Chapter Text
The air inside of the ship is cool and quiet, and as Stede follows after Frenchie he considers the pros versus the cons of simply cutting his losses to retreat up to the main deck. He eyes the lad’s back with a guarded expression and thinks privately, and perhaps mistrustfully, that this must all be some kind of goose chase and that he’s actually being led to the darkest corner of the orlop to be jumped or something just as awful. Not that Stede really owns anything valuable to be done out of anymore, with the exception of the dressing gown that Frenchie was in possession of, and maybe the scuffed boots that he currently wore. Tatty and ill-fitting as the pair was, it would be dreadful if he were to be robbed of his shoes for a second time.
In the very least Frenchie is friendly enough, chattering aimlessly with waving hand gestures; however the foxy shimmer that hangs over him does not go unnoticed. Nefarious is not be the word that Stede would choose to describe his impression of the young man; mischievous on the other hand...
Thankfully Stede is only left to worry over his fate for a few minutes before his fears are assuaged, it would seem that Frenchie is leading him down to the galley. He supposes it stands to reason that a cat might choose to hang around such a room; if not for the food and clean water stored inside of the galley itself, any rodent-shaped stowaways would be equally as attracted to the place, serving as a more tantalizing draw to any vagrant felines.
Stede can recall spotting a few working cats during his youth, thinks about how they would trot the most elegant of lines across the estate grounds, tails high with squirming rats or birds locked in the smart grip of their jaws.
“-And if you accept any gold from them, don’t be surprised when every last coin turns out to be gingerbread cake…”
“What?” Stede exclaims as he snaps back to attention, having clearly missed something of great importance.
“Hey I don’t make the rules, man.” Frenchie replies in lieu of explanation, turns around as they are now outside of the propped open door to the galley, where the muffled sounds of someone toiling away inside carry out to the corridor. “Enough about that, I,” He says with an exaggerated prod at his chest with his thumb, “have spotted that raggedy thing skulking about here more than once. We ought to catch it ‘fore it leaves any of them cursed little hairs in the rations.”
“Ah, we don’t want that,” Stede says, tries to keep his eyebrows from crawling up to his hairline. Eccentricities aside, keeping the kitchen area clean and free of any shedding animals is a point that Stede cannot argue with.
“Glad we’re on the same page,” Frenchie says with a broad grin before he thumps both of his hands on Stede’s shoulders, spins him around to face the doorway, “Best not waste any time then.” And shoves Stede into the room. The galley is just as it was before; lined with rows of kitchen countertops and cabinets, crates and hogsheads nestled against the wall furthest from the door, taking up most of the space there alongside some ceiling-high shelves.
At one of the countertops stands Roach, look of focus molding his face as he pays little mind to Stede, wholly absorbed in the process of cutting open a butchered goat and with deft hands he carefully draws a knife down the rounded length of it’s belly, splitting open the skin. Stede gets an eyeful of wetted red and pink, and he doesn’t even notice the smudged gray shape that is perched at the edge of the counter while he blinks woozily and averts his gaze from the bloody mess.
In a split second there is a scuffling sound and a dull thump, then something small and fast is barreling between Stede’s legs. It bumps it’s body against his ankles in it’s haste, dives underneath the castle of stacked crates at the back of the room and is followed by a twin chorus of Frenchie and Roach both exclaiming at once; Frenchie’s surprised shout rings in perfect tandem with Roach’s disdainful scowl and groan of, “Aw, you scared him!”
“Tell me that I did not just see you feeding that thing!” Frenchie exclaims from his place behind Stede, peers cautiously around his shoulder as if it were a man-eating lion trapped in the room and not a pet no larger than a babe; his face pinches in disgust.
“Augh and you’re just lettin’ it spread it’s toxins all over the tables...”
Stede spares a glance back to the counter, pointedly avoids looking at the fresh meat and spies a little bowl filled with fat and trimmings placed near the corner, where the gray smudgy thing that Stede recognizes now as the cat in question had been sitting and apparently enjoying a meal. With curiosity he looks to Roach, who in turn just shrugs innocently and says, “These ‘toxins’ get cooked out anyway, you would all be long dead by now if it mattered.”
“Can’t believe this,” Frenchie only mutters in response as he moves around Stede and toward the crates where the cat had disappeared to, bends over with hands braced on his knees to get a better look into the shadowy crevices between the boxes.
“What? It’s a nice cat!” Roach says defensively, throws up his hands with the bloodied knife still gripped in one fist, “He’s caught his weight in mice already, you realize how much easier that makes my job?”
“Save it,” Frenchie sniffs, straightens up his lanky body. He crosses his arms and turns to Stede, says, “Ship’s going down now for sure, we’re doomed.”
Roach rolls his eyes, jams the knife forcefully into the thick countertop and leaves it there to stand, “Oh come on, no ship ever sank because of one little cat.”
Stede interjects lightly, “I have to agree with Roach on this. Logically speaking, how could such a thing even happen?”
“Uh-uh, don’t you start now.” Frenchie warns Stede and shakes his head, “Look let’s just do what we’ve come here to do and catch this mangy old thing already...”
“Hey!” Roach snaps then, in a flash he takes hold of the knife and brandishes it at Frenchie, light glimmering down the blood slick blade, “As long as he is in my kitchen, you’ll keep your dirty hands away from Habib.”
“And you’ve given it name, too?” Frenchie scoffs incredulously, “It’s bewitched you. We’ll have to kill it to break the spell now.”
Clearly reaching the tipping point of his annoyance Roach warns dryly, “This is your chance to leave now.”
“Oh is it?” Says Frenchie, hands on his hips as he leans in, “An’ what if I don’t feel like it?”
Roach starts like he’s going to take a step forward, even raises the knife a little higher to which Frenchie simply juts his chin up higher in turn, so Stede does what any sensible person should do. Or at least does what he believes any sensible person should do. In a flurry of movement he takes a hurried step in between the feuding young men and raises his hands, palms up and fingers spread, “Hold on you two!” He cries out in alarm, the pitch of his voice climbing, “You really don’t have to fight about this.”
Frenchie gives Stede a look that is equal parts baffled and amused and he says, “You’re new to this an’ all so it’s whatever, but this is just how it works around here.” He glances at Roach, who shrugs and nods his silent agreement.
“Well does it have to be that way?” Stede inquires, meeting the two quizzical gazes that are now trained on him, “Surely there’s room here for a reasonable discussion... perhaps even a dedicated vote?”
Frenchie and Roach look at Stede as if he’s suddenly started intoning lines of Greek poetry. However despite the confusing nature of his words, there must be something placating enough hidden inside for Roach lowers his knife-wielding hand and Frenchie shuffles a half-step backward, scratches at the tip of his nose and says snidely, “Yeah, maybe if you’re in the Navy or something. But not with this crew.”
...Besides, we all know that anyone on Blackbeard’s crew would have the good sense to vote that thing out of here. They’d know an omen when they saw one.”
“Mm, and I’m sure the opposite would happen,” Roach crows his response, “These are real pirates we are talking about, unlike you they’d have no trouble recognizing a blessing.”
“That settles it then!” Stede cuts in quickly before the tension can bubble over once more, punctuates his statement with a hearty clap of his hands. “It would seem there’s reason enough to put it to vote, you both have solid cases to present on the matter.” He is only rewarded with some unenthusiastic mumbling and dubious expressions so Stede speaks further, “Don’t be so negative! I’m sure that we could organize a fair vote amongst the crew. If it’s not commonly done around here then I’d bet some of these men would love to participate, especially with such low stakes at hand.” Frenchie murmurs something that sounds quite a lot like “Yeah right” while Roach eyes Stede as if he’s trying to figure out what his angle might be. Stede, now having stepped away from his position as a human obstacle, gestures to the empty space and says, “Now why don’t you two shake on it? Like gentlemen!”
Their reluctance is obvious, as if they had never before participated in an argument that hadn’t resulted in violence and bloodshed. Roach and Frenchie both just stand awkwardly facing one another, making a point of avoiding any eye contact as they finally shuffle in and confirm their accord with a brisk handshake, lean away from each other exaggeratedly, like they’re attempting to avoid something terribly infectious and then taking wide steps back once the deed is done.
“Excellent,” Stede says happily, feels a mite chuffed at this successful defusing of the situation; he’s not sure what he would have been able to do if their disagreement had gotten physical. He takes notice of Frenchie glowering quite darkly in his direction, and then there is an indignant mutter of, “You double-crossed me.”
“I did, I’m sorry.” Stede says in a resigned way, “But I didn’t intend to from the start, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Mm, no not really.” Frenchie replies flippantly, points a finger at Stede, “You listen, I’m keeping your dressy thing until this mess is sorted out.”
“...I suppose that’s only fair.” Stede says slowly, disappointed that his reunion with the garment is to be put off further still, but he won’t argue on the matter. Frenchie is in the right, after all. Stede can only hope that he will at least be gentle with it. Frenchie goes on to say, “Couldn’t we at least catch the cat, keep it locked in a room for a bit? It could disappear for weeks on a ship this big.”
Stede looks to Roach, who has quietly returned to his butchering and asks, “Is that agreeable to you? I promise we won’t hurt him.”
Roach shrugs and after a beat of silence he says, without looking up from his work, “Yes, whatever. If it will get you out of here faster. And I would not worry about you hurting him, it’d be the other way around...”
“Yeah that’s what we’re trying to avoid, thanks,” Frenchie says pointedly and turns to Stede, “Speaking of, you’ll be the one doing the catching. I’m not touching the beast.”
So it is that Stede finds himself cautiously poking about the stacks, carefully nudging them aside to squint into the darkness as he tries to find this little ‘beast’, ends up squatted low on his hands and knees in an attempt to improve the breadth of his search. And it’s not without a touch of embarrassment as his not-what-they-once-were knees twinge in pain when squeezed underneath his weight. Meanwhile Frenchie has made himself comfortable atop a large cask, sitting with his legs pulled up and tailorwise, occasionally offering words of (meager but nonetheless appreciated) motivation; phrases of, “You’ll get ‘em any second now,” and “Put your back into it, Steve.”
While Stede continues to dig around, his expression rumpled at the labor of it all, Frenchie and Roach begin to exchange something akin small talk. It’s to Stede’s slight surprise, they’d seemed so hostile to one another before but all the same he is relieved, much preferring that they get along and cease to bicker. He’s not sure how well the two may know each other; but then again he knows very little about each of them overall and ponders quietly to himself as he listens to their easy chatting.
Some of his questions are answered when Roach starts to tell a few stories about the previous crews that he’d been a part of; stories of his time working primarily as a cook but also as a ‘medic’ of sorts, and he is very much a self taught one at that. This leads to an interesting tale focused on a former crew mate whom he had barely even known, apparently the man had received a life threatening injury and the only recourse for Roach to carry out at the time was to open the left side of his chest, slip his bare hand between the ribs and massage his weakened heart back to life as it lay within his breast. It was as ghastly as it was fascinating to Stede, who was now distractedly sat onto his heels and looking at Roach with wide eyes.
“No way that could really happen,” Frenchie comments and glances at Stede questioningly, “Could it?”
“I’d be happy to perform it on you right now if you don’t believe me.” Roach replies coolly, focused on slicing cuts of meat from the carcass, one slippery hand gripped around a skinny cloven leg. From there the conversation steers to Frenchie recounting some of his own experiences at sea; it would turn out that he’s been aboard at least a dozen ships over the course of his lifetime, a number of them with a very quick turn around of only a few weeks and even a few days on one particular occasion. He liked to make quick work of things, and would hop aboard ships of any kind with the purpose of extracting as much as he could while he had the chance. Money, food, anything at all that he might have needed, or simply just fancied at the time. “You can get into just about anywhere ‘long as you act like you belong there.” He says with a knowing glint in his eye, “Pose as a servant or something and no one will even look at you. Works just about every time.”
“And when it doesn’t work?” Stede asks, voice muffled as he has returned to searching and is posed practically nose to the floor.
“Assuming you don’t die when they catch you, mostly you just end up with a new scar.”
Eventually Roach decides to take pity on Stede and helps to make his task somewhat easier, approaching quietly with the little bowl that he’d been using to feed the cat in hand. “Try this,” He says as he passes the bowl over to Stede.
“Ah, thank you.” Stede says as he accepts the offered item, grimaces at the coppery scent of blood that wafts from the contents, his nose scrunching. He quickly arranges the bowl near the narrow gap where the cat had gone through, settling it close but not too close, then scooting backward before he rises to his feet, wipes his dusty palms over his thighs.
“So how do I apprehend this creature exactly? You certainly know more about it than I.” He addresses Roach, suddenly realizing that he has no idea how to properly handle a cat. It can’t be that hard, Stede is not nearly as afraid of the animal as Frenchie seems to be, but he still isn’t keen on getting himself torn up either. Roach, who has moved back to the counter says casually, “Just keep yourself quiet and lift him gently, he’ll let you know if he doesn’t like it. Have you ever held a baby?”
Stede pauses, caught off guard by the question, throat working before he gets himself to answer, “Yes.”
“Then you know what to do.”
“Right,” Stede says, feels strangely nervous. Shake it off man, it’s a bloody housepet for Christ’s sake! He thinks critically as he positions himself to the side of the gap. He glances at Frenchie and can see an anxious light burning in the young man’s eyes. Stede has no idea why exactly Frenchie seems to have a grudge against cats, although from the outside it appears to be due to a heavy inclination toward superstitious beliefs, and it’s not a terribly uncommon characteristic of those who live on the sea.
They wait for a few minutes, Roach absorbed with the preparation of the meat and Frenchie still hunkered atop his barrel, staring grimly at the crates. Then finally the subject of their attention creeps into view with all the style of a little ghost. It creeps it’s rectangular body from the shadows atop cautious legs, belly brushing against the floor and mitten-like feet carrying on without a noise to be heard; the cat ignores them entirely and stretches it’s neck outward to inspect the bowl of scraps. Stede waits until it lowers itself into an unguarded hunch, and then in a breath he marches a wide step forward to slip his hands underneath it’s belly and scoop the cat into his arms.
The cat is only mildly startled by this unexpected displacement, a crunchy chirp in it’s throat while it’s legs scrabble briefly against Stede’s torso. It’s definitely a kind of muscle memory that arises in Stede then, gently adjusting until the animal is turned around with it’s soft front pressed to his abdomen, one of his hands braced underneath to support the body and the other cupped over it’s back. Not at all dissimilar to how one would hold a small child. It’s tail whops against his hip a few times and he can feel the faintest promise of claws prick into his stomach and shoulder as the animal grips his shirt for purchase, but it does not squirm or try to escape, simply rotates it’s head back and forth to get a look around the room from this intriguing new angle.
“Shit, that was easy.” Frenchie declares, “Least you made it look easy.” He hops off of the cask and takes a few steps over to Stede, stops just a foot or so away and takes a long gander at the captured animal, exclaims loudly, “Augh, man those eyes are creepy!”
Stede tilts his head to catch sight of these aforementioned eyes, and they are certainly not unlike two marbles of bright citrine, slitted pupils shrinking and expanding slightly as the cat peers back at him. He thinks of one his stuffy great aunts, she’d hated cats very much and was rather passionate about this feeling of hers, often blathering about the ‘serpent in their eyes’ from behind the fluttering of a decorated hand fan. Looking as deeply as he could, Stede could hardly discern anything that spoke to him of evil, only beheld the gentle blankness that one would expect to see in the eyes of any unassuming creature. He readjusts his mindful grip and asks, “So where shall we take him? I don’t imagine this room is an option.”
“’Course not,” Frenchie says, his eyes riveted on the cat. Very timidly he reaches out and taps at the round slope of it’s back with a feather-light fingertip; when the pelt twitches at his touch Frenchie shrinks backward, hastily wipes his hand over his shirt. He looks over his shoulder and at Roach, “No offense but I’d rather the fleabag stay anywhere but here.”
“Whatever,” Roach mutters, his tone clipped. He delivers a shuddering chop to the meat, “The rodents will dance all over your dinner if that’s what you like.”
”Better’n being cursed,” Frenchie says impishly, “Didn’t you say the toxins get burned off anyway?” He nods his head at the cat in Stede’s arms, “If I had my way we’d lock it down in the brig.”
“Now Frenchie,” Stede admonishes, “You have to admit that’s a little extreme, how about in the livestock hold with the other animals? It will be secure enough and he’ll have some company that way, you can agree on that, can’t you?”
A frown twists the corners of Roach’s mouth and even though his eyes perform an impressive roll, the lack of rebuttal is sufficient enough an answer, while Frenchie merely shrugs and titters, “Sure, fine I guess. Your funeral though,” And then bounds out of the room and into the hall, hardly even uttering a goodbye on his way out. Quite impish indeed. Before Stede follows suit he says to Roach, “Sorry about the intrusion, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into...”
Roach waves him off and says plainly, “You make it easy for people to use you.”
“Ah,” Stede says, then after a pause, “This is no trouble honestly. Frenchie is a good lad where it counts, I can tell.”
“Don’t be fooled, we are still pirates through and through.” Roach says cautiously, “But he’s not the kind I’m warning you against.”
“I shall take that to heart,” Stede says with a light smile, “Is it that obvious that I am out of my element here?”
“Let me put it this way,” Roach says, “here you are like a lamb in a den of wolves.” The words have Stede swallowing thickly, and he tries not to think too hard about what that might mean for himself. Following Stede’s cowed silence Roach sticks a hand out to hook his fingers underneath the cat’s chin and scratch at the narrow bone there. The cat, Habib as Roach had dubbed it, or him, tilts his head back and squeezes his fiery eyes shut; a purr rolls through his little body and Stede can feel the warm reverberation of it against his chest. The charm of it all put his fears at ease some and he asks curiously, “...What does it mean? That name you gave him?”
“Uh, it means ‘Beloved’,” Roach replies, a note of bashful hesitation in his voice. He retracts his hand, “A little flowery but to call him that just came naturally.”
“There’s nothing wrong with ‘flowery’!” Stede assures him honestly, “I think it’s a very good name.”
Frenchie pokes his head around the corner then, having been waiting just outside he impatiently says, “If you’re done heaping praises can we get this over with?”
“Yes, alright,” Stede resigns, bids a goodbye to Roach and follows Frenchie out from the galley. Stede doesn’t actually know where the livestock are stowed, but he figures that it must be somewhere else below. He needn’t think on it as Frenchie has decided to show him exactly where to go, and Stede is grateful that the lad is taking the time to do so in spite of his transparent dislike of their escortee. “How I let you talk me into this, I do not know.” Frenchie mutters along the way, throws occasional wary looks over his shoulder, “The both of you could be under it’s spell, leading me astray.”
“The truth is far less magical than that I’m afraid,” Stede sighs, “I like to try and avoid the violent solutions if I can help it.” He rearranges his hold on the cat, who has started to become tetchy with all of this unwelcome jostling, his heavy tail lashing across Stede’s hip with impatient vigor now.
“Haven’t met a pirate yet who’s been bettered by avoiding violence.” Frenchie says thoughtfully, “That’ll get you killed in no time, but it was nice knowin’ you I guess.”
Stede shrugs, expression bending into a moue. Frenchie isn’t wrong and he knows it; simply put the lifestyle of a pirate demanded a kind of resignation when it came to roughness and savagery, and while Stede understood it he simply did not want to reconcile to this fact. Even if it was an outlandish thing to do so. “You’re being dramatic,” He tsks, “I merely think that as a crew, everyone would be much happier if we made an effort to accommodate each other’s needs.”
“Here’s what I think,” Says Frenchie as he stops, turns around and gives Stede a dubious once-over, “Is that you, Fancy Man, are a lot more craftylike than you let on. Gonna need to keep that in mind, yessir...” And then suddenly he goes quite still, his eyes fixed somewhere past Stede’s shoulder. Then with alarm rippling down his face he leans in and hisses to Stede, “Incoming.”
The word barely leaves his mouth before a brittle shout of “Bonnet!” Flings down the hall, and Stede winces, instantly recognizes the voice as belonging to Izzy, like the dreadful tolling of a funeral bell. “He’ll make you throw it overboard.” Frenchie mutters to him under his breath, wide eyes shifting between the now squirming cat and Izzy as he strides toward them. And part of Stede easily believes that Izzy would do anything without hesitation if it’d make his life more unpleasant, and forcing him to hurl an innocent animal into the ocean does not seem entirely above that notion. The thought of this picks nastily at the back of Stede’s mind and all at once his grip loosens and the cat is tumbling from his arms, flips through it’s fall and lands adeptly on four soundless feet, then immediately darts off in the opposite direction from where Izzy is approaching.
Frenchie whirls around as it vanishes into the inky shadows and then swivels back to Stede, visibly appalled and his voice a high whisper, “Why’d you do that?!”
“You just said he’d make me toss him overboard!” Stede exclaims, exasperated.
“Yeah and? Maybe that’s what I wanted,” Frenchie says with indignant hands on his hips. “Or maybe I thought you were gonna have one of those ‘reasonable discussions’ with him, I don’t know.”
“He wouldn’t care much for my opinions, I’m sure.” Stede says gravely, straightens his posture and turns to face Izzy when he comes upon them. There’s a typical pinch of annoyance creasing his sharp face and he speaks brusquely, “Fuck off.” The demand is directed at Frenchie, who nods and drops his head, murmurs something too quiet to hear and makes himself scarce with impressive haste. Once he is gone Izzy is quick to round on Stede and begins his tirade without preamble, “You should be to drop this habit of running off to do fuck all whenever it suits you, least of all when you’ve been given a direct order.”
“If the order comes from you then I am in no rush.” Stede replies thinly as he folds his arms behind his back, luckily it would seem that Izzy hadn’t taken notice of their furry stowaway.
Izzy’s mouth curls into a mirthless smile, “I should cut out your tongue for that.”
Stede says nidely, “Lucky for both of us that you can’t!” The implication is there of course, Stede knows that Ed wouldn’t abide Izzy doing such a thing and he can’t help but feel emboldened by this. Any threat Izzy could promise would have all the effect of water sliding off the back of a seabird. Izzy must recognize it on some capacity too, exhaling an impatient blast of air from his nostrils he tilts his head back, “Presumptuous toff,” He spits, all teeth and contempt, “Couldn’t imagine what Blackbeard intends to keep you around for. Other than warming his bed-”
“Is there something you need?” Stede snaps, his chest puffing in indignation and cheeks burning a little. He certainly doesn’t like the glint that flickers in Izzy’s eye, obviously satisfied with the blow he’d dealt, low as it was. Scowling, Stede says, “You can’t have come down here just to bully me of all things.”
“There’s nothing I need from the likes of you,” Izzy sneers and then pauses abruptly, his throat quivers as he seems hesitant to speak for a moment before he relents darkly, “...Your captain requires your presence at the helm.”
Now this perks Stede up right away, the corner of his mouth curling as he says, “Is that so? In that case I’ll be sure to meet him. I suppose I should thank you for passing along the message, Mr. Hands-”
“Shut up.” Izzy interrupts him flatly, “And get out of my sight already.”
Stede is fast to do just that, feels Izzy’s sharp eyes boring holes through his back as he hurries to the upper deck. Outside he is greeted by a warm breeze and the sight of the sky, a luminous contrast over the velvet Prussian blue of the sea and with very few clouds to be seen overhead excepting a few curly wisps, and as he strides toward the quarterdeck (he at least knows where the helm is!) Stede thinks on how he would prefer the day never comes where he finds that view to be a dull one. He climbs the short staircase with a hand gliding along the rail and there at the top he can see Ed posted at the wheel, cutting a stark figure of oily black leather. The silvery hair around his face has been pulled into a swirly knot at the crown of his head, a few loose pieces stirring in the gentle breeze. He doesn’t take notice of Stede at first, faraway look in his eyes as he lightly drums his fingers on the handles. The distant fog lingering over him slips away as Stede clears the final step and he looks over, smiles warmly and greets, “There you are. Where’d you run off to?”
“Nowhere far,” Stede replies, “Although I think I may have been roped into some kind of pirate hazing ritual…”
“Really?” Ed asks, raises an eyebrow, “Anything I should worry about?”
“Nothing to warrant concern, it’s all in good fun I’m sure.” Stede says simply as he comes to a stop at Ed’s side, takes in the endless stretch of the horizon from this elevated platform. There is something kind of thrilling about standing in the very place that a real captain would, observing the great forward sprawl of the ship and the swelling waters beyond that.
Ed must be assured enough by Stede’s bland explanation as he hums and says, “If you say so, but I’d argue the you and the boys probably have differing ideas on what ‘fun’ is.”
“On that I can only imagine,” Stede agrees as he glances at Ed, at the smooth slope of his cheek to his ear, where Stede can see that it has been pierced a few times although Ed is not wearing any earrings currently, settles his gaze on Ed’s gloved hand where it is loosely rested over the felloe of the wheel. He realizes that this is the clearest look he has gotten of the tattoos that sprawl along Ed’s uncovered right arm, focuses on the faded image of a swallow diving in flight and asks, “What about you? I couldn’t help but notice you looked a little distracted just now. I assume it’s about this raid you’d mentioned?”
“Perceptive as ever,” Ed says slyly, “Wouldn’t say I’m distracted, just thinkin'. It can get pretty complicated you know, planning an attack.”
“Care to fill me in? I wouldn’t know a thing about it.”
Ed grins at Stede, turns his head to look out past the deck, “We’re tailing a string of merchant ships, judging by their heading it’ll be a pretty good take.” He tilts his head and gazes thoughtfully upward, speaks with unvarnished conviction as if said vessels had already been plundered. “We’ll strike ‘em when the waters open up and we get away from these islands, between here and the mainland’ll be good enough... and we have the weather on our side too.” Stede doesn’t know what Edward might able to divine from the Heavens with the sky as blank as it is right now, but he supposes that it’s just another factor of his prowess. It shouldn’t surprise Stede, Ed’s mettle. One doesn’t become an infamous pirate without a healthy dose of confidence. Perhaps it had faded out of his mind some, wrapped in the security of their closeness and coinciding with the fact that Stede has yet to witness much of this ‘bloodthirsty rouge’ that the tall tales spoke of.
It’d be a lie for Stede to claim he didn’t want to behold Ed’s competence, but a part of him also did not want to be in that position. Not because of Ed himself but more due to the bigger picture that was becoming more clear by the second; it was going to be impossible for Stede to avoid the kinds of dangers that he feared so deeply if he intended to follow in Ed’s footsteps. Would the trade-off of attaining a free and fulfilling life be worth facing those dangers? It’s an altogether daunting and yet strangely compelling prospect.
Throat tight and despite the whirlwind of thoughts muddying his brain Stede asks, a small crack in his voice, “And erm, where is this heading?”
“South Carolina, mostly.” Is Ed’s answer and if he picks up on Stede’s apprehensiveness he doesn’t comment on it.
“That’s a bit far…”
“For you, maybe.” Ed says teaseingly, jest in his voice, “At a steady pace that’s two days of sailing, tops. Could do it in my sleep.”
Stede, feeling just a mite self-conscious nods his head and says, “Before now I’ve never been further from home than Antigua.” Not counting the place of his birth he had actually been to a handful of the Lesser Antilles islands, all business and no excitement of course, even visiting relatives had been a chore; however Antigua was certainly the furthest of them all that he’d ever set foot on, or sailed near, and that wasn’t saying much. Even now where they trawled through The Bahamas was much farther than Stede ever thought he would travel in his life.
“Right, okay.” Ed snickers, “Fret not, that’ll change I no time. We’ll make a worldly pirate of you yet.”
Stede smiles but there is a flimsiness to it. It’s hard for him to even fathom, really. But he does quite like the idea, holds on to that feeling as he says, “You seem awfully sure of that.”
“Oh I’m more than sure,” Ed pledges, angles his eyes forward. “Anything less’d be a total failure on my part as a captain, and I like to think I’m pretty good at this.”
“Frankly Ed, you’d be the first to believe me capable of something like that.”
“Yeah? Well anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves,” Ed says sharply, to Stede’s mild startlement. And when he looks at Ed he is still faced forward and his expression is rumpled, knit pinching his brow. “No use in worrying yourself sick over what some trifling dickheads think.” He turns to meet Stede’s eyes, “Got that?”
Stede struggles to gather his words and after a moment finally manages to say, “Y-yes, Ed. Got that.”
Ed’s grimace smooths over and his mouth twitches into an easy smile, chin high he swivels himself to look out ahead again. It’s then that Stede decides to steer the topic away from himself as he’d much rather talk about anything else, dives back toward the previous subject at hand, unpleasant as it is, and asks, “Anyway, tell me more about this raid you’ve got planned? How is it that you know so much about our target?”
“...It pays to have a reputation,” Ed says, gives Stede peculiar look from the corner of his eye, “For the right price most people will gladly look the other way when it comes to sensitive information, like the exact course of a ship for example. And in that shit hole we just came from that price is usually next to nothing.” This kind of cheap transaction must be the ‘errand’ that Ed had sent Izzy after when they'd been stopped at port, and there was little question that Blackbeard would have a unique kind of influence in certain places, least of all Nassau.
“Gonna go out on a limb here,” Ed declares suddenly, “But I wanna say that you seem a little on edge.”
Stede huffs a dry laugh, attempts to waves off the notion, “What? I’m feeling quite the opposite, actually. I’m very... off edge.”
“Okay,” Ed says slowly, “Y’gonna be sick then? ‘Cuz you look like you’re about to spew.”
“I’m fine,” Stede insists, tries to put up an earnest visage but he can’t deny how his palms have gone sweaty. Ed looks at him carefully with his rich brown eyes, then he looks away and shrugs, “Hey it’s alright if you’re nervous. I know that people like you don’t normally do this kind of thing…”
“People like me?”
“Yeah y’know, people that are uh, soft or something. I dunno,” Ed says, half murmurs as he gives Stede a sidelong glance, “Look I’ve zero intention of making cannon fodder out of you, not that this raid should even go that far. We’ll probably just raise our flag and they’ll hand over their goods, usually how it goes.”
“...Really?”
“Really, there’s that reputation I mentioned. They see that banner flapping around and just give up right then and there.”
“Okay,” Stede says, his initial panic starting to subside. He doesn’t believe that Ed would throw him headlong into any kind of battle with no preparation, but for some wild reason Stede feels like he would have at least liked to give it a try, if Ed had asked it of him. “So you reckon this will be an easy venture?”
“Easy as cake,” Ed answers firmly, “But you can’t just catwalk into this kind of thing acting like it’s easy. That’s how you die, drop your guard for even a second and next thing there’s a knife stuck in your neck.”
The grisly mental image conjured up by Ed’s words has Stede’s stomach swooping and he frowns in revulsion, good enough incentive to follow his advice.
“I was thinking,” Ed says offhandedly then with his fingers tapping away a mindless rhythm on the wheel, “That I could show you a thing or two. I know you can at least hold a gun, can you handle a sword?”
“Uhm a lifetime ago I’d taken a quarter of fencing, but to be honest I flunked out of that class…” Stede admits, and he had failed quite miserably too. He decides it’s best to exclude how all that he properly remembered of that class was having been crassly slapped and poked by the other boy’s rapiers day in and day out.
Ed nods, mulls this over and says, “Alright,” Grins at Stede, “I mean hey, we’ve got a good foundation to build on here. And sailing? They got any classes for that where you’re from?”
“Hmm, I believe it might have been offered as an extracurricular…”
“Right,” Ed says, “I don’t know what that means.” He readjusts his grip around the handles, “Doesn’t matter, I can make a better sailor out of you than any snotty rich person school or decorated Fleet Admiral ever could.”
Now Stede is sure that he might’ve conjured up an exact scenario as this in his dreams at one point, and the tangibility of it now is almost staggering. With a delighted grin on his face Stede says, “Well I don’t think I could ever ask for a better teacher!”
Ed’s bare, agog expression shines and he appears quite chuffed as he says, “Got that right.” Shifts his weight from one foot to the other and suggest in afterthought, “Why don’t we start right now? Seems as good a time as any.”
“Huh?”
Taking a long step away from the helm, Ed lifts his arms and gives a wide motion to where he’d been standing, “You take the wheel for a bit.”
“Er wait a minute,” Stede says, apprehensive as he holds his hands up in front of him, “I have zero idea of what to do here!”
“Stede you got nothin’ to worry about,” Ed promises knowingly, “This is pretty hard to mess up.”
“I don’t know- What if I crashed into something? I’d hate to damage your ship...”
Ed blinks, twists his body at the waist to look about in all directions, even stretches up onto the tips of toes and cranes his neck out, and to his lack of surprise there isn’t anything around them to be seen but for the breadth of the sea. “Looks all clear to me, mate. This isn’t a runaway carriage, ship’s not gonna barrel into anything out here.” He briefly rests one hand on the nave of the wheel and gives it a fond pat, “This old girl can handle it, trust me.”
After a moment of quiet deliberation Stede blows out a breath and sets his shoulders, takes a tiny step forward and says resolutely, “Okay, alright. Only as long as you think I can do it.”
“I know you can do it,” Ed says, crosses his arms over his chest and leans back while he watches Stede sidle up to the helm. Stede raises his hands and hesitates just short of placing them on the wheel, and when he glances diffidently at Ed he is given a little thumbs-ups gesture and a nod for his trouble. He can’t help but smile at the simplistic encouragement, and gingerly settles his hands over the weighty felloe.
“...Am I doing it right?” Stede asks shyly after a tick of silence has passed. He certainly doesn’t feel like he is doing it right, stood with his hands poised in front of him in a way that makes him feel more than anything like dog begging for scraps.
“Well,” Ed hums as he assesses Stede’s posture, his head tilted to the side for good measure. He smiles with his eyes glittering in amusement, “I see room for improvement. Mind if I just… show you?”
“Oh,” Stede says as he squeezes the wheel on reflex, the suggestion making his heart pull a sudden bang in his chest, “Yes, by all means.”
In a quieter voice, just short of underneath his breath Ed says, “’Kay, lemme just...” Trails off as he moves quietly out of Stede’s sight to stand almost completely behind him, a space of only a few inches between them. And all at once Stede becomes very hyper-aware of himself; like he can feel every single one of his hairs, each little pore upon his skin and every fiber of his clothing where the articles drape on his body. He swallows thickly.
There is a light stroke at Stede’s elbow, dry fingertips against the skin just under his rolled up sleeve. The airy graze casts a shiver down his spine and Ed absentmindedly pinches at the fabric and gives it a small downward tug, says with his voice low, “All good?”
“Yes,” Stede answers quickly, feels the sizzling ghost of Ed’s touch even after he’s withdrawn his hand. There’s no time to mourn the loss of contact before Ed nudges in closer still. It’s barely a half step, but it shrinks down the open space between his chest and Stede’s back to scarcely a hairs length, close enough that Stede can feel the slightest edge of the zippers and buckles on Ed’s jacket, as well as the solid toe of his boot as it presses against the heel of Stede’s own. Ed’s hands drift up and he gently wraps his fingers over Stede’s wrists, and Stede lets Ed pull his hands off from the felloe and settle them to grasp the handles at an ‘11’ and ‘3’ O’clock arrangement instead, which feels a lot more proper than the oddly pious form that Stede had been attempting. His hands remain atop Stede’s with his fingers slotted in between the grooves of his knuckles, “There,” Ed says, his beard scraping lightly at Stede’s shoulder, “S’easier to turn this way, if you need to.”
As if he could spare any of his focus on the functions of the damn wheel, what with Ed so close that it’s as though Stede is standing with his back to an open fireplace, roaring heat of it blazing over him. Such warmth has never made him tremble like this before. He wants to close his eyes and fall backward into that fire as much as he wants to run from the burn of it’s licks. He can feel Ed move minutely, tuck his head in just so with the tip of his nose barely brushing against the blood-hot shell of Stede’s ear, smokey breath over the pulse that bucks wildly beneath his skin.
Stede hardly dares to breathe. Behind and all around him Ed’s presence is just shy of completely overwhelming, however not in a way that he would describe as unpleasant, quite the opposite actually. He feels a bit like he might faint though. The solid line of Ed’s body enfolding him against the helm, is it too late to assume that he’s only dreaming? At least if Stede did faint, it would be a lovely drop into the warm sturdiness of Ed’s chest.
He’s granted something akin to mercy when a grin is pressed into his hair just behind his ear and the embrace lasts for a moment longer before the cradle of Ed’s arms loosens. He moves a slow half-step to Stede’s side so that their eyes can meet, and when Stede looks at him he is reminded again of those mousing cats, pleased as punch after a successful catch. If Ed had a tail like theirs, it’d certainly be standing tall and flickering at the tip.
“You look good there” Ed says finally, all low and smooth while he takes a step back and examines Stede from head to toe, holds up his hands to make a square frame with his forefingers and thumbs, Stede caught in the center.
“Like a regular old sea captain.”
Stede, having been sent into something of a spin dips his chin modestly and murmurs, “A scruffy down-and-out more like.”
“Now that’s just about every captain I’ve ever met,” Ed says cheekily, “Halfway there already.”
This beats a chuckle from Stede, fairly engrossed with the tingling sensation that buzzes up and down his arms, raises tow-blonde hairs in it’s wake. He’s feeling a bit shaken to say the least, and in a stark contradiction Ed appears so outwardly composed, just shy of smug even. It’s what one would expect, he’s the one who had pulled off the move after all. Stede clears his throat and tries to allay his heart as it slugs against his ribs, decides that he will follow Ed’s lead and act ‘cool’, even if only on the outside, and says evenly, “I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out for you here.”
Ed pulls an entertained smile, is quiet for a contemplative moment before he straightens up his spine, looks at Stede and announces promptly, “Hey let’s get outta here, got something to show you.”
“Wha-? But the wheel?” Stede splutters feebly.
Ed is nonchalant as says “Someone else’ll handle it.” Then he turns his head, leans back to shout over his shoulder, “Oi Izzy!”
Stede jumps at the sudden yell, a prickly flush creeping up his neck when Izzy trudges over the rise after only a scant thirty seconds or so has passed, clearly having been lurking relatively close by, very much to Stede’s ruffled chagrin.
“Take over for us, would’jya?” Ed suggests with a gesture at the wheel once Izzy draws near, his words give the impression of a question but it is clear that there’s little room for argument. Stede takes this as his cue to release the handles; curls and uncurls his fingers reflexively when he draws his hands away, he hadn’t realized that he’d been squeezing with such a tight grip. Meanwhile Izzy does not attempt to muster his scowl as he wordlessly shoulders over to the helm. Drops his own hands heavily atop the felloe and grouses in a sardonic tone, “Shall I just assume the rest of your neglected duties for the day then?”
“You’re not cut out for captaining, Iz.” Ed answers plainly, “Now steady as she goes.” He gives Stede a look that is an indication to follow, and he easily moves into step behind Ed when he sets off, Stede unable to help but spare an icy glance at Izzy before he trails after him.
Feeling strangely refreshed, Stede practically skips over to Ed’s side and exclaims with a smile, “That was kind of fun! Not terribly exciting, but fun!”
Ed laughs, the sound soft and warm. “Is it really any fun if there’s no excitement involved?”
“I think it qualifies if you find the experience rewarding.” Stede says honestly.
“Hm, shoulda guessed you’d think learning is fun.”
“Is it not supposed to be?”
“Not the way I had to do it,” Ed says, a grim undertone to his voice, and he seems to notice the way that Stede’s expressions shifts as he adds, “Don’t worry, I’ve got no plans to string you upside down to the mast or anything.” Ed almost seems to be speaking of something he’d personally gone through, and if so then what a harrowing ordeal that might have have been.
“What are you meant to learn from that?” Stede asks in dismay.
“Supposed to build character I think, make you tougher.” Ed says casually, glances at Stede, “Just maybe not you specifically.”
“Yes,” Stede croaks, “I should like to avoid anything like that.”
Ed simply winks at Stede before they head inside the ship, toward the great cabin, and when they’ve come upon the door to it he twists the lock open and says, “Hold on, can’t trust any of these fuckers not to take anything.”
Stede wonders if this too is drawing from something Ed might have experienced firsthand.
After entering the room Ed tells Stede to have a seat, so he elects to sit in the same chair that he’d used the previous night, makes himself comfortable and watches Ed curiously as he bustles around his desk, approaches an overstuffed console table and begins to rummage through a stack of things, pulling out and setting aside yellowy rolls of paper and leather bound logs. He twists away when a flurry of unsettled dust rises from the mess, swipes a hand through it with displeasure creasing his face.
Stede grins, lips pressed together, and he suggests lightly, “You know, I could always help you tidy up a bit.”
Ed looks at Stede and narrows his eyes. Then he tosses a shoulder and turns back to his digging, says, “Somethin’ wrong with my space?”
“Not at all,” Stede is quick to assure, and of course he means it. The cabin is a lot more dark and a lot less organized than he would personally prefer, but the sheer amount of oddities and treasures on full display make for enough visual splendor that Stede forgets to care about anything like dust or un-alphabetized documents. From the dappled pelt of a jaguar stretched out on the wall to a pile of jewelry that spills over a shelf ledge like golden, shining vines, Stede appreciates every last bit of it and says playfully, “Although if it were less cluttered in here perhaps you’d have found what you’re looking for by now.”
“Eh,” Ed mutters evasively, “Too busy runnin’ this joint to bother with the tidying,” Tugs a folded, rectangular bit of parchment out from underneath a painted wooden box and inadvertently tips over a jar of quills. The jar, made of glass, doesn’t break when it rolls and thumps to the floor but the quills scatter and Ed mutters, “Shit,” as he watches them fall. Stede leans over to pluck the closest one to himself, runs his fingertips over the soft feather vane before he places the quill gently upon Ed’s desk, next to the sewing kit that Ed had presented him with earlier.
“All the more reason to let me lend a hand,” Stede encourages, “If you’d like.”
Ed hums, scoops up a few of the fallen quills and after setting them aside he approaches his desk with the parchment in hand and says, “Alright, no need to twist my arm. Let’s worry about it tomorrow though, yeah?”
“Oh alright,” Stede relents, curiously peeks at the folded paper that Ed holds and asks, “What’s that then?”
With a grin Ed places the parchment on the desk and unfolds it carefully, and Stede takes note from the roughened edges and coloring of the material that it must be rather old and therefore fragile. He leans in to get a look once it’s been opened completely and after staring at it for a long moment Stede comes to the conclusion that he has no idea what he’s looking at, expresses as much by asking uncertainly, “A map?”
“Kinda,” Ed says, watching Stede closely, “Know anything about stars?”
“I know I’ve read a lot about them,” Stede replies as he tilts his head this way and that, scrutinizes the image of a circle surrounded on all sides by words that he does not recognize; when he notices that every word is repeated directly across from itself multiple times and with Ed’s previous question giving him an idea he says definitively, “It’s some kind of star chart!”
“That’s it.” Ed says, smiles and crosses his arms. “Got that fast.”
Stede lifts a hand, intending to carefully touch the paper but refrains as he’d rather not ruin it. So instead he tilts forward to get an even closer look, squints his eyes at the words of which he can only assume are star names and positions, albeit penned in a different tongue. Some of them are long smudged and unreadable; however several are still perfectly clear and appear to be written with English lettering.
“It helps to be something of a bookworm,” Stede says in response, “But I haven’t seen anything like this before, what language is the writing in?”
“It’s all from my mum’s people,” Ed tells him in a careful way, “I was taught those names first, when I was a boy.”
“Wow,” Stede murmurs, gazes with open regard at the sprawl of words and then focuses on one at random, “Which star is… Teckyoo-”
“Takurua,” Ed intercepts before Stede can finish botching the name, “And it’s uh, that doggy one? Sirius it’s called.”
“Ah!” Stede exclaims and flashes a grin, “Of course it is, one of my favorites actually. Did you know that Sirius is the brightest star in our sky?”
An amused, patient shine in his eyes, Ed taps his fingers and says, “Sure is, makes it pretty useful for navigating.”
“Right. I suppose that was a stupid question.” Stede says, he should have assumed Ed would know that already.
Ed shrugs, not the least bit insulted and he says, “It’s not stupid.” His easy tone is a balm to any anxieties Stede might have began to entertain, “You said it was your favorite?”
“Oh yes, one of them.” Stede says quietly, feels a heartening lightness bloom in his chest and he rambles on, “The ancient Greeks thought it to be a harbinger of sorts, bringing heat and fever during the final days of summer. That’s why they’re called the ‘dog days’, you know.”
“See, I didn’t know that.” Ed says as he leans an elbow onto the armrest, props his head casually against a raised hand, cheek to his knuckles. “I can tell you when a star while rise down to the second but that poetic, scholarly stuff is all you.”
Shyly Stede dips his chin and a smile tugs at his mouth, “I only know what I’ve read… but thank you.” He says, his face hot, not quite used to being on the receiving end of what surely feels like a compliment.
“So does that mean you're able to find your way with only the stars the aide you?”
“Yeah, if I needed to,” Ed answers, “One look at the sun is enough to figure out where I am. When you know where all the planets and stars are supposed to be and when they’re supposed to be there, it all clicks together. You just get it.”
“I see,” Stede says with wonder, nods and looks back down at the chart, hovers a finger over the name Takurua, and says, “So this star rises here in the evening…” He move his hand and points at the opposite, Westerly side of the circle, “And here it sets in the morning.”
Ed smiles warmly with something upon his face that looks rather prideful, and Stede happily listens when he starts to tell him more about how the chart works and how each part of it equates to the sky. It’s a little confusing in all honesty, Stede was never any good at learning from merely listening to someone speak. Nevertheless he does listen to Ed attentively, enchanted by his wealth of knowledge and how easily he divulges it, talking with a familiarity that suggests years of practice. Ed explains that the horizon can broken down into ‘houses’ that individual stars will consistently rise and fall in and to Stede’s shock, there are over 200 star names to remember on top of the names of each house. How Ed could possibly remember each one, Stede hasn’t the foggiest. There aren’t even close to 200 names written on the chart that is spread over the desk.
Stede points out a few more names that catch his attention, asking if Ed can tell him their Greek derived titles and then he shares whatever relevant bit of mythology he is able to think of. And Ed does not say if he is already aware of what Stede is jabbering at him, he only smiles and listens like it’s his first time hearing it all anyway. It’s not long before he’s pulling out more odds and ends to show Stede, this prompting Stede of course to impart anything else interesting he might know, having read a book on just about everything at this point in his life.
Ed holds out a wooden frame and inside there’s a little bat pinned behind a pane of glass with it’s papery wings spread, and Stede can’t help but mention how bats are the second largest order of all mammals, next to rodents. When Ed brandishes a shiny black knife, all chipped brittle edges, Stede immediately recognizes that the blade has been crafted from obsidian, and he excitedly explains that humans have been making tools of the volcanic glass for hundreds of thousands of years.
Eventually after a lengthy amount of time has passed, quicker than Stede had even realized, Ed pauses to stretch out his shoulders and neck, sighs as his bones pop and he hums half under his breath, “Would kill for some tea…”
“I can make some for you,” Stede offers up cheerily, mouth moving before he can really think about it. Do they even have any tea stocked on the ship? They had only just resupplied so it’s not entirely out of the question.
Ed huffs out a laugh, lets a beat of silence pass before his face twitches and he says to Stede, brow furrowing, “You’re not joking?”
“Edward, I would never joke about tea like that.” Stede says firmly. Committing himself to the offer, he supposes he may just have to swim back to land if he can’t find any of the stuff aboard.
“Okay,” Ed says, eyes intent on Stede, “You know I could just have it brought in.”
“By the time anyone heard you shouting I will have already returned. Unless Izzy happens to be hiding behind the door.”
Ed throws his hands up in defeat, “Alright, you wore me down,” He concedes, “Hurry back though I want to hear the rest of that story.” That story being an anecdote from Stede’s earlier childhood, involving a youthful attempt to rescue various farm animals from becoming dinner.
As Stede excuses himself to leave, Ed opens one of the desk drawers and takes out his pipe and plant tin, taps the pipe to clear the bowl and calls after Stede, “Don’t get lost this time!”
Stede smiles privately as he scampers off to the galley, yet again the most obvious place to find what he’s looking for, and it’s not long at all before Stede finds his way there. He walks a little faster when the familiar door comes into view, still open as it was earlier and he knocks mindfully on the frame before entering, hoping to avoid annoying Roach by suddenly dropping in. Roach has his back to the door, hunched over a deep pot on the stove and he twists his head to the side when he hears the light rapping of Stede’s knuckles. He doesn’t appear at all surprised at Stede’s arrival and wastes no time in saying, “I was wondering when you would come back. Your little prisoner came running in just after you left.”
His eyes flick to one of the shelves, and when Stede follows his gaze he can spot that whiskeref prisoner lounging along the topmost level of the shelf, long gray body stretched out with his tail slung over the edge, sly orange eyes squinted into slits.
“Yes,” Stede acknowledges as he scoots into the room, “Let’s just say he’s bested for me now. I’ve no intention to try and take him again.”
Roach gives Stede an odd look, “Okay, why are you here then?” He gestures toward the stove, “If you’re hungry you’ll have to wait like everyone else.”
“Oh I’m not here for that,” Stede says, although whatever is simmering away in that pot does smell quite delicious. “I was hoping I could prepare some tea actually. If there is any.”
“Tea?” Roach parrots back, crosses his arms in thought and says decisively, “I think there might be some in that far cabinet.”
He watches as Stede practically jumps to search through it and comments, “We’re told not to waste water on frivolous things like tea.”
“Who says that?” Stede scoffs as he tugs open the cabinet door, the hinges squeaking. “You’re drinking it all the same so what difference does it make?”
“Er, it’s an order from first mate Hands.” Roach explains and then adds after a beat, “You’ve met him.”
“I have, unfortunately.” Stede says with a knowing grimace. “You should disregard that order for now, this is for Blackbeard so we needn’t worry about Izzy raining Hell upon us.”
“Okay...” Roach says unsurely, turns back to the stove, “I’ll just leave you to that then.”
Stede hums and nods, begins to scour through the cabinet that Roach had pointed out to him. Eventually and to his delight he finds a dusty box of tea leaves tucked in the very back of the furthest cabinet, and on popping it open he notes that there is more than enough inside to brew a pot. The herbs seem a bit old but the fragrance is still lovely, and in that brief moment Stede is overcome by a feeling that he can only describe as homesickness; strongly reminded of warm afternoons spent in the sunroom back at the estate, enjoying a spot of tea with a good book in hand. The yawning clench of it grips his heart so tightly, and then it’s gone in such an instant that he feels disoriented and bereft. He squeezes his eyes shut to regain his bearings before rising to his feet. He stands there, frowning severely with the tea tin gripped in both hands, looking down at it he carefully smooths a thumb over the lettering on the face with his mind elsewhere. Distantly, he may hear the chiming laughter of his children as they playfully chase one another through the garden.
“Did you find any?” Roach’s voice cuts in suddenly, pulling Stede out from his spiral of thought. Stede blinks, collects himself and says with a wobbly smile, “I did, although it was very well hidden. One might think it’s a secret stash of some kind...”
“One might think that,” Roach mutters under his breath, “Just don’t use it all, got it?”
“I won’t,” Stede promises as he steps near the stove, admiring the bulk and size of the device, only appropriate for the ship that they’re on. He spies a copper kettle hanging from a hook on the side and eagerly snatches it up, takes it to a large cask by the wall and fills it to half with water. Before closing the cask Stede glances over his shoulder and when he’s sure that Roach’s back is fully turned, he dribbles just a splash of water into his palm and briskly scrubs at his face and neck with it, pushes and scrubs a hand through his hair too. What he would give for a proper bath. With the kettle grasped in one hand, Stede walks back to the stove and places it upon an open spot there.
He decides to busy himself while waiting for the water to boil, and so putters about the galley to gather a few more things, finds two copper cups and when he is unable to locate a tray of some kind he settles upon a decent sized cutting board, scored with slash marks but clean enough to use. As Stede returns to the stove Roach asks him, “Think you would you use this?”
He looks over to see Roach holding out a bucket, and peering over the rim he can see a shallow amount of frothy milk at the bottom.
“It’s leftover, and still pretty fresh.” Roach explains, “And that cat has had much more than he probably should have already.”
“Oh this is perfect!” Stede says, “Thank you, Roach.”
Roach nods, gives his stew an idle stir while Stede looks for something to use as a pitcher. He decides that another cup will suffice for now; but he will have to make about procuring an actual tea set as soon as possible as this ad hoc version simply won’t do in the long term. After just a little more digging around the room he manages to locate a box of sugar cubes and decides to take out a few, dropping them on the ‘tray’ and stepping back to wait for the water to finish heating up.
“So,” Roach starts without preamble when Stede drifts back over to the stove, “What is your job around here exactly?”
“I’m part of the crew,” Stede replies, “No different from you or anyone else on this ship.”
“I don’t think Blackbeard would let just anyone on this ship make him tea.” Roach says, his eyes sliding to the side.
“Well, that’s because I’m his friend.” Stede says acutely, “And I wanted to do something nice for him.”
Roach looks at Stede, “Whatever you have going on is your business.” He says, “If anything this is probably a good thing.”
Stede needn’t pitch any questions, the open look on his face doing efficient enough work and Roach goes on to say, his voice lowered a notch, “There’s a lot of talk going around, about our captain.”
“What sort of talk?”
“It’s mostly all about how ‘checked out’ he is these days, and that is the nice way of putting it.”
Frowning, Stede asks, “And what is the not nice way?”
“Not my words,” Roach discloses firstly, “But I’ve heard it all from ‘shameful wretch’ to ‘drunken has-been’, take your pick.”
“The Blackbeard I’ve come to know is anything but a wretch,” Stede says keenly, “And a far cry from shameful nor drunken too.”
“Hey I would not know,” Roach shrugs, “I’ve hardly even seen the man-”
The kettle interrupts him when it starts to whine and shriek then, steam rushing from the spout, and Stede quickly removes it from the stove. He turns to the counter and goes about brewing the tea, and Roach says plainly, “All I’m saying is that maybe he could use something like a friend.”
Stede places the kettle over a folded rag on the makeshift tray, carefully picks it up with both hands and declares simply, “If that’s what he needs, then I’m more than happy to be there for him.”
“I’d say,” Roach remarks, “You’re making tea for him after all.”
Stede chews at the inside of his cheek, not sure what this is even supposed to mean. Clearing his throat, he turns to the door and says, “I should be getting back now. Thanks for letting me use your kitchen!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Roach says, only moderately dismissive. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“It’s only the polite thing to do.” Stede says as he’s halfway over the threshold, “and I’ll return your kettle as soon as possible!”
He can hear Roach mumble something in response but he is too distracted to hear, thinking of little but Ed and with a jitteriness that makes him grip the tray tightly. Oh how does Stede know precisely what it feels like to need ‘something like a friend’, having never really been fortunate enough to have made any meaningful friendships, or relationships really, for himself. He’d been faced with quite a lot of cold indifference in his attempts, and he was well acquainted with the kind of ache that would accompany that. Stede isn’t sure that he even knows how to be someone’s anything much less a friend, but he truly hates the thought of Ed being so miserable and lonely that he has earned a reputation for it. As it turns out he actually quite enjoys the sight of Edward’s smiling face, almost as much as he enjoys being the person to put that smile there in the first place.
Walking with haste and eager to return to the cabin, Stede decides to head to the upper deck instead of navigating through the ship’s dim interior as a breath of fresh air sounds very nice. When he steps outside he’s surprised to see how much of the day has passed already, the sun hung rather low over the horizon and veiled in a haze of blue. Stede stares at the sky briefly and then continues on his way, only makes it so far across the deck before he spots something that has him stopping in his tracks.
Smile erupting, Stede strides forward and balances the tray with one hand so that he can lift the other high in a cheery wave, greets, “Hi guys!” And he is met with the puzzled faces of Jim, Lucius, and Oluwande. The trio appear to be mending a kind of large net-like thing, or at least attempting to mend it and seeming none too enthusiastic about the task either.
Lucius is the first to react, tries to smooth away the deer-in-coach-lamp look from his face although his brows remain askew and he says after a beat, “Hi? Where did you come from?” Tilts his head as he gazes at Stede, taking notice of the tray.
“Ooh is that tea?" He asks curiously and reaches out toward one of the cups.
In a blink Stede slaps away Lucius’ hand with his own and tsks highly, “No! I mean, yes it is tea but well, it's not for you.”
“Geez, alright! Keep your hair on,” Lucius snips defensively, curls his lip and withdraws his stricken hand.
“Sorry,” Stede says gingerly, wincing with regret, “Now I don’t mean to interrupt your hard work here…”
“No please do,” Lucius mutters.
“But I just wanted to let each of you know that I’m very happy to see you free. None of you deserved to be locked up like that.”
Lucius shrugs, sheepishly drops his eyes to the heavy netting slung across his lap while Oluwande speaks up, “We should thank you, Jim and I. You stuck your neck out for us for pretty much nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing, I think we’ll all benefit from having the two of you around.” Stede says with an easy smile, “Perhaps someday one of you will return the favor!”
He’s earned a small kind of laugh from Oluwande while Jim rolls their eyes underneath the shadowy brim of their hat, gives their head the slightest shake.
“So,” Lucius says then, leans his chin in his palm and gestures at Stede’s hashed together tea set, “What’s this about?”
“It’s for Blackbeard,” Stede explains, glances down at his burden, “He mentioned wanting some so I thought it would be nice…”
“Hmm, could have figured that.” Lucius says as he nods, looks closely at Stede, “Things are going well between you and the captain then?”
“Oh certainly,” Stede says excitedly and bounces on his heels a little, “I don’t believe I’ve ever gotten along with someone in this way before, it’s quite thrilling actually.”
Lucius hums, picks idly at the frayed rope strands, “Yes, I remember what my first crush felt like.”
“Lucius!” Stede wheezes, chuckles dryly, “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up if you want me to understand you.”
Oluwande and Jim exchange a glance with one another while Lucius huffs in exasperation, “You do realize that none of us really care if you’re into men or whatever, right?”
Taking a step back, a hot flush ignites underneath Stede’s cheeks and he coughs out, “We are friends! While it’s true that Ed is smart and kind and charming a-and, and well that’s all there is to it! There’s nothing wrong with admiring those qualities in a person.”
“Yeah you’re not really doing a good job of convincing me that you’re not into Blackbeard. You literally made him tea.” Lucius says pointedly, to which Stede murmurs a beleaguered response of, “Why do you all keep saying that?”
“Stede,” Lucius says, “I know you posh types tend to be repressed and all that but even you can’t be this stupid.”
The expression upon Stede’s face must be melting into something quite helpless, because Lucius almost immediately pulls back a bit, softens his voice some as he says patiently, “Look, you’re both at least semi-functional adults so I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’m only saying that maybe this friendship is worth a little thinking about, yes?”
It’s hard to not shy away but Stede sets his jaw and moves his head in a motion that could potentially be a nod, with Lucius pressing his mouth into a semblance of a reassuring grin in turn. Stede manages a twitch of the lips himself, but the dread that he’s starting to feel is palpable.
Certainly not seeking a distraction Stede sweeps his gaze to the side and startles when he looks at Jim and catches sight of their harshly glowering face, although he quickly realizes that the virulent gaze is not aimed at himself but rather somewhere behind him. He can’t help but glance over his shoulder, only to see nothing but for a scattering of men around the deck, none of them focused in their direction. Turning his gaze back to the group Stede asks, “Jim, are you alright?”
Lucius and Oluwande both gape in surprise, pivoting to look Jim for clarification while Jim looks very troubled at being the subject of such unexpected attention. They look back and forth between the lads and then zero in on Stede, nostrils flaring as they dip their chin low and bite out glassily, “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Stede says lightly. It would definitely seem that Jim has something on their mind, which doesn’t come as a shock to Stede, considering what they’d been through to get here and whatever else might have happened before that. Either way, Jim’s answer is a clear warning to back off and Stede will simply have to respect that, although he has half a mind to keep a watchful eye out for their sake.
“Just checking in, that’s all." Stede assures, "Although with that I should probably make my leave, Ed is expecting me…”
“Remember what I said,” Lucius interjects as Stede begins to bustle away, calls after him shrewdly, “You can’t run away from your feelings when your stuck on a boat with them!”
Okay, so it’s not as though any of what Lucius was suggesting had't already occurred to Stede on some level; these strange and invigorating thoughts about a certain bearded person that he could hardly understand, it was very easy to write it all off as something that he shouldn’t dare to entertain. He’d learned early on not to give credence to his more fanciful ideas. What he wouldn’t deny, at least to himself, is the way that Ed makes him feel; happy, understood, maybe even safe? But what Stede had a hard time believing was the idea that Ed could potentially feel the same, sure he enjoyed Stede’s company but was it possible for someone so lovely to have such thoughts of him? It seemed plainly out of the question.
Stede starts to feel a tremble of anxiety as he nears the cabin, trepidation stewing in his gut, feeling anything but brave. Whatever these feelings that whirl inside of him are, it seems that it is time to face them.