” he admits. “Eyes are creepy. Not even that there’s so many of them; just the way they’re all…round and black. Seems…kind of soulless. Freaks me out.”
Stede is listening intently. He’s gone a little flinty around his own eyes, and he nods slowly, contemplatively, like he’s really and truly considering what Ed has to say.
So Ed keeps going.
“Legs,” he blurts out. “Legs too long. Too much…leg. Don’t like that. Also, they’re ugly. Just in general. They’re awful to look at.”
Stede’s expression is shifting, something like realisation dawning. He opens his mouth, but Ed’s not done, he’s not finished , he needs to–
“They’re unpredictable,” he spits out, voice growing increasingly harsh. He keeps his eyes focused on the spider, but not the one in the jar. The one that's stabbed into his own cells, a permanent reminder. “Fucking unpredictable, can’t trust them. You can’t tell what it’s thinking and what it’ll do next. Too alien. Fuck that shit.”
“Ed,” Stede says, soft and imploring. “Ed-”
“They’re…fuckin’ toxic. Filled with toxins. They’re poison–”
“Ed, you’re crying.”
Is he?
Nah.
Surely not.
Ed sucks in a breath through his nose. Pulls his knees up to his chest, then stares at them. They ripple, like he’s looking at them from under a thin layer of ocean skin.
Fuck.
Ed swipes viciously at his eyes.
There is a sudden warm pressure against Ed’s ankle.
Stede has shuffled forwards. Kevin is all but forgotten, in his little jar, and Stede is holding onto Ed’s ankle with solemn conviction.
“I’ve never been bitten by a spider,” Stede tells him.
Ed chokes out a wet, humourless laugh.
“You will. S’nature.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Ed shrugs.
God, he’s…he’s fucking this up.
He’s fucking this all up, all over again.
He knew he was going to, he just didn't expect it to be so soon, so soon after–
"Do you know much about peacock spiders, Ed?"
It's like whiplash; how quickly the question and the gentle, introspective tone pull Ed from his miserable self-loathing.
He shakes his head dumbly.
Ed's not looking at Stede, but he knows Stede is looking at him. And he hears the kind smile, even if he doesn't see it; the warmth. Feels it in the caress of Stede's thumb against his ankle.
"Peacock spiders have the most remarkable behaviours," Stede says. "Fascinating little creatures. They're…well, gaudy , first of all. All sorts of bright, vivid colours; red and teal and indigo. Dressed to the nines."
Ed likes that.
He likes that a lot.
"And," Stede continues, in the same voice he uses for bedtime stories, "to attract a mate, they dance. They put on a whole…theatrical performance, all dressed in their fancy clothes, to try and get the object of their affections to notice them. They’re honestly… extraordinarily sweet little things."
"Sounds like someone I know."
If Stede notices that Ed sounds a bit choked up, he doesn't comment on it. He does give his ankle a reassuring squeeze. Ed thinks of being face down on a deck, wrists tied behind his back and a brainless smile on his face.
"They’re not all like that,” Ed says. “Like peacocks. Some of them really are …dangerous. Venomous. And you...you picked up that one like you weren’t even bothered by it.”
Stede lets go of Ed’s ankle in favour of grabbing both his hands, interlacing their fingers together like their hands have homes in each other. His voice drops to an almost whisper.
“I was, a bit,” he confesses. “Bothered by it. Scared. Because you’re right, about spiders. It's an animal. You can’t tell what it’s thinking, and what it’ll do next. But…”
Stede shifts a little; leans into Ed’s space just enough so Ed can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“It’s…about trust. All you can do is be gentle, not make any sudden moves, and trust that it knows I’m not going to hurt it.”
And Ed knows that, he knows , and suddenly he’s facing the fear, he’s holding it with both hands, heedless of the venom, and he’s kissing Stede, kissing him like that night on the deck with a fish dangling from his hands, kissing him like he isn’t terrified even though he is.
Stede kisses back, just as eager and intense as Ed remembers. One hand hovers, uncertain, at the empty space in front of Ed’s hair, and Ed murmurs, “yeah, g’on,” into Stede’s open, gasping mouth. The hand sinks in, and Ed’s not going to pull away this time.
Ed melts into it; right into Stede’s arms, just like he promised he wouldn’t. He can’t bring himself to feel any regret for it. Stede is a little glass jar with a hole in the lid; encasing him, protecting him, and never ever suffocating.
The kiss drags on and on and on, and it’s the absolute fucking best. It’s decadent and luxurious, very Stede-coded, and just fast enough. Stede’s fingers tangle beautifully in Ed’s hair, nails grazing his neck and his collarbone and behind his ears, and Ed could live in this moment, he honestly could.
It’s a bit unreal, to kiss without feeling harried or rushed along. Without feeling like this has to go somewhere else. Further.
It doesn’t.
Not unless Ed wants it to.
Maybe Ed wants it to.
“I reckon there’s still spiders in here,” Ed says, when he’s able to pull back just enough to get the words out. “Probably in the walls. Probably gonna creep out while I’m asleep.”
“Oh,” Stede manages, breathless and delighted. “Oh, we can’t have that.”
“Maybe there’s…somewhere a bit more…spider-proof somewhere on this ship. That I could go. Tonight.”
“Are you…certain? I mean, I hope you know that if you do choose to spend the night in my cabin, there’s obviously no expectation that…I mean, you’re under no obligation to–”
“‘Course not,” says Ed, feeling a grin start to take over his face.
“You’d have to do a little dance first. Win me over.”
And Stede laughs, open and real, which makes Ed laugh too. He brushes Ed’s hair out of his face, thumbing along Ed’s jaw, before rising to his feet with another of those embarrassingly adorable man-grunts, and pulling Ed along with him.
Ed doesn’t know what will happen.
Tonight.
What Stede will do. What they will do.
It’s unpredictable. It’s a beast with a lot of legs.
But see: Ed’s been doing this thing recently. Where he focuses on the positives.
And the key takeaway here is:
Gentleness. Patience.
No sudden moves.
Ed trusts it.