Chapter Text
Link to chapter one with sound effects
Link to chapter one voice only
Chapter one recording is 15:17
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Ed’s just getting set up when he sees the guy.
At first he’s not sure what he’s seeing. It’s late November, thirty miles east of Duluth, and the guy’s picking his way across the beach—such as it is—barefoot, in some kind of big gold robe, what the fuck?
Ed pulls out his binoculars and peers through them, squinting. Yeah, the guy’s barefoot, bare-legged. Is he wearing anything under that robe? Is this a sex thing? Because Ed wouldn’t walk on that beach at noon in mid-August, let alone the weekend after American Thanksgiving at twilight. They’re in fuck-off nowhere, Wisconsin, just on the edge of Bear Beach, and there’s nothing around except frigid water that’s only just barely unfrozen.
And then the guy—blond, solid, pale, rosy chest peeking out when the flaps of the robe part—steps into the water.
Ed yelps and pulls up the anchor quick, reeling it in so fast he thinks the pulley might start smoking, because the guy is wincing visibly, but he’s not stopping, just fucking—wading in! To Lake Superior! In November! Mental!
Dude’s waist-deep now, and he’s still not stopping. He’s going a little slower now, and Ed tries not to think about what his bare feet—fucking bare feet!—must be squelching in, because all that shit about Lake Superior keeping her corpses preserved, sure, but also people drop all sorts of crap in the lake, and if corpses don’t rot nothing else does either, and.
And the guy’s slowing down, because he’s hit the depth where the waves really start to get you, and he’s flailing his arms and—
Oh shit.
Ed yanks the cord on the engine and flicks on the lights fully, because the guy’s just disappeared under the dark, endless waters of Lake Superior and Ed would rather not give it one more corpse today, thanks.
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Okay, Stede might have made a mistake here. Perhaps. A little bit.
Because yes, he’s a strong swimmer—grew up in Auckland, moved to Cape Cod in his early twenties, swam off the beach in Provincetown straight through to the first Massachusetts snows most years for two decades, but.
He’s not sure if it’s the fresh water as opposed to salt, or the fact that it’s nearly dark—because he misjudged the drive, missed a turn, barely found this place, actually, only knows about it from a Reddit reply from one seagull_witch to his question of best beaches to be alone.
Stede has always done this: the last night of November, he’s gone to the water, waded in, let the chill remind him he’s here, he’s alive, he can feel. It’s one reason he chose to live here, really.
He’s left his shoes and socks neatly tucked under the passenger seat along with three large, fluffy towels and a fresh change of clothes. There don’t seem to be changing facilities here—or much of any facilities at all—but he’s not body-shy and as long as there’s no risk of arrest for public indecency (and how could there be, where there’s no one to be indecent to [can one be indecent alone? If a man bares his testicles in a public place and there’s no one there to see it, is it still illegal? Important questions for when he has cell service again]) he’s willing to rough it. So he wraps his gold robe around him, covering his boxers (there are limits to his boldness, after all, and they start approximately at his genitals)—because that wind is fierce, and the robe is a finely woven linen-silk blend, so it should survive a quick dip—and steps into water that’s... bracing.
But as the water laps at his hips and his foot slips in something slick and also somehow sticky, he thinks that, perhaps, he should have taken Mary’s advice and gone to a spa with a hot tub instead of his usual polar bear dip.
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Ed cuts the engine about a dozen feet from where he saw the guy go down. It’s barely a minute since he first saw him slip, and Ed doesn't waste a second: he flips the lights down to point under the surface and fixes his eyes on the glitter of gold he sees moving. Not looking away, he strips his jacket, boots, and pants off and flings them towards the cabin. He only lets himself think this is going to suck for about half a second as he’s diving in and reaching for handfuls of soaked fabric, yanking upward, and fuck, the fabric’s coming off, great swirls of it, why the fuck is he wearing a bathrobe and why is it so big—
And then a hand catches his own, pushing through acres of wet silk, and Ed kicks hard against the water and pulls a flailing, warm, slippery body against his chest.
When their heads break the surface, Ed’s thrilled to hear a gasp that matches his—not wet, not hacking up lakewater, so the guy had the sense to not breathe at least. That’s good.
He’s not sure how he makes it back onto the boat. They’re only a couple dozen feet from it and he’s got plenty of experience hauling shit up the little ladder. Also, the guy seems to shake off his shock a bit and manages to half-drag himself up with just a little boost from Ed.
Ed collapses on the deck, skin pins and needles all over as the cold lake wind drags over wet flesh. Beside him, Mr. walk-into-fucking-Lake-Superior-in-November is gasping for breath.
“What in the world—” the guy says, and shit. Shit! Guy’s a fucking Kiwi, because of course he is, because Ed’s life can’t get any weirder, honestly.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Ed bursts out. “You trying to die, bro?”
“What?” the man says again, and pushes himself upright. He pulls the edges of the wet robe around himself, shivers starting to wrack his body. “No!”
“You walked into Lake Superior!” Ed says, and fumbles behind himself for the bench storage, pulling out two towels that have seen better days and shoving them towards the guy. “Take the robe off, man, jesus fuck, you’re gonna stay frozen in that.”
“I was just—it’s a tradition, when I need to think—”
“Think about what? Your impending death?”
“No!” The word barely makes it through chattering teeth as the man takes the towels. “I—” He slides the robe off, and drops one towel immediately, hands shaking too badly, and. Shit.
His face is dripping with lakewater, a little bit of something gross and green stuck to his forehead, and his eyes are so wide Ed can see white all around the irises. It’s bright on the boat deck, bright enough that he can see that the guy’s eyes are a startling sort of gold-green-hazel color, and his cheeks are paper-pale under high spots of color.
Ed picks up the fallen towel, pushes himself upright, and drapes it around the guy’s shoulders, lifting cold, limp hands and placing them on the edges, curling wet fingers around the terrycloth. He can feel the way the guy’s shaking so hard it’s probably painful, probably a combination of cold and adrenaline and terror. Ed takes the other towel and brings it up to the guy’s face, pausing for a moment, and when he gets a tiny nod, he uses a corner to wipe gently at the water and lake grossness on his forehead and cheeks, folding the cloth to use a clean section on each swipe. Once the slime isn’t threatening the guy’s eyes, Ed scrunches the towel over his head to stop the worst of the drips making rivulets down his face and shoulders.
He can feel the way the man’s eyes are following him, feel the way they burn against his cheeks, and as he finishes his face and moves to under his chin—knuckles brushing soft skin with just a hint of stubble—he steps closer.
“I’m Ed,” he says, keeping his voice quiet and soothing.
“Stede,” says the guy through chattering teeth, and he reaches up a hand between them, the other coming up to catch the corners of the towel around his shoulders to hold it on. “Stede Bonnet.”
“Nice to meet you, Stede Bonnet,” Ed says, squeezing his hand. His palm is warm despite everything, and Ed—
Something flashes in the corner of Ed’s eye, and his heart jolts in his chest. “Get below!”
“What?” Stede lets himself be pushed toward the cabin as Ed flicks off the lights and starts the engine back up. “What?!”
“Just—get down there,” Ed says, giving him another push and grabbing the hatch. “I’ll be right there. Just gotta deal with something.”
“Deal with—Ed!” Stede pushes back against the hatch. “Ed! What’s going on!”
Ed growls and grabs the wheel, taking the boat on a long, slow loop. It’s a gibbous moon tonight, high in the sky, just enough light that he can see it glinting off the waves as his eyes adjust, and he should have known better, should have been fucking paying attention, because he knows Ben’s team’s out tonight, knows the guy’s got it in for him, and he still let himself be distracted by this guy long enough that the fucking Coast Guard spotted the lights.
“Fuck,” he mutters again, and leans into the turn.
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Stede has... no idea what is happening.
One moment he was wading into cold water, letting it wash over him and soothe his frantic brain, and the next?
The next moment a wave was sweeping him under like Moana crossing the reef, and then the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life was pulling him onto a boat and tenderly drying his face, and how they’re fleeing—something? Someone?
Stede’s been shoved below decks, into a neat, tightly packed cabin, and.
Hm.
He’s freezing, and exhausted, and confused, but still—
There’s something odd about the cabin.
Stede knows boats. He had a lovely little catamaran back home in Auckland, and a sloop he adored when he lived in Provincetown, and he’s certainly spent enough time on boats in his life to know that something about this one isn’t quite right.
It’s the planking along the walls, he realizes as he steps closer, squinting in the dim light. When he runs one hand along the wood, it’s a smooth-grained cherrywood, but then...
Then it transitions into a thinner, slickly coated maple.
Hmmm.
He’s still shaking, his fingernails clacking against the wood. It’s a distant sort of realization, the coldness almost theoretical—he can’t remember being warm, not really, which is ridiculous, because he was submerged for no more than a minute! How can he be this cold from sixty seconds in a lake?
But he is—he’s freezing. Stede is aware of it all at once, a deep chill in his core, and that’s when his legs go all jelly-like, he catches himself on the wall again, arms coming to wrap around his torso. His skin is clammy all over, the towels soaking up the lakewater but not doing much to warm him.
There’s warm air coming from somewhere nearby, and he stumbles toward the feeling, finds a little couch with a vent in the floor in front of it. He can’t even make it to the seat: he collapses in front of it and drags a blanket down to wrap around himself as he curls around the vent.
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It’s Ben Hornigold’s boat. Ed would know that fucker from a thousand yards, just by the glint of his too-white teeth in that smirk. Ben’s the only one who knows Ed’s routes, and Ed’s been able to stay ahead of him so far, but of course tonight he’s had his floodlights on and he’s been splashing around a couple dozen feet from the shore, so of course the cops have noticed!
He’s got all his lights off now—illegal, but if they stop him for that shit they’ll probably notice the massive bounty on him while writing him his ticket if they don’t find the huge stash of contraband in his boat—and he slows the engine to barely a crawl as he slips into the inlet, cuts the engine completely, lets it drift around the corner up Smith Creek, tucks himself behind the boulder at the entrance, uses the tiller and residual speed to move the boat, and then—
He steps up to the bow, leans forward against the rail, and listens.
In the distance, he can hear shouting, engines, splashing, but it doesn’t come closer, doesn’t encroach on his hiding spot, and when the voices fade into the darkness, he lets himself relax a bit.
“Not today, you dickfuck,” he murmurs out at his former boss, the man who trained him, the man who betrayed him.
And then he shivers, because he’s still in his fucking boxers in the almost December air. He lowers the anchor gently, slipping it into the water with barely a sound, and takes a deep breath. Time to deal with his other problem.
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