Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So if his head is smoke, do his eyes just float?”

“What? No! It’s… it’s more of a mythical exaggeration.”

“Oh, I see. He’s like a folk hero, like Robin Hood?”

“Robs from the rich and gives to the poor?”

“Yes!”

“Well - not the second bit, but he definitely steals from the rich…”

Izzy glared at the dial glowing on the dashboard. Who the fuck else would you steal from?

“Oh - so more like a Ned Kelly? A folk antihero, a representation of the working man’s struggle against an unjust authority?”

“Exactly! The people always give him refuge.”

Did they fuck.

Izzy pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to remember that this was, in fact, a good idea. 

Many, many years ago, when Izzy’s path first began to veer away from the straight and narrow, her grandfather had darkly predicted she’d meet her end at the hangman’s noose. Her mother, on the other hand, foresaw the less specific “dead in a ditch somewhere”, while various religious wankers trotted out the old “eternity of damnation” shit. Not one of those fuckers had warned that the truly harrowing thing about a life of organised crime was the actual organising.

Because any phone call could be tapped. Any note could be waved around by a barrister with a shit eating grin, declaring that he held here in his hand conclusive evidence of a criminal conspiracy, and that the scoundrel before the court ought to be sent down for five to ten if it please your Honour.

And yet, with a full time crew of close to twenty goons and maybe a hundred nefarious affiliates, Blackbeard’s gang couldn’t function without communication. Wrangling these twats without attracting the attention of the authorities was an endless nightmare that wore on Izzy’s patience like sandpaper.

She squinted at the number scrawled on the beer mat Jackie had slid across the bar. In the sickly yellow light of the streetlamp, maybe she’d made a mistake…

But no. The dial was in the right place.

Bastard.

The plan was simple, really. Ever the opportunist, Spanish Jackie had volunteered to be the onshore communication hub for some new pirate radio station. In return, she asked only that they indulge her song requests every now and then. 

Only Jackie, Izzy and their associates would know that a particular song broadcast at a particular time would signal a particular message. If the right song played tonight, it meant the coast was clear for tonight’s job. If the song didn’t play? Time to get the fuck out. 

Of course, anyone with half a brain would know that Spanish Jackie never did a favour without getting a thousand in return, but these pirate DJs apparently didn’t meet that requirement. So their signal would be untraceable, broadcast to thousands of people scattered along the coast, by a station that had no idea what they were signalling… 

Izzy sighed. So yeah yeah yeah, alright! It was a good plan, a very good fucking plan. Unfortunately - Izzy gritted her teeth - it meant she had to spend an evening listening to Revenge fucking Radio.

“And yeah, so when I was in his gang, Blackbeard was behind most of the bank jobs, art heists, and railway robberies around the greater Sydney area. Has been for like, at least the last decade. Definitely the coolest ones.”

 “Imagine that! Gosh. He sounds impressive, doesn’t he, this Blackbeard?”

A voice interjected from the background: “He sounds like a mob boss with good branding.”

A huff. “Yes, thank you Lucius.”

A snort escaped from the figure dozing in the passenger seat.

“Go on, Black Pete.”

“And that’s not all,” Black Pete sniffed. “I haven’t even told you about the time he hijacked a plane. You see, Blackbeard cannot be sated with mere land-based schemes-”

“Save it babe-”

“It’s an amazing tale of daring-”

”Babe-”

”No go on, Black Pete, this sounds wonderful!”

”Captain!” presumably Lucius shouted. “I really think it’s time for a song.”

”What? Oh, right! Yes, good idea.”

Izzy rolled her eyes. So much for subterfuge.

“Alright,” said Lucius. “Trust me, we’ll be back to explain more basic shit to our esteemed captain, the Gentleman Pirate. But for now, it’s precisely 8.11pm, and that means it’s time for The Animals with We’ve got to get out of this place.”

 “Really Lucius, I can’t think why the BBC banned that one-”

The Gentleman Pirate’s mic was cut off and a mellow bass line snaked its way into the car.

“Finally,” groaned Izzy. “That’s the signal you useless fucks,” she said over her shoulder.  “Let’s fucking go.” 

Fang and Ivan sprung into action, awkwardly hauling various weapons out of the car behind them.

Ed didn’t move. 

Izzy hesitated. “It’s important they at least see Blackbeard, boss -”

“No.”

 “Really Ed - ”

“You can handle it.” A flash of light, a puff of smoke, an air of menace.

Of course Izzy could fucking handle it, she always fucking did. A familiar knot of anger tangled in her chest as she struggled out of the car, muttering furiously to herself and slamming the door behind her.

The radio played on as Ed stared blankly at the cigarette smoke dancing above.

Well my girl you’re so young and pretty
And one thing I’m sure is true
You’ll be dead before your time is through

Gentleman pirate, huh? A she as a he? A she and a he all at once?

Fascinating, she mused.

 

Stede sat by Pete utterly rapt, chin in her hands, eyes large as saucers. “And then?” 

“And that,” said Pete, basking in the attention, “was when Blackbeard leaned over the pilot’s shoulder, knife at his throat and said” - Pete got close to the mic and lowered his voice to a growl - “Take me to the April sun in Cuba.”

Stede slumped back in her seat, stunned. “Wow!” The awed silence held for the briefest of moments before Lucius once again had to ruin it.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, “but like, it was a Cessna. They got as far as Port Macquarie and ran out of fuel.”

Stede threw up her hands in exasperation. “Honestly Lucius, where’s your sense of romance? Your sense of adventure? Where’s your awe at the human capacity for optimism in the face of hopeless causes?

Lucius remained unmoved. “Just saying,” he said flatly, “the guy was never going to Cuba.”

“That was clearly never the point!”

”Er,  cap,” interrupted Oluwande. He was hovering in the doorway to the soundbooth, records piled high in his arms. “It’s getting close to 9 o’clock.”

Stede sighed and leaned towards the microphone. “Alright crew, it’s getting late. Soon we’ll be getting ready for bed, but not before another delightful session of Oluwande’s chill evening vibes. And not a moment too soon!” Stede looked up. “Time for something poetic, don’t you think, Olu?”

”Sure thing, Cap.”

Stede nodded. “Try to shake us clear of Lucius’ death grip on reality.”

The stars were out when Stede made her way onto the deck. It was little things, she mused, treading carefully over the wooden boards. The night sky with no horizon. The scent of the sea. The texture of the wood, the flaking paint, the freezing cold winter spray that broke over the bow when the seas were rough. Sometimes Stede just paused and drank it in, this complete feeling of here being so very much not there.

She settled into her favourite nook, down by the pointy end. The crew hardly ever thought to come here, and it was the perfect place for a captain to snatch a bit of peace and quiet.

“Can’t believe she didn’t know about Blackbeard!”

Of course, on such a small ship, peace and quiet was relative.

“Well, of course not.”

“That was hilarious.”

Stede tried to tune out the conversation being carried on the breeze. Anyway, of course it’d been hilarious. “Telling the Gentleman Pirate Basic Shit” was one of their most popular segments. It had been pitched by Frenchie, who was turning out to be something of a marketing genius.

 The premise was straightforward enough - they’d get Stede to chat with the crew on the air until something very normal came up that she was completely oblivious to. 

It never took long. So far subjects had included wonders like “How have you never heard of Blackbeard,” “Bus tickets - what even are they”, “How people make shampoo last longer,” and “Sleep for dinner - yes, it’s a thing.”

So yes, they were laughing at her. But Stede supposed that was unavoidable, all things considered. And after all, they’d invited her in on the joke.

“She’s like, literally crazy though, right?” That was Wee Jeanne.

 “Yeah, housewives can crack like that.” Roach.

“At least she pays well?” The Swede.

“May as well enjoy it before she’s hauled off in a straight jacket.” And that was Jim.

Well.

Perhaps not every joke.

Stede blinked back tears as overhead, the speakers on the mast played Oluwande’s evening playlist into the cool night air. 

When your bird is broken

Will it bring you down?

You may be awoken

I’ll be round, I’ll be round

You tell me that you’ve got everything you want

And your bird can sing, but you don’t get me

You don’t get me

Sometimes, Ed felt like she’d forgotten how to walk. Only instead of walking, she’d forgotten how to just fucking … feel like a person? Like she’d lost some instinctive understanding of how to just kind of stand up in her own head. And now it was gone, and she couldn’t puzzle out how the fuck to get it back. Because balancing wasn’t a puzzle to be solved, it should just be. 

So it didn’t matter how many times she told herself to get over it, how many times Izzy told her she was a useless moody fuck letting everyone down. Every time she tried to stand up, she fell over.

Ed rested her head against the window, watching the soft drizzle drift across the city. In the yellow light, it looked like dust falling. Or dandruff. Or the ash of a nuclear fallout. That one.

Life generally tasted like a burnt out ash tray these days, Ed thought morosely, and she knew this to be true even though she’d never even eaten an ashtray. She idly stabbed at the dashboard with a machete, and wished she could at least fucking cry.

Chapter Text

For Lucius, this had all begun back in September, on the other side of the world, when a middle aged woman wearing a nightgown, an air of well bred confidence, and nothing else burst through the double doors of a department store in Kensington.

Her silhouette was backlit by the surreal violet light of the storm raging outside. Unfortunately, the crack of thunder came a few moments after the doors had swung shut - but still, her arrival was still pretty damn dramatic, all told.

It was by far the most dramatic thing to happen in the long, dreary nine weeks Lucius had been working at Grace Bros Boutique. He looked on as the woman snatched a long teal raincoat off a nearby clothes rack and pulled it over her sodden nightie. Flicking her blonde hair from the collar, her eyes darted left, right, left again, before she suddenly dropped behind a display case.

There was a brief pause - long enough, though, for Lucius to wonder if he’d hallucinated the whole thing. Could you hallucinate from boredom? Did the mind, at some point, generate its own antibodies to mind numbing labour, and un-numb itself with visions of half naked women? Hah! Just his luck if it did…

A blonde head poked around the side of the stand. Never mind. The woman watched the space before her with narrowed eyes. Finally, she nodded - and Lucius could swear he heard her thinking ‘the coast is clear” - before she darted a few metres forward, only to disappear once more behind a rack of hideous cocktail dresses. Lucius stifled a laugh as the woman continued to creep her way across the sales floor with all the sophistication and gross motor control of a six year old. 

She then turned towards the lift. Shit, shit, shit! Lucius’s eyes snapped to the ceiling, but it was already too late.

Stupid!

As far as Lucius was concerned, eye contact was the scourge of the service industry, had a concerning comorbidity with work, and should be avoided at all costs. He frantically jabbed at some buttons with a gloved thumb, willing the doors to close, but his fate was sealed. A manicured hand appeared, jamming the doors open, and the woman sashayed through.

He pursed his lips and tightened his posture. The job of “guy who pushes buttons in the lift so the middle class feel like they have servants” wasn’t going to do itself, now was it?

“Going down, madam?” 

“Yes! Please.” The woman frowned, then shrugged.  “May as well.”

Lucius looked her up and down. Up and down was, like, his whole job. Up close, there was a brittle quality to her confidence. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she was bouncing on the balls of her bare feet, twisting something around her wrist nervously. 

“Tough day?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Well, obviously.”

Well, fuck me I guess, thought Lucius. They both stared blankly ahead, marketably inoffensive music sloshing between them. As the lift ground to a halt, Lucius cleared his throat.

“Ground floor: perfumery, stationery and leather goods-”

“Not quite what I was after -”
“Wigs and haberdashery, kitchenware and food. Going up?”

She fixed Lucius with a confused stare while her brain caught up with her ears. “Oh, that’s it! Yes, wigs please - this floor, hold it.” She held the doors open and paused. “I suppose I’ll be met here by a wig man? Or do I just go and pick one off the rack, or…”

She looked at him expectantly.

Now, Lucius did not enjoy his work, but by god did he live for the drama. And this freak had skulked her way into his lift, sassed him on impact, and now stood here promising even more of the latter for really very little of the former.

He smiled sweetly.  “Allow me to assist, madam.”

Stede found herself being dragged across the sales floor by the lift attendant. Elevator operator? She wasn’t sure of the terminology. She was pretty sure it wasn’t his job to deliver her to the dingy, forgotten corner that apparently housed the Grace Bros wig department, but she was thankful for his help nonetheless. 

“Miss French,” the boy sang out as they approached the counter, “are you freeeeeee?”

Presumably Miss French materialised from behind a row of dusty shelves. She managed to appear quite chipper in spite of her suffocatingly dull uniform. Beyond these walls, Stede mused, an entire generation were eating little squares of cardboard and tasting four primary colours, but in here? Here, it was brown all the way down.

The lift boy nodded towards her. “Madam needs a wig,” he said. “Or something.”

“Urgently,” added Stede.

“Urgent wig, yep.”

“Brunette.” She paused. “Maybe long and swishy?”

“Urgent brunette swishy wig.”

Stede flushed. “Like - like Diana Rigg in Avengers.”

The boy gave her a smirk. “Exactly like that.”

Miss French grinned. “Ooh, love her! A leather catsuit never looked so refined. You,” she said, pulling a stool in front of a nearby mirror, “have excellent taste, madam.”

Stede winced. “I don’t love being called madam, actually.” 

Well, here it was. Time to commit. New life, new passport, new you. She pulled her shoulders back and fixed Miss French with a determined gaze. “My name’s Stede Bonnet. You can call me Stede.” She held out her hand.

Miss French shook it with a bemused shrug.  “Okay… Well, nice to meet you, Stede Bonnet. ”

Stede beamed.

Miss French allowed Stede her beaming time, then patted the stool in front of her. “Right! Well… if you could just sit down and take this one off, ma - Stede, we can try on some options-”

“What?”

Miss French gestured to Stede’s hair meaningfully. “We’ll need to take this wig off first.“

She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean? This is just my hair.”

The lift boy’s eyes widened. “That’s natural?” 

“…yes?” 

“Incredible,” he whispered, examining her perfectly coiffed waves closely. “I mean, she was just drenched and it still sits like a meringue.”

“I was thinking soft serve ice cream,” mused Miss French.

“Shaving cream?”

“Mousse?”

“When you’re quite finished,” Stede huffed.

“Right. Well, I’ll just go see what we’ve got out back in brown and squishy.” 

“Swishy!” Stede called to Miss French as she disappeared into the dark rows of shelves behind the counter. 

Lucius lounged against the wall. To his relief, things were only getting weirder, and he was buzzing with unanswered questions. Why, for instance, would a grown woman blush at the thought of Diana Rigg? Lucius had some promising theories, but they required further research.

 And what the hell kind of a name was Stede, anyway?

“This is so exciting,” exclaimed Stede, positively vibrating in her seat. “To be honest, I love changing a look, though I haven’t really had a chance to do it much. But even if it’s just to see what one could become—”

Lucius nodded absently, interspersing Stede’s chatter with the requisite “uh-huhs” and “absolutelys”. If he twisted his neck just so, and leaned thus, he could kind of sort of maybe see what it was she had wrapped around her wrist…

Stede jammed her hand into her pocket, cheeks reddening. “Don’t you have a lift to operate?”

Well yes, he did. But more to the point, wasn’t pushing buttons, like, his whole job?  “That,” he said slowly, “is a hospital bracelet.”

“Your ability to state the bloody obvious is truly astounding,” Stede snapped. She shot him a glare that was probably supposed to be haughty and intimidating, but there was no disguising the panic in those eyes.

And there were many reasons, Lucius reflected, that a woman might need to flee a hospital and, with the aid of an urgent brown swishy wig, change her appearance. He didn’t necessarily have to know which one, did he?

Twist, twist went the bracelet between her fingers.

“I’m very good at stating the obvious,” he said carefully. “Obviously. For instance,” he went on, “I think maybe you could use some help.” Lucius gave a small smile. “Some urgent secret help, even?”

“I’m fine. Really.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Okay, so it’s also obvious that you’re a terrible liar.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!”

“One of the worst I’ve ever met, and believe me, that’s saying something. I mean, you at least need some dry clothes, your lips are like, completely blue...”

Stede’s outrage seemed to crumble at this, and she slumped in her chair. “Fine,” she said, staring blankly at the floor. “Just - you don’t have to tell them I’m here. Please don’t.” And her voice suddenly sounded so small and so tired and that was so wrong. 

Tell who, Lucius wanted to ask. But for once in his life, he decided to let it lie. He crouched down and her eyes found his. “Stede Bonnet,” he said kindly. “Believe me when I tell you, I do not get paid enough to push the buttons in a lift, let alone fuck with whatever this” he gestured vaguely at her whole deal - “journey is. And I have no interest in making your life harder off the clock, either.” 

His gaze travelled down to her bare feet, covered in grazes and now dripping the greasy dirt of the London streets onto the beige tiles below. “I am very interested in getting you into some shoes, however.”

Her eyebrows lifted, and a hint of a smile dimpled her cheeks. “Yeah?”

“My god yes. Good grief woman, look at those things! They’re rank.”

She choked out a laugh. “Nice shoes, though. I’d rather have rank bare feet than wear ugly shoes.”

“Obviously nice ones. Don’t you dare question my taste, Bonnet.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Spriggs.”

“Spriggs-“ Lucius blinked in confusion before he remembered the name badge on his jacket. “Fucks sake,” he said, pulling it off. “Call me Lucius.”

Her eyes softened. “Stede.”

“I know, babes.” Lucius thought for a moment before reaching behind Stede to pull a pair of scissors off the counter. He carefully took Stede’s hand, and moment later the severed bracelet dropped onto the floor.

And for the first time in literally forever, Lucius tasted the smallest hint of a shred of job satisfaction. After all, getting people where they needed to be was, like, his whole job. 

Chapter Text

Ed huddled into the couch, pulling a blanket and a spiked hot chocolate to her chest. Her breath formed clouds of steam before her eyes. 

Blackbeard’s hideout was fucking badass. An abandoned warehouse out the back of a tattoo parlour slash biker bar, strewn with weapons, black paint, some metal bins with fire inside, all that shit. 

In the basement, they had a light that swung ominously over an uncomfortable wooden chair - perfect for menacing interrogations. They had a room with a pool table and an ungodly supply of cigarettes, rum, coke, and knives. They had a big fuck off chair with skulls all over it for intimidating other big shots. The whole thing screamed seedy underworld boss.

Unfortunately, vibes didn’t keep you warm when your broken windows were patched up with cardboard, and Ed was freezing her fucking tits off. 

Tonight had been a close call. Izzy just wouldn’t leave, determined to organise … something? Some trade?

Ed hadn’t been listening, her attention fixed on her watch as it ticked ever closer to 11pm.

Eventually, Izzy had taken the hint - the hint being Ed telling her to fuck off - leaving Ed just eight minutes to shuck off her leathers, pour a splash of whiskey into a fresh hot chocolate, and tune in to story time on Revenge Radio.

“Very pretty! said Gandalf. “But I have no time to blow smoke-rings this morning. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.” 

Lights flashed across the ceiling with the traffic outside. Ed stared past them, to a world of green pastures, second breakfasts, and a reluctant thief setting off to steal magical treasures.

She snuggled further into the cushions, lulled by the Gentleman Pirate’s gentle, somehow fussy voice. She sounded a bit like a mild tempered geography teacher, Ed mused. 

And she was very good at the voices.

“I should think so - in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner.”

Suddenly, there was a bang, a clatter, and raised voices in the background.

“Goddammit! I wouldn’t mind an adventure if the floor stayed still for five minutes!“

“Yeah, I’d take an adventure where we could get away from the feckin’ wind.”

The Gentleman Pirate exhaled a long-suffering sigh.

 “Apologies, listeners. Our bedtime story has been interrupted in record time tonight, hasn’t it Black Pete? Wee Jeanne? Hmm?”

Ed chuckled. It was always fun when the Gentleman Pirate got in a snit.

“It’s not our fault, captain! The swell’s too big, it’s like, impossible to do macrame like this.“

“And I can’t make a quilt when my little bits of fabric keep blowing away.”

The Gentleman Pirate now sounded like a geography teacher who’d resigned themselves to the fact that managing unruly children was just something they had to do to get to the geography.

“Well, you are pirates, guys, and you are on a ship. You love being a pirate, Black Pete.”

“Yeah, but stories and craft time are essential for a pirate’s self care and morale. You said that.”

Another sigh.

“I did, didn’t I?“

“Can’t we take a break? We haven’t been to port in ages.”

“We could take a holiday, captain, we’re actually sailing really close to mmmmpf!”

A new voice cut through, clear and surprisingly grounded for Revenge Radio..

“I think we need to remember we’re on the air, yeah? and while we’re not reading, we probably need to play some music or something and until then, shut the hell up about our location.”

“Excellent point, Oluwande!”

“What the fuck?” spat Black Pete.

“Sorry babe, but you were like, totally going to get us raided.”

“Bunch of idiotas. Here’s - I don’t know, The Supremes or some shit. Have fun.”

A scratch, then a song starting halfway through:

“-burning yearning feelin’ inside me,

Ooh and it hurts so bad…”

Stede put her hands on her hips.

“Really, Pete,” she said sternly, “it’s not like you to disturb story time, what’s got into you?”

Pete crossed his arms defiantly. “I want to go to Toothpaste island.”

“Toothpa - what?” 

“Toothpaste Island.”

”It just really looks like a tube of toothpaste,” Lucius supplied helpfully.

Stede was momentarily derailed. “How much could an island look like a tube of toothpaste?”

Lucius shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”

“And do you all want to go there?” she asked, turning to face the rest of the crew.

“To be fair, we haven’t been to shore in like two weeks,” said Wee Jeanne.

“As I was saying, you are pirates-“

“It’s really close by, cap,” added Frenchie. “We can duck over, have some fun, come back the same day, easy.” She smiled. “Could be relaxing, you know? A bit of a break.”

“Okay,” Stede said slowly. “Why there?”

At this, the crew all jumped in.

“Lots of coves, possibly mermaids.”

“A great many species of birds.”

“Seals,” said Jim. They caught the astonished faces of the crew. “What? They’re cute.”

“It’d be nice to stand on something that doesn’t feckin’ sway.”

“Come on, captain?” wheedled the Swede. “We’ve been really good?”

To be honest, Stede hadn’t realised they’d been at sea for so long. Sometimes, she conceded, she did have a bit of a one track mind… 

“Well,” she said eventually, “I suppose if it’s close by - why not? Maybe we could all use a bit of a holiday. Buttons?”

“Aye, cap’n.”

“Chart a course for toothpaste island!”

There was a cheer, broken by Oluwande’s frustrated groan. 

“Cap - for fuck’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you to turn the mic off-“

Ed blinked. What the fuck was all that?

The next day found Ed tossing a knife and catching it in her hand, lost in thought. “How do you reckon they pay for it?”

“Boss-“

Oh yeah. Izzy was doing that long suffering face. Ed ignored it. “They’ve got someone who just threatens people in Spanish,” she continued. “It’s fucking mental.”

“Ed, we need to sort this out.”

“And it’s horny, man. There was a guy matching star signs to foreskins the other day.” She tossed the knife a little higher. “Shouldn’t work on radio but seriously Iz, the dude was a poet. Really felt like I was there, looking at the heads of all these little penises.”

“Yeah, great. Anyway, we need a location for the trade-“

“He was right, too. A circumcised cock is absolutely a Capricorn.” 

“A fucking location, Ed!” Izzy shouted, temper cracking. “For the fucking fence to make the fucking trade so we can fucking eat.”

Ed’s eyes widened. “Jesus man, chill out. Fine.” Ed snatched the knife out of the air one final time and slouched up to the map. Here we go - steal the shit then fence the shit then spend the shit and then steal the shit. Ed could figure this out in her sleep.

“Where’s he coming from?” she asked, tapping the knife to her chin.

“Down south, here. Usual shit, they’re sending Sam Bellamy over in a trawler from Auckland.”

Ed hummed. “Oh yeah, Auckland. City of sin.” Brow furrowed, she stared at the dots and winding lines and symbols. 

The map was an achievement on its own. An encyclopedic catalogue of rackets, safe houses, getaway routes. It was one of the most incriminating things Ed owned, which was a hard won superlative. 

“And Ed,” Izzy added meaningfully, “we need Blackbeard at this one.”

Ed narrowed her eyes. “The fuck we do.”

“Yes, we do,” replied Izzy. “People are starting to talk. Saying Blackbeard can’t be fucked doing his own dirty work, that he’s past it, he’s weak.” 

“Iz, you always say shit like this-“

“Jimmy Chook tried to short change Archie last week.”

Ed winced. That wasn’t good - not for their reputation, and certainly not for Sly Jimmy. “Eeesh.”

“Yeah, well. He’ll get by with four fingers.”

Right. Right. Izzy was right, which was just… insufferable.

Ed tried to think of a way out of it and couldn’t. It was just that if Blackbeard had to be there, that meant Ed had to be there with the beard and the bound tits and never, ever saying a word, just glowering, because god forbid anyone hear her voice and assume she’s a woman. 

Ed had learned a long time ago that things were simpler this way. Men were fine with being scared of a big hairy dude, that’s how the world worked. No shame in caving to Blackbeard. Feeling scared of a big hairy woman, however, was a whole crisis.

She twisted her lower lip. “Jimmy Chook is connected to Sam, right?”

”Cousins.”

Ed nodded, her fingers trailing over the map.

“Fuck it,” she said eventually. “Let’s scare the shit out of ‘em. Here.” Ed tapped a tiny pint off the coast of Port Kembla.  “It’s deserted, the mooring is okay and it’s close enough to the mainland that we can get there in a tinnie.”

“An island?”

“Mmm.” Ed grabbed a pencil and a sheet of paper and started to draw a rough map of the island itself. “There’s a ridge along here, to the west of that cove. Go with Fang and Ivan, take a dinghy to meet Sam there. Then, I dunno, loom or whatever. Bring the bat with nails in it, you know? Shit that looks crazy.”

Izzy nodded. “And Blackbeard?” 

She gestured to the other side of the island. “I’ll be moored over this side, so I can sneak up over the ridge behind them. I’ll light fires here and here, and I’ll stand on an outcrop over here,” she said, marking it with her pencil. “You know, cut a menacing silhouette. Super dramatic.” She shrugged. “Then if they try anything, I’ll be close enough to burn their fucking boat.”

“Not bad, boss,” Izzy said grudgingly. “I’ll set it up-”

“Oh,” Ed added, lighting a cigarette. “Izzy?”

“Boss?”

“Tomorrow.”

Izzy’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, tomorrow?”

“We make the trade tomorrow. Or not at all.”

“Tomorrow,” echoed Izzy weakly. “Are you sure we can’t-” 

She looked pained. Ed almost felt sorry for her - she’d given Izzy what she wanted, and had still found a way to make her life difficult. Must be stressful. 

Ed stepped purposefully into Izzy’s space. “Am I in charge or not, Iz?”

Izzy backed away until she hit the wall, never tearing her eyes from Ed’s glare. She grinned, that weird enamoured grin that Ed knew all too well.

“Yes, Blackbeard.”

Ed found it hard to sleep that night. And for once, it wasn’t because she was wired - or high, or angry, or manic, or depressed - but because for the first time in as long as she could remember, Ed was excited for the day ahead.

In a matter of hours, she’d be standing on an island just off port Kembla. An island which, from a distance, looked surprisingly similar to a tube of toothpaste.