Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a tight fit, seven men in a small dinghy. They row by turns, and a makeshift sail helps take the edge off the effort. Still, they’re lucky. The weather stays kind long enough for them to make it to land, and they’re all still alive when they get there. Just barely, perhaps, lips cracking with dehydration and eyes fever-bright, but alive.

If they hadn’t all been so dried-out, they might have cried when the rising tide pushed them up a stream and ran the small craft aground. They tumble out of the dinghy and stagger to the water with a reverence and gratitude that skates close to worship. They’re so close to the sea that the water they scoop up with shaking hands is still brackish, iodine and salt tingling in sore mouths, but it’s not poison.

Their luck holds. They sleep, drink, and eat fruit picked straight from the trees beside the water, with very little thought and even less conversation. On the fifth day, Oluwande stirs them into action.

“What now?” He gestures vaguely around them. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, laying about on a tropical beach eating guavas is pretty good, can’t complain, but we can’t do this forever.”

Stede looks over at him, his expression flat. “Yes. We have to face the music sooner or later.”

“You do, you mean.” Roach pulls a face.

“Yeah,” Pete agrees. “We just got caught up in all your drama. Like, I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but I think Blackbeard left us on that tiny island on purpose.”

“He’s a wee bit dramatic,” John chimes in. “He’s not the first guy ever to get dumped, but you’d never know from how he was acting.”

“He didn’t get dumped!” Stede objects, sparks of disapproval lighting his eyes for a moment.

Oluwande grimaces. “Don’t think it felt that way to him, Captain.”

“Yeah,” the Swede agrees, “I think your boyfriend leaving you to go back to his wife feels exactly like getting dumped?”

Stede’s face crumples. “You might have a point, there.” He takes a deep breath, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles show bright white against tanned skin. “So, we—”

“You,” Roach interrupts again, pointing a wickedly sharp knife at him.

“Yes, alright, I need to make it better.” Stede glares at Roach, then looks around hopefully. “Any ideas how?”

“I reckon what we need most for that, cap’n,” says Buttons, thoughtfully, “is a ship.”

:::::

That afternoon sees them on a cliff-top, looking down at a harbour.

“What about that one?” Stede suggests, pointing out a rather grand-looking vessel. It has its name painted in gilt, and several sharply-dressed sailors on deck.

“I think that might be a bit tricky for just us seven,” says Oluwande, ever the diplomat. “Even if we managed to get it, I don’t think we’ve got enough people to actually sail it.”

“See that one there?” Buttons points at a smaller ship on the far side of the harbour, Elizabeth picked out in a merry violet on the prow. “She looks a likely option.” He nods once, emphatically. “Olivia thinks so too, look.” Sure enough, there is a seagull perched on the mainmast.

Stede raises a questioning eyebrow in Oluwande’s direction. He shrugs. “Why not?”

“We should check she’s fitted out appropriately,” Buttons muses. “We wilnae have a chance tae take on rations and fresh water here.”

“Ah, yes,” Stede agrees. “I think I might have just the plan.” He grins. “And maybe a little fuckery might be in order too.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” calls Stede to the lone sailor on the deck of the Elizabeth, walking up the gangplank and beckoning to Oluwande to follow him. “Please spare us a few moments of your time, and we’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.”

“You what?” The sailor frowns, but doesn’t try to prevent them from coming aboard.

“Just a routine inspection!” Stede beams, and indicates the clipboard in Oluwande’s hands. “My assistant and I just need a quick check of your cargo.” He nods to Olu, “I’m sure our new friend—”

“Er, Dave,” contributes Dave, as Stede raises a meaningful eyebrow in his direction.

“—will be only too happy to help. This way, I presume?!” Stede strides down the deck, Dave following him in confusion. Oluwande pauses just long enough to give a shrug and a thumbs up to Pete where he’s loitering on the quay, and hurries to follow them down into the hold.

“Oh now, this is lovely,” Stede is exclaiming when Oluwande catches up. There’s a rack of fabrics in front of him, a whole rainbow of colours. “Make a note of this, Olu, look at all these wonderful silks!” He moves further into the hold and gasps.

“You alright, sir?” Oluwande edges past Dave and cranes his neck over Stede’s shoulder.

Stede half-turns towards him, a bolt of dark cloth in his arms. It’s hard to make out the detail in the belowdeck gloom, but there’s a delicate pattern traced in black and grey, and as he turns there are hints of silver glinting in the candlelight. “This is silk damask. It’s warm, hardwearing, beautiful, and very difficult to make.” His voice is hushed, almost reverent as he carefully strokes a single finger over the cloth.

“It’ll make us some cash when we get rid of it, then, sir?” Oluwande murmurs.

“Hmm?” Stede’s eyes flicker to Oluwande’s briefly. “It’ll suit him, won’t it?” There’s a slight catch in his voice.

Oluwande sighs, rolls his eyes. “It’s just his colour. Whether he’ll want it, though…”

Stede shows no sign of having heard him, but nods sharply. “Yes. This is the right ship for us.” He carefully lays the damask back down, and smiles at Dave, who’s still looking confused. “Thank you so much for your time, dear man, but we really must be going now.” He sweeps past him and up the ladder to the deck.

Wee John is waiting at the top. “We’re all ready, Captain,” he says. “Just waitin’ on Swede to set off the diversionary tactics.”

“Of course,” Stede agrees, then hesitates. “What diversion did we decide on, in the end?”

“Swede’s got a bit o’ slow match,” John explains. “Like we use for lighting cannon fuses. He’s gone off to stick it in something flammable.”

“Isn’t that a bit… dangerous?” queries Stede, doubtfully.

“It’s slow match,” John shrugs. “It takes a wee while to burn from one end to the other. Gives you time to run for it.” As he says this, the sound of running feet makes them both look round. “Here he comes now.”

The Swede is running at full tilt down the quay towards them, a panicked look in his eye. “Go go go!” he yells, and as he leaps the couple of feet down to the deck and tumbles into a roll, the sky seems to light up behind him. A hot breeze sweeps past, acrid and metallic. The noise follows a moment behind, deafening; a deep throbbing that’s more felt than heard, alongside sharp retorts and the screaming of tortured metal and stonework.

The others have anticipated Swede’s arrival, already making sail and shoving Dave unceremoniously back on to the quay even before the Swede has got back to his feet. She’s a neat little thing with two masts, and picks up speed quickly; the hot rush of air helps to push it forward and out to sea. As they exit the harbour the shorefront glows red behind them, and the water dances as debris splashes and sinks.

“Swede,” Stede asks slowly, staring around at the scene of devastation, “where exactly did you put that slow match?”

The Swede is all innocence. “Somewhere flammable, just like the plan.” He shrugs. “I found a nice little building with lots of dry barrels inside.”

Stede frowns. “Barrels of what?”

“Gunpowder, I think.”

Oluwande snorts. “Bloody hell, Swede, I think you blew up the armoury.”

The following morning sees them some miles away. Buttons sidles up to where Stede is loitering on the quarterdeck. “Buttons!” Stede greets him. “Good morning to you!”

“Aye, it’s a fine start.” Buttons leans in close to Stede, eyes wide. “We need tae keep it fine, mind.”

“Yes,” Stede agrees, leaning away slightly. “Er, is there anything in particular that you were thinking of?”

Buttons leans in closer, whispers in Stede’s ear. “Ship needs a new name.” He shifts again, eyeballing Stede from a bare couple of inches. “We cannae expect tae get far without being spotted, and it’d be best for us all if she didnae still have the name she left with.”

“Ah, yes,” Stede exclaims. “Excellent idea.” He claps his hands and beams at Buttons. “Let’s have a crew meeting.”

Ten minutes later the whole crew - or what’s left of it - is assembled on deck. “Well,” Stede says, looking around. “We need to rename this ship to avoid attracting attention. Does anyone have any ideas?”

“What do ships normally get called?” Pete queries. “Scary names, like Revenge ? Could we use that again?”

Stede grimaces. “I think maybe we need a fresh start.” He takes a deep breath, looks around hopefully. “Oluwande, any thoughts?”

Oluwande shrugs. “Depends what sort of thing you’re after I suppose. Lots of warships have big grand names, but little fishing boats get named something silly, or named after someone’s mum.”

“Aye, that’s right,” Buttons chimes in. “I remember a big English Navy ship called the Indefatigable - very grand, very fancy.”

“Bit of a mouthful, though,” says Oluwande. “Maybe something a bit easier?”

“I like the mummy’s name idea,” ventures Swede. “My mummy was Elisabet, how about that?”

“It’s not exactly different though,” says Pete, “given that it’s already called Elizabeth. We were going for something new?”

“Oh, yes, yes, something new,” muses Swede. “Maybe name it after an animal we like?”

“That could work.” Roach slaps the flat of his cleaver against his palm. “A sea animal, yeah, like Oyster or Cod or Shrimp?”

“Those are just food,” Swede objects. “I was thinking something more like…”

“Insects?” chips in Wee John, looking aggrieved when they all turn to stare at him. “What?”

“I seem to remember the French have a Papillon,” says Buttons, taking pity on him.

John doesn’t seem overly mollified. “And the English have a whole load named after insects. There’s Cricket, Ladybird, Bee…”

Buttons nods as he lists them, ticking the names off on his fingers, “Aye, I remember. There’s Moth and Glowworm and Cockchafer too.”

Stede almost chokes. “Are you sure that’s right?”

“Oh aye, HMS Cockchafer, proud name, proud name.”

Stede raises an eyebrow, purses his lips. “Perhaps we can steer clear of insects for the moment.”

“Maybe just a descriptive word,” suggests Oluwande. “Like Swift, or… or Sharp, or Dangerous.”

“You’re just describing Jim, now,” says Pete, rolling his eyes.

“I like that, though,” says John, a little wistful. “It’s like the mammy idea, name it after someone you love.”

“Yes,” agrees Stede, memories of quiet smiles and eyes full of wonder filling his mind. “That’s an excellent idea.” He gets up, looking determined. “Now, where’s the paint?”

By the time the sun sets, the little ship is no longer Elizabeth, but Exquisite.

They spend a week or so getting a feel for their new ship. Stede throws himself into the work with a focus he rarely showed on the Revenge. Although he’s nowhere near as quick as the rest of the crew when it comes to climbing rigging and making sail, he makes steady progress towards competence. He surprises himself with how quickly he picks up the more technical aspects too, navigation and how to trim the sails to their best advantage coming easily to him under the guidance of Buttons and Oluwande. It really does feel more like a family than ever before, every crew member offering advice when he needs it, a kindly tease or practical demonstration growing his confidence.

One afternoon Wee John’s lesson in tying knots is cut short by a shout from the Swede in the crow’s nest.

“Sail! Sail to leeward!”

Stede leaps to his feet, half-formed knots coiling into a heap around his ankles and heart hammering. “Oh gosh! Is it the Revenge ?” The reply in the negative is somehow both alarming and calming to his nerves. “Well then, is it a merchant? Do you think we’re ready for a bit of piracy?”

“Oh aye,” says Buttons, looming up behind him, fighting teeth in place. “We’re ready.”

It goes more easily than their previous efforts. The Exquisite, though smaller than the merchant ship, is a good deal quicker and more manoeuvrable. They run down the wind with an ominous blood-red flag flapping at the masthead, fire the cannons, and the merchant runs up a white flag of surrender before the smoke has cleared.

That evening, after a joyful dinner of stolen beef and too much wine, Stede finds the whole crew looking at him expectantly.

“What?” he asks, baffled. “I’m afraid there’s no dessert, we’ll have to see if we can pinch a bit of sugar from the next vessel.”

“It’s not that,” Pete replies. “It’s just, we found some books on that ship, and—”

“—we were thinking maybe you could read to us,” chips in Oluwande.

“Yes,” nods the Swede, a hopeful smile flickering across his face. “I think we are all missing the bedtime stories.”

Stede sighs. “Honestly, I’m really not sure I’m in the mood for bedtime stories these days.”

“We picked up a fair number of books, captain,” says Buttons, eyes wide. “Sure one will be to your fancy?”

Wee John takes this as encouragement, and promptly drops a stack of books in Stede’s lap.

He may as well go along with it, Stede supposes. But— “I’m afraid these aren’t story books.”

Pete frowns. “What are they then?”

“Poetry,” Stede muses, thumbing idly through a slim volume. “Although,” he pauses, opening the book more widely as the words leap up to him, “perhaps that will do?”

Nods of affirmation spread around the group, and after a few minutes of elbows and grumbling they’re all settled happily enough, Stede perched on the capstan as usual. Although the Exquisite has less space than the Revenge and they’re a little cramped - Oluwande and Wee John so close to either side of Stede that they can almost see the pictures in the book - the feeling is one of familiar comfort.

Stede clears his throat and begins.

There"s a feeling I get

When I look to the west

And my spirit is crying for leaving

He doesn’t notice the crew exchange glances as he recites poem after poem, flicking through the pages and reading almost without pause.

You say you"ve gone away from me,

But I can feel you when you breathe

Occasionally the words will stick in his throat, fighting their way out with jagged edges and tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

Goin" home, I just can"t make it all alone

I really should be holding you, holding you

Loving you, loving you

Stede reads until his throat is dry, and most of the crew have been lulled into an uneasy sleep. He slides down from the capstan and tiptoes towards the captain’s cabin. Just before he closes the door, Oluwande’s gentle voice floats across the deck.

“We’ll find them, captain. I don’t know if it’ll be alright, but we’ll find them, and find out.”

Stede nods once, closes the door softly. It takes him a long time to sleep, cramped in the utilitarian efficiency of the captain’s cabin, with no fine fabrics, soft furnishings, or gently rumbling conversation. When he finally tips into unconsciousness it’s with salted cheeks and dreams laced with brandy.

:::::

It feels like they’ve been fruitlessly sailing the Exquisite around the Caribbean for weeks when it finally happens. Again, the Swede is on lookout, again Stede’s heart hammers as he asks if they can identify the ship. This time, though—

“I think it is the Revenge.” Swede’s voice drifts down from the masthead. “I think I can see Blackbeard’s flag.”

“Oh god,” mutters Stede, under his breath, gripping so tightly to the ship’s railing that his knuckles are almost pressing through his skin. “Can someone pass my telescope, please?” he calls. The short walk to fetch it himself feels beyond his capability, his knees trembling as they are.

Finally, finally the glass is pushed into his hands, and Stede catches a glimpse of his beloved ship at last. It’s uncanny, how little the ship has changed. It feels like his feelings for Ed are so strong that the Revenge should have them carved into her sides, painted in glorious swirls of colour up and down her masts, the very fabric of the flag she flies showing “Stede loves Ed” with every passing breeze.

Thinking of the flag, though… Stede peers through the telescope, looking for the flag, waiting for the wind to catch it at the right angle so that he can see it, to be sure that it really is Ed still there on his ship. When the wind finally obliges, the sight of Blackbeard’s famous flag hits Stede so hard he struggles to catch his breath. He pushes the telescope at Oluwande with shaking hands. “He’s changed his flag,” he gasps, trying to calm himself, trying to look merely interested. “Do you think it means anything?”

Olu, looking through the telescope, hums. “Yeah, looks like his old flag. You know, ‘here is Blackbeard, big scary devil man’ and all that.” He lowers the telescope, glances sideways at Stede. “Except also now with a heart that’s getting stabbed.” Olu sighs, hands the telescope back to Stede without looking at him. “So yeah, probably means something. Reckon it means Blackbeard’s heart is broken. Like, he feels like his heart has literally got stabbed with a big fuck-off spear, maybe.”

Stede winces. “Yes, I thought it might mean something along those lines.” He leans on the rail, staring across the sea as if he only looked hard enough it would bring the other ship closer, whispering almost to himself, “Will he ever forgive me?”

:::::

It seems to take forever for the Exquisite to draw any nearer to the Revenge, and just when Stede starts to think that they’re making progress, Buttons has bad news.

“Your opinion on our course is needed, Captain.” Wide-eyed, he nods at the almost-clear stretch of ocean between the two ships. “Blackbeard knows this bit of coastline well, and it looks like he’s trying to give us a wee bit of trouble.” He jabs a long finger over the rail, just barely missing Stede’s nose. “You see that wee island? That’s right between us, and it isnae as wee as it looks. If we go round it, Revenge will have plenty of time to circle the same way and leave us behind. We’d need her to wait for us to be sure of catching her that way.”

Stede grimaces. “Do you think he would wait for us?” he says, hopefully. “Does he even know it is us?”

“I wouldnae count on it, captain,” Buttons replies. “We have no flag at all any more. And even if we did, I would not like to guess at the inner workings of the mind of a man like Blackbeard.”

“I suppose not,” Stede sighs. “What do you recommend, then?”

Buttons grins widely. “There is another option,” he confides. “Livvy has scouted a path through. I dinnae think anyone would expect that.”

“Through ?”

Two hours later the Exquisite has reached the island - which proves, in fact, to be two islands very close together - and is threading her way down a very narrow, gently curving channel between them. Stede is up at the top of the mast, keeping out of the way of his crew, who are unusually focussed. It’s strange; the ship is barely moving, with only just enough spread of sail to maintain forward motion, and there’s barely any rolling motion at all in these still waters. The top of the cliffs pass by him at eye level, giving him the uncanny sensation that he’s travelling overland in a carriage. He can see flowers growing, smell the tang of damp earth warmed by sunshine.

“By the mark five!” Wee John’s voice drifts up from the chains, calling soundings over and over again. Buttons may trust Olivia’s judgement, but the rest of the crew are not so willing to put all their confidence in a seagull. They’re feeling their way along carefully, the whole crew holding their breath and waiting for the sickening crunch of the hull on rock.

“By the deep four!” The cliffs are drawing closer together, the air thick with claustrophobia.

John’s voice is starting to sound strained. “And a half three!” Stede does the maths in his head: three and a half fathoms, twenty-one feet, give or take a few inches for John’s estimate. It’s not much water to float a ship, even a handily small one like Exquisite.

“By the mark three!” Eighteen feet now, and cold fingers of sweat trickle down Stede’s spine. Buttons is steady at the wheel, the rest of the crew scattered in strategic positions, but what they could hope to do to prevent the ship holing her hull on the rocks is more than Stede can imagine.

There’s a slight bend in the channel now, Buttons taking them carefully round in the very centre. “By the mark two!” The air is so still, and the ship so eerily quiet, that John’s muttered “mother of god” carries up to Stede easily. The water is beautifully clear, clear enough that the rocks a bare twelve feet below them are horrifyingly visible, grey-black monsters ready to rip them to shreds.

Round the bend, and John’s voice is hoarse. “By the mark two!” Still twelve feet, and again “By the mark two!”. He’s throwing the lead without pause, and the water is so shallow it barely takes a moment to retrieve the line and throw it again.

“And a half two!” Three feet more water to float in, three feet closer to safety.

“By the mark three!” The channel rapidly widens here, the clifftops peeling away from Stede like unfurling petals, and the ocean floor finally sinking away.

“By the mark five!” They’re picking up speed now, the safety of the open ocean tantalisingly close. Olu, Swede, and Roach are already climbing the ratlines ready to make more sail.

“By the deep eight!” Elated, John is almost singing as he calls the soundings back to Buttons. “By the mark ten!”

As they start to leave land behind them, the promise of safety now all but assured for the time being, Stede takes a deep breath and turns his gaze further ahead. Looming a great deal larger than the last time he’d seen her, Revenge is tantalisingly close. Close enough to pick out individual figures on the deck, unhurriedly going about their business. His telescope is safe in his cabin, so he can’t identify anyone with any great confidence, but that sole figure there, matching his own position at the top of a mast, that dark and unmoving shape? Stede chooses to believe. “Ed,” he breathes, eyes watering as he tries to bring the darkness into focus, dazzled by sunlight glinting off the water and perhaps also by a telescope held by that same figure. Is Ed watching him, right now? Stede grips on to ropes and tries to stop himself leaning out over the drop to the deck, but even the thought of seeing Ed is a force he’s powerless to resist. “Ed, I’m coming.”

:::::

As much as Stede wants to spread as much sail as the ship can carry and race to Revenge immediately, dusk is closing in fast and it’s just not practical. The Exquisite is a handy little ship, but it would be foolhardy to do more than quietly creep along behind the larger ship as long as possible, then heave to in a gentle breeze and wait until morning.

Stede fidgets and fusses his way through dinner - regardless of Roach’s skill and effort, it all tastes like sawdust tonight - just about managing to thank John and Buttons for their seamanship in bringing them through such a tricky passage.

“Nae bother, cap’n,” says Buttons, gnawing on a heel of bread. “Livvy had it on good authority that we’d get through.”

“Oh?” Stede quirks an eyebrow.

Buttons spreads his arms wide, knocking the Swede’s plate into his lap and sending Pete scrambling to keep his mug from meeting the same fate. He draws a deep breath and bellows in a carrying voice across the ship, “Thanks be given, free and full, to the sea, the moon, the mermaids and the sirens, the selkies, the kelpies, and all creatures of all the waters briny and sweet!” He stands, raises his mug high above his head for a moment, takes one deep swig, then throws the remains of his ale out, across the table, the crew, the deck, and right over the rail into the water.

Olivia chooses this moment to sweep down, land in the middle of Stede’s plate, and screech loudly as if in reply. She steals the last piece of bread from the table, and all pretence at a nice calm dinner is over.

An hour or two later the ale has run out, the dishes are washed, and the ship is dark and peaceful once more. The crew gathers around the capstan for storytime, and Stede finds himself drawn by habit and the mournfully soft lilt of the Swede. “Do we have any story books, yet?”

Roach slaps Swede’s thigh with the flat of his cleaver. “We haven’t raided anything since the last ship.”

“So, no?”

Oluwande rolls his eyes. “No Swede, we’ve not got any story books. Just the poetry.”

“We could tell our own stories,” suggests Pete. “I’ve got a good one.”

Wee John purses his lips and points an accusing finger at him. “Is it about Blackbeard?”

“No!” replies Pete, indignantly. “It’s not just about Blackbeard. It’s an adventure story where Blackbeard sends his trusty crew on a dangerous mission on a deserted island—”

“For fuck’s sake,” groans Olu. “You know he marooned us, right? It’s not special treatment, it’s being left to a certain death.”

“But we’re not dead, are we?” retaliates Pete, waving a triumphant finger. “Here we are, alive, and ready to join back up with our Captain Blackbeard in the morning.”

“I’m not sure I really want ‘Captain Blackbeard’, to be honest with you,” muses John, with a quick glance over at Stede. “I mean, having two co-captains was fine, and Captain Ed was okay, if a bit strange, but Captain Blackbeard? No, he’s one scary fecker. If it’s a choice between him or Captain Bonnet, I’m staying right here, thanks.”

A lump grows in Stede’s throat as a wave of agreement ripples through his crew. He’s tried so hard to avoid thinking of the change in Ed that had apparently resulted from his own actions. His mind skitters away from the idea that Ed - or Blackbeard - is frightening to someone as steadfast in the face of danger as Wee John is, and latches on to the first safe topic he can come up with.

“Poetry, then?”

Roach hands him the book with a glare in Swede’s direction. “Yes please.”

“Alright then,” murmurs Stede, thumbing through the pages. “Let’s see… oh look, this one’s even called Pirates. Just right for a salty crew of sailors like us, hmm?”

What you don’t know can’t do no damage

What you can’t see won’t be the thing

That digs its teeth in

It’s not the most cheerful collection of poems that he’s ever read, really, but they do seem to fit his mood. The way his stomach churns every time he thinks of Ed, the way his heart skips a beat if he tries to imagine how he’d feel if Ed had left him without a word.

You once sent me a letter that said, “If you"re lost at sea

Close your eyes and catch the tide, my dear, and only think of me”

Well, darling now I"m sinking, and I"m as lost as lost can be

The guilt hits him hard. He’s always been good at compartmentalising his feelings, at locking away everything that hurts and putting on a show of confidence, or indifference. This, though, is different. Being the one so clearly, unequivocally, at fault is new. Bottling it up may not be helping, but how can he talk it through when he feels so alone?

I never dreamed that I"d meet somebody like you

And I never dreamed that I"d lose somebody like you

He’d not even considered that he might not be the only one miserable with loneliness, that the crew might be missing their own as well, but tonight the absences are stark. There’s no Lucius teasingly shushing Pete’s enthusiasm for the myth of Blackbeard, no Frenchie merrily filling lulls in conversation with lute or chatter, and no Jim, whose air of steely competence always seems to inspire confidence.

And no Ed, good god, there is no Ed. No twinkling eyes looking at him with kind affection, no rumbling discussions of anything from seamanship to stars to swordplay. The ache in his heart grows a little stronger with every word he reads, and the only thing that alleviates it even slightly is the sight of the Revenge ’s stern windows: the flickering of lanterns shining out across the water, and occasionally obscured by movement within the cabin.

Stede knows that cabin so intimately, he can almost conjure the shadows in the yellowish gloom into the figure of Ed moving about. A flicker - there - that’ll be Ed going to fill a glass with brandy. A brighter flaring red now must be Ed’s pipe; the smoke will be curling around his face and scenting the curtains. Maybe that deeper patch of shadow is Ed settling into bed, to sleep, in the bed that Stede commissioned. Maybe he’s wrapped in Stede’s blankets. Maybe he’s wearing Stede’s nightclothes, smelling of Stede’s soap. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll find out.

The morning is a long time coming, and yet when it does, it takes Stede by surprise. It’s barely dawn, the eastern horizon only a shade or two lighter than pitch black, but he pings awake with an unusual alertness. There’s something just not quite right about the ship, and something out of place - and it isn’t simply that the ship isn’t Revenge, it isn’t, not this time - and it all clicks into place as footsteps patter hurriedly on the deck above him and muffled shouts echo through the misty morning air. Stede is up and moving before he even thinks about it, slipping on shoes and wrestling his way into a jacket as he pushes through the door.

The mist curls around him as he lets the door slam closed, and he stops short in surprise. His crew are scattered about the deck, hands in the air as they keep their eyes fixed on several new additions to the ship’s complement. Ruffianly types, to Stede’s eyes, but they also appear depressingly competent, keeping pistols and swords raised. One or two also look somewhat familiar, but he doesn’t really recognise anyone, not until a man on the far side of the deck turns, catches his gaze, and there’s a rather cruel similarity in the way they react.

A sigh, an eyeroll, and a muttered “fuck’s sake” from one side, and Stede, for his part, is immediately outraged.

“You!” he splutters, striding across the deck, heedless of the several pistols now solely trained on him. “Israel bloody Hands, what the actual fuck are you doing on my ship?!” He crowds into Izzy’s personal space, stopped only by the point of a knife scraping his ribs.

“What do you fucking think? Piracy, you useless fucker.” Izzy replies, lips twisting with distaste. “This ship is being raided. Captain’s orders. Although, if we’d known it was yours, we’d probably not have bothered.” He glances towards the prow, where a thicker patch of mist is backlit by a mixture of ship’s lanterns and the rising sun.

A wave of déjà vu hits Stede as he follows Izzy’s gaze. Striding out of the mist in a slow-stepping, deliberate way that seems almost dreamlike, is Blackbeard. “Ed,” Stede breathes, hardly able to believe his eyes. A hum from Izzy, who’s close behind him now, knife still pressing uncomfortably into his side. “I wouldn’t call him that, if I were you.” False levity drips from every syllable. “The Dread Pirate Blackbeard is the best you can hope for.”

Stede’s gaze flickers to Izzy for a moment, before he swallows his nerves and pushes forward regardless. Ed’s stopped by the mainmast, leaning with a bent knee and one arm on the mast in a way that probably looks casual to everyone else. Stede, though, can see the tension in him. The tightness through his shoulders, the restless way his eyes flit over the ship, attention darting from one crew member to the next to the next, but not to Stede. Not until Ed takes a deep breath and holds it, the tension bleeding across his ribs and up to his jaw, and finally, finally, their eyes meet. For real, for true, despite the still-dreamlike quality of this early morning.

It’s everything Stede has hoped for for weeks, and yet also falls woefully short of his wildest hopes. There’s no joyful falling into arms, no tearful embraces. Ed’s eyes, so often expressive and alight with mischief, are dull and distant. “Ed?” Stede can’t help but whisper, acutely aware of being watched from all sides, and feeling all at sea in every possible way. He reaches out a hand, needing touch to reassure himself he’s really awake. “Oh, it’s good to see you.”

The dullness vanishes in half a heartbeat, replaced with a boiling fury as the tension releases all at once before Stede’s finished speaking. Blackbeard closes the distance between them in a flash, knocking Stede’s outstretched arm upwards and whirling him round until Stede’s back crashes into the mast, both wrists pinned above his head with bruising force. “Don’t you dare,” Blackbeard spits, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you fucking dare act like you’re my friend.”

“I can’t.” It’s difficult to get enough air to breathe, stretched out as he is, and with Ed as close as he is. So close, and yet still, maddeningly, Stede hasn’t touched him. Ed’s fingers may be leaving bruises, but it’s through Stede’s sleeves, his own hands isolated and impotent and desperate. “I can’t,” he almost sobs. “I can’t act like your friend because I am your friend, Edward. I’ve never been anything else.”

Blackbeard leans in closer, close enough to kiss, if only Stede had the range of movement to lean forward. “You’re a liar,” he growls, half broken and half furious. He pushes away, turning on his heel and commanding his own crew with a jerk of the head towards the ship’s rail. “C’mon, lads. We don’t need anything from this ship.”

Before Stede has properly got his breath back, Ed’s disappeared over the side, his crew with him. The couple of dinghies are halfway back to the Revenge before Stede can gather his composure enough to move from where Ed had put him, where Ed had left him. He staggers to the rail, staring down at Ed until he climbs up the side of his beloved ship and disappears from view. He hasn’t looked back once.

Only now does it occur to Stede that the Revenge has come incredibly close and though it’s far from broad daylight, the sun has dragged itself far enough over the horizon to let him see without wishing for a lantern. He clutches the railing and desperately searches the faces on the other ship, knees buckling when he recognises Frenchie amongst the crew, and then, further back, separate from the others as is so often the case, Jim as well. Try as he might, he can’t see Lucius.

:::::

The day stretches interminably long. Hours pass before the sky shakes off the dawn, weeks seem to slip by before the sun reaches zenith and tilts back down towards the horizon, leisurely.

Stede spends most of this time pacing round the quarterdeck, restless as a caged cat. He pauses to bark orders to Oluwande and Buttons that “of course we stay with the Revenge, obviously we do!” and then goes back to wearing a track in the deck. The Exquisite, lovely though she is, doesn’t have much to occupy his mind. The crew quietly carry on with the business of sailing. With the steady breeze that’s not much of a challenge, especially as they’re tailing an apparently aimless Revenge and not plotting their own course. Olivia reports a lack of other vessels in the immediate vicinity, so there won’t be any kind of raiding to break up the day. Not unless Ed - Blackbeard - Ed, damn it - changes his mind and turns on Stede’s crew once more.

Mid-afternoon, Roach brings him an unsweetened cup of tea with a mismatched saucer, and something small and fragile in Stede’s chest fractures, sending splintering cracks in every direction. Crazed, he sinks to his knees, leans against the side of the ship, and sobs.

His legs are numb and the sun low in the sky when quiet voices filter up to him.

“I don’t care about Blackbeard.” Oluwande, fierce and vehement. “But the captain wants to follow the ship, so we follow the ship. It’s the only chance we’ve got of finding out if our people want to come back to us anyway.”

“Yeah.” John, rumbling with low conviction. “Frenchie’ll be alright, and Jim probably likes it better with Blackbeard, but I think they’d both rather have a proper choice.”

“And Lucius.” Pete, high-pitched and wobbling. “He’s not really cut out for life with a great pirate like Blackbeard, not without support.”

“If he’s not dead.” Roach’s relaxed remark is followed by silence for a beat, and then “What? You were all thinking it.”

“Captain!” Buttons’ voice rings clear. “Some direction would be appreciated.” Light footsteps on the stairs, and his head pops up. “The crew are restless.” Eyes wide, he disappears back down again.

Groaning, Stede marshals his knees into cooperation and staggers after Buttons in the best attempt he can muster at a captainly attitude.

“We’re following the Revenge,” he says, the moment he steps down into the waist to join them. “We’ve found them, and we’re not going to give up that easily. And even if—” he swallows, “even if Ed doesn’t want to combine crews again, we owe it to the others to see if they do.”

That night, Stede pulls out the poetry book again, riffles through the pages in the gentle pinkish glow of sunset. Reads.

Suddenly, you"re with me

I turn, and you"re not there

Like a ghost, you haunt me

He feels again those splintering cracks, the creaking, groaning pressure inside his chest almost unbearable.

And if you don"t love me now

You will never love me again

The image of Ed’s eyes, wide and wet and furiously angry. Almost angry enough to obscure the hurt. The way he’d almost growled rather than spoken, almost enough to hide the catch in his voice.

Just give me one fine day of plain sailing weather

And I can fuck up anything, anything

It was a wonderful life when we were together

And now I"ve fucked up every little goddamn thing

Stede’s voice wavers, cracks, breaks. For the second time that day, he rests his forehead on his knees and sobs.

Revenge is a quiet ship in the days that follow. With a captain so mercurial, the crew have long learned to avoid him whenever they can, addressing the First Mate instead as much as possible. After their ‘raid’ on the Exquisite, Blackbeard seems even more unpredictable. He drives the crew hard, insisting on every rope coiled perfectly, every sail furled or trimmed to an exacting standard beyond even those of a naval warship. Without warning, a hapless sailor might turn and find his captain looming over his shoulder, the deadened expression at odds with his capacity to lash out lightning-quick with a fist or a knife or perhaps one of the wicked little tools essential to keeping a ship running smoothly. Sometimes, though, Blackbeard will do no more than lean over, hum approvingly, and walk away. Other times, he’s simply not there at all, hidden away somewhere in the ship, and in many ways that’s worse. The crew keep their heads down and their standards high.

The Exquisite is always with them, haunting their days and nights alike. Too far for waving or calling messages, too far for cannon range, but always hovering somewhere on their windward side. If Blackbeard sends the Revenge to raid a merchant vessel, Exquisite will heave to and wait until the raid is over, then follow as Revenge moves on. On quiet evenings gentle voices carry across the water to Revenge, the lilting cadence of someone reading aloud interlaced with the soft murmur of conversation.

Being followed like this, given some distance - both too much and not enough - seems to catch in Ed’s throat. He can’t concentrate, can’t even breathe properly with Stede so close. But then, that has been the case almost since he first heard of the Gentleman Pirate. On the fifteenth morning of waking to see Exquisite where open ocean should be, Ed wants to scream. Or run. Or fight. He sucks air past gritted teeth, growls orders at Izzy to set as much sail as they can, and the Revenge is immediately a hive of industry, barefoot sailors climbing the rigging, shaking sails free, hauling lines and tying cleats.

Although he’s her captain - sole captain, now - Revenge has never really felt like his ship. This morning though, the part of him that loves sailing can’t help but respond to the way the ship seems to revel in the attention, like a family dog desperate to please. She picks up and cleaves through the water beautifully, gaining speed every second, and all of a sudden excitement thrums through him. Ed almost runs down the deck, hair whipping his face, taking the steps two at a time until he’s gained the quarterdeck, pushes up, up, until he’s standing right at the very rearmost point of the ship, leaning out over the churning water and screaming into the wind, roaring a challenge to the Exquisite, to Stede, to the very ocean itself, to catch him if they can.

There’s a fierce joy bubbling through his grief, the cleansing nature of triumph against the elements. The absolute power of sending several tons of wood and canvas wherever he chooses regardless of opponents human, natural, or supernatural. It makes him feel invincible, and his laughter whirls through the air as if the wind itself is urging him on. He can’t look away from the smaller ship, wonders if Stede will meet his challenge. If he wants to.

“Fuck, yes,” he whispers, as Exquisite leans into the same course as Revenge, sails blossoming. The chase is on. “Come on then, you bastard.”

:::::

There is more of a sense of urgency on the Exquisite these days. Stede isn’t the only one to have spotted Frenchie and Jim.

Olu launches himself into the rigging, barking orders. John badgers Swede and Roach after him while Buttons is at the wheel, turning the ship in pursuit of Revenge before Stede has even made it out of his cabin. Pete is the only one a little lacklustre, but he goes through the motions, well-honed sailing instincts carrying him through tasks with little thought.

“What’s going on?” Stede scrambles up the steps beside Buttons, gazes forward. “What’s happening?”

Buttons is ramrod straight at the wheel, turns it half a spoke as the wind flaps the sails just a little. “Looks like the Revenge fancies a little run this morning, captain,” he says. “A game of tag. Cat-and-mouse, mebbe.”

It looks like Buttons is right. For a couple of hours Revenge flies away from them, sails full-spread, until she becomes only the tiniest speck on the horizon. Then her deck is all action, ant-sailors through Stede’s telescope scurrying to reef sail, bring her round into the wind, waiting as the Exquisite gains on her. Then, just as Stede’s hopes start to rise, Revenge turns on her heel, spreads sail, and runs away. This little dance repeats again, and again, all day, until Stede feels he’ll go mad with frustration.

By late afternoon, his patience is entirely gone. “Damn you, Edward!” He shouts from the quarterdeck, shaking a fist as Revenge stretches her lead on them for the tenth time.

“We could always, you know, just let them get away,” shrugs Roach. Olu, stony-faced and exhausted, glares at him. “What? They clearly don’t want to be caught, Blackbeard isn’t interested in talking to captain, so, lesson learned, no?”

“No,” states John, flatly. “We keep going, we get our people back. We know they’re there, Frenchie and Jim, and we’re not leaving them.”

“And Lucius,” whispers Pete.

Olu rubs a hand over his head, takes off his hat and twists it in his hands. “Yeah, mate. If he’s there, Jim’ll know.”

When they catch up to Revenge this time, it’s almost dark. She sits ahead of them, hove to and resting easily in the breeze, almost all her sails furled.

“I can’t see any movement,” Stede says, peering through his telescope before handing it to Oluwande. “How about you?”

Olu takes the barest glance. “No,” he agrees. “But then, it’s nearly completely dark, innit.”

Stede glances at him, back to the Revenge. “I suppose we’d better park up then.”

“Yeah, yeah. Guess so.” The deepening gloom hides Olu’s eyeroll as he turns away, calling orders. Exquisite slows gently, the crew too tired now to reef the sails with any great speed. They draw close to Revenge, Olu waiting until the last minute to give Buttons the word to ease round into the wind.

All eyes are fixed on the other ship, every ear bent that way, listening for the telltale sounds of footfalls and unrolling sails that will give away the Revenge if she tries to sneak away from them in the darkness.

As Exquisite glides to as close to a halt as she can get in the open ocean, mirroring Revenge just a little way downwind, there’s stillness and silence on both ships. Only the gentle creaking of the ships’ planking and the ever-present groan of rope and sail as they tighten and slacken by turns with each whim of wind and water.

“That’s quite enough of this nonsense!” Stede’s voice, loud and clear as a church bell on Sunday morning, rings through the dark. “Edward! Enough!”

The reply carries across the water, the scathing edges of Israel Hands’ voice worn away by distance. “Don’t you ever just give up? You’ve fucked off once, Bonnet, you can fuck off again.” The only answer is a decisive splash as a dinghy hits the water, followed swiftly by the rhythmic splashing of oars.

It takes the best part of twenty minutes to row from one ship to the other, even with Oluwande and John at the oars. By the time Stede hauls himself up and over the side of his beloved Revenge he’s almost quivering with straight-backed outrage. The deck is so familiar he grows almost dizzy with disorientation. The details, though, pull him back to himself. This isn’t his ship any more, not really. The ropes are coiled too tidily, the evidence of experienced seamanship too obvious. There are scars on the ship, too. Rough marks in the woodwork and dark stains underfoot speak of swords wielded with more viciousness than his evening fencing lessons with Ed.

“I’m going to look for Jim,” Oluwande says quietly, following him over the side. John’s left down in the dinghy alone, keeping an eye out for trouble and poised for a quick return to Exquisite, should they need a hasty exit. Stede nods, watches Olu disappear belowdecks, and takes a deep breath before marching towards the cabin door.

At least, he tries to march. He gets maybe three steps into a good angry stride before a hand snakes out from the darkness and grabs him. “You should fuck off,” hisses Izzy.

“Why?” Stede wrenches his arm free, straightens his jacket, and attempts a haughty glare.

“Did you not get the message?” Izzy, though rather more gaunt than Stede remembers, can still sneer better than anyone he’s ever met, even including his Aunt Bonnet. “Blackbeard doesn’t want to talk to you.”

He looks more tired than anything else, really. The sneer is good, but the vitriolic look in his eyes is gone.

“He might not want to talk to me,” Stede replies, looking down his nose. “But I need to talk to him.”

“Look, you useless fucking ponce,” Izzy sighs. “Blackbeard has gone round the fucking bend, alright? If you go in there and try and have a little chat, we’re all fucked.”

That takes the wind right out of Stede’s sails. “Is he alright?” he asks, deflating. “Is he safe?”

The sound of Izzy grinding his teeth carries clearly over the quiet deck. “No. Not as such.” He scoffs, hawks up a mouthful of phlegm and spits off the side of the ship. “You broke his fucking heart, alright? He’s used to being hurt, his whole life has been one sort of pain after another, but… not like this. You were… new.”

“I didn’t know,” breathes Stede. Izzy’s eyes glitter, and he abruptly turns on his heel, clenching both hands into fists. The whole of him goes rigid for a heartbeat, and then he seems to collapse from the inside out, gently crumpling before Stede’s eyes.

“Alright,” Izzy says, over his shoulder. “Go and try to talk to him. You’re both as bad as each other anyway. I’ll—” his voice catches in his throat, jumps up an octave or two. He coughs, sighs. “I’ll be here to pick up the pieces of what’s left of him when you’re finished. Again.” He walks away with an uneven gait, the darkness swallowing him up so fast it’s almost like he was never there at all.

It’s with some trepidation that Stede turns to the cabin door once more. It’s even darker as he makes his way down the corridor mostly by feel. The door to the captain’s cabin is rough under his fingertips, the wood scarred and splintering and the handle grimed and greasy. It still turns smoothly enough, though, and Stede slowly eases the door open.

“Ed?”

A lone candle burns on the desk - not the one Stede had commissioned, this one is rather shabby but workmanlike, bolted to the floor and with a neat lip around the edge that has caught an errant pencil or two. A similarly practical chair is tucked under the desk, and the room is otherwise almost empty. There’s a chest pushed against the far wall, and the library shelves are stark and bare.

Stede steps right inside, pushes the door closed with a click that echoes through his skull. “Ed? Are you here?”

He stands in the middle of the room, turns slowly round on the spot. The curtains in front of the bed are drawn, but torn and sagging, leaving a gap between them that Stede peers at. Is that a cushion he can see, a bit of blanket, or…?

The maybe-blanket shifts in the gloom, a gentle rasp of skin on skin. “Ed?” Stede takes a quick step forward, head cocked.

“Stop.” It’s quiet but forceful, and Stede’s heart jumps into his throat, hammering hard and fast.

“Okay,” he whispers, stock-still.

There’s a long silence, long enough for the slapping of water on the hull and quiet footfall of sailors at work to carry to them.

Ed’s voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is wearier than Stede has ever heard it before. “What are you doing, Stede? Why are you even here?”

“I need to talk to you,” says Stede, far more matter-of-fact than he feels. He settles down on the floor, crosses his legs and leans forward on his elbows. “I can’t do anything else until I’ve talked to you, so.” He shrugs, quirks a smile at his own knees. “That’s why I’m here. In a nutshell.”

“So talk.”

Stede takes a deep breath. For all his practised speeches and flowery declarations of devotion, none of it seems quite right for this moment, here in the dark, on the bare floor of the room that used to be his. He lets the breath go, shakily hissing between his teeth.

“I’m sorry, mostly, I think,” he begins. “Well, no, not mostly. I mean, yes, I’m sorry, but it’s not the most strong thing I feel, because that’s—” He glances up, but there’s no sound, no sign of movement from behind the curtain.

“What it boils down to,” he begins again, “is that I love you. Completely. With everything I have, and I needed to tell you that.”

“Well, you’ve said it now,” Ed’s voice says, flat and dispassionate. A hand appears through the curtain, fingers flicking towards the door. “Off you pop.”

“Ed, wait,” stammers Stede, heart once more up in his throat. “No, that’s—”

“No, you wait! You left me!” The sagging curtain in front of the bed seems to disintegrate under Ed’s fury. He yanks it aside and comes boiling into the room like a vengeful demon. “You left me, Stede! Remember? You just, fucking, disappeared! You never came to meet me, and I waited for you, for hours.” His voice gets higher and higher, more and more desperate, and eventually breaks. He’s standing right next to Stede now, close enough to reach out and touch if he dared. So close that hot tears splash on Stede’s breeches, soaking into the fabric to leave dark spots. One lands on the back of Stede’s hand, tickling the fine hairs until he rubs at it with a thumb, absorbing Ed’s pain into his own skin.

“You can’t pretend like that’s okay,” Ed whispers, large eyes fixed on Stede’s hands.

“Of course it’s not okay.” Stede looks away from Ed’s face, focuses instead on the feet and ankles right in front of him. There’s a graze on his left ankle, rough and bruised. “I didn’t plan to do what I did, if that’s any comfort.”

Ed barks a laugh at this, takes a few steps away, whirls back. “No, actually, it’s not any fucking comfort. It’s worse, because, what, I mean so little to you that you don’t even consider me when you decide to swan off to whatever next thing takes your fancy?”

The injustice of this brings Stede to his own feet, suddenly outraged and stamping across the room, crowding Ed into a corner. “So you can make mistakes, but I can"t? I"m not perfect, Ed.” He glares at Ed, pokes a finger into his chest. “You only even met me because you wanted to be entertained for a few days! And then you planned to murder me and steal my identity. And we moved past that. I forgave you. It"s alright. You can"t expect never to have to do the same in return.”

He stops, breath heaving in his chest, and it’s only now that he realises how close they are. He lowers his hand, forces himself not to touch Ed again despite a magnetic pull making him sway on his feet.

“That’s not the same,” Ed growls, eyes flinty. “That was before.”

“Before what?!”

Ed scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Before we loved each other, Stede. Before we said so.”

“Ha, well, only one of us has ever said so, actually, and it’s not you, mate!”

The triumphant feeling lasts all of three seconds before Ed’s incredulous expression sets it leaking right out of him. “What?” The cold-sweat feeling that he’s missed something important trickles unpleasantly down his back.

“What do you think we were talking about, that day?” Ed’s gentler now, baffled curiosity softening his words. “All that ‘you make me happy’, and going to China, and kissing?” He raises an eyebrow. “You think that wasn’t a conversation about love?”

Stede stares at him. He feels like a child that’s been struggling to read a picture book, and an adult has just turned it the right way up for him. “Oh,” he says, inelegantly.

“Mmm,” says Ed. “Oh.” He leans back against the wall, crosses his arms. “Because that’s the conversation I thought we were having.”

“I felt it.” Stede pivots on one foot, leans back against the wall beside Ed. Lets his head flop back into the wall and roll until he’s looking at Ed again. “I just didn’t recognise what I was feeling. Not until I spoke to Mary.” Immediately, he could kick himself.

“Yes, the famous Widow Bonnet,” drawls Ed, and that unpleasant feeling trickles down Stede’s spine again. “That was quite the day, finding out that you’d not only left me, you’d gone back to your wife, and then you’d died.”

A sob breaks out of Stede’s throat, so big and round it feels like he could catch it in his hands, throw it away like a school cricket ball. “I really am sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He looks at Ed. The candle has burned low enough that it’s guttering, flickering orange light highlighting the deep brown of his eyes, huge in the darkness. “You’re my favourite person in the whole world,” Stede says. “I’d never hurt you on purpose.”

Ed huffs, looks away. “You do a pretty bang-up job by accident. Hate to see what you could manage on purpose.”

“It won’t happen.” Stede’s earnest now, urgent. “Really. I promise.”

Ed nods. “We’ll see.”

Silence stretches between them again, both content to watch the dancing candle flame and listen to the calm creak and splash of a well-run ship at rest, shifting their weight as the Revenge gently rolls over the waves. They may no longer be sitting on velvet sofas and drinking brandy from crystal glasses, but there’s a hint of their old camaraderie.

Stede shifts against the wall, half-turns towards Ed, but is brought up short as the back of his shirt snags on the rough woodwork. “Oh, damn,” he mutters, distracted, rolling his shoulders to try and free himself.

Ed’s sudden hand on his arm is so warm it’s shocking. “I’ll get it,” he murmurs. “Keep still.” They’re barely an inch from each other, chest to offset chest, as Ed slides his other hand round Stede’s waist, up his ribs and over the edge of his shoulder blade. The push-pull as Ed tugs Stede’s shirt closer to the wall while simultaneously leaning in and pressing him backwards, Ed’s shoulder in the centre of Stede’s chest, seems to send Stede’s brain floating away entirely.

His shirt comes free, but Stede’s not moving, not with Ed’s hands warm against his back, his arm. Not with Ed’s hair a cloud tickling his face, even the bare skin of his chest where a few ambitious strands have ventured between the laces of his shirt front. Ed’s motionless too, his breathing alternately warm and cool in Stede’s ear, enough to send goosebumps shivering down his side. It feels like being in a dream, like his hands are moving of their own accord to tuck Ed’s hair behind his ear, tracing over the shell and the lobe. A thumb follows the line of Ed’s jaw until Stede has one hand cradling Ed’s face and the other softly wrapping around his ribs, holding him like he’s the most fragile and precious thing Stede’s ever held.

“I missed you,” Stede whispers, and Ed’s silent shuddering breath shakes through them both.

Ed nods, beard rasping against Stede’s neck. “Yeah. Me too.” He presses forward, and for half a heartbeat it’s a real embrace, before he’s pulling away, stepping back, evasive.

“You can’t stay here, though.” He glances at Stede, watches him from under his eyelashes for a moment. “I can’t have you here. Not yet.”

“Alright,” Stede sighs. “That’s fair, I suppose. Oluwande’s probably eager to get Jim back to our ship anyway.”

“Oh, this is a raid, is it? Poaching my sailors?”

“No?” Stede wobbles. “Yes? Both? Mostly it’s a—” he waves a hand in the space between them. “—a whatever this is.” He pushes himself off the wall on shaky legs. “Thank you.”

Ed’s eyes, no more than dark pools with his back to the candle, seem to grow warmer nonetheless. “Any time.”

“Really?” Stede can feel the smile spreading across his face, lighting him up from the inside.

A tiny hint of a smile twitches the corners of Ed’s eyes. “Yeah, mate. Stay close, mmm? Now I know that ship of yours has got the pace to keep up well enough.”

“She’s a good ship.” Stede walks to the door, opens it. Looks back over his shoulder. “I named her after you, you know.”

The look of astonishment on Ed’s face warms him right the way through, all the way down to his toes, and lasts down to the dinghy and back to Exquisite, and eases him drifting off into the easiest sleep he’s had in weeks.

:::::

Stede wakes with a smile on his face, dresses with as much care as he can manage given such a limited wardrobe, and heads out on deck. There’s a jubilant atmosphere among the crew, which seems to have expanded while he slept.

“Frenchie!” Stede exclaims. “Jim! Where on earth did you spring from?”

Jim’s eyes roll so hard and so far it looks painful. “The Revenge, same as you.”

Stede tilts his head doubtfully. “Well, yes, that makes sense, but when?”

Oluwande stares at him. “Last night, captain. In the dinghy? Don’t you remember?”

“Well,” Stede starts, casting his mind back over the night before. Yes, he was in the dinghy, but there’s only the vaguest impression of the figures in the boat with him. Really, what stands out about last night is brown eyes, wide and warm in candlelight. He drifts off on an amber tide of reminiscence, the crew’s voices fading into background noise.

“I can"t believe he hasn"t even asked about you, babe.”

“Nothing we can do about it, hon, he’s been dickmatised by Blackbeard.”

“Yeah, I guess. I can maybe see his point there.”

The day passes easily, with two more sailors added to the complement, fair winds and a cheerful crew. They sit on the shoulder of Revenge, distant enough not to steal the wind, close enough to tell the different figures apart. Around lunchtime, Stede spots Ed on the quarterdeck, screws up his courage and raises a hand in a wave. Ed’s answering wave is small, brief, but unmistakable, sending a wash of giddy delight through Stede so strong that he has to cling to the rail to keep his feet.

They sail. Exquisite no longer simply tailing Revenge, but a pair of ships with a common objective. They pounce on defenceless merchant vessels, irritate ineffective warship captains of three different navies, barter with locals, and sell their ill-gotten gains in every pirate trading post in the Caribbean.

Stede invites Ed to Exquisite for dinner. They sit on the quarterdeck in bronze sunsets, in the narrow captain’s cabin during unexpected squalls, and, once, cram into the galley with the crew. This last does not go well. There are too many people, too much noise, too many eyes that either slide away from Ed as if he’s an apparition, or stick on him for entirely too long. It’s easier when there’s only a couple of the crew with them - enough to carry conversation through uncomfortable silences, but not so many as to make Ed skittish.

Generally, though, they talk. They stick to safe subjects, skirting around the bruises by unspoken agreement. Of sailing and stars, pageantry and pirates. They don’t talk about love, or loss, grief or guilt.

“It’s a shame there’s not a Welshman among us,” mourns Buttons one night, during a discussion of storytelling, shanties, and song. “You cannae beat the Welsh for beautiful voices.”

“The Welsh sing about bread,” Ed says, voice flat.

Buttons eyes him. “Aye, and they do so sweetly.”

“Simple things can be beautiful,” Stede says quietly. He glances at Ed, still as a statue. Remembers a moonlit night, a held breath. “Sometimes the old things are the best things.”

Buttons gives him a disgusted look and wanders off, muttering under his breath.

Ed looks at Stede, holds his gaze with eyes wide and unreadable. Takes a deep, shuddering breath and pushes away from the table, walks over to the ship’s railing. The Revenge is sitting calmly across the water, lantern-lit and friendly.

“I knew this guy once,” Ed says, both hands gripping the railing tightly enough that Stede can see his knucklebones pressing tight under his skin. “Thought we were friends. More than friends. Pretty sure he was the love of my life. We made plans to run off into the sunset together and everything. And then he left me. In the middle of the night, without a word. He just… never came back.” Ed’s voice is quiet, but carries across the quarterdeck easily enough.

“Well, that guy sounds like an arsehole,” Stede replies, sliding out of his chair and joining Ed. The railing is smooth under his hands, a hair’s breadth away from Ed’s fingers. “But, perhaps he was confused? Or felt scared, or guilty? Maybe he was forced out of his bed at gunpoint and narrowly escaped being murdered?”

Ed’s eyes on the side of his neck are so warm it feels like he’ll burn up, like a candle, or a bonfire, or a ship full of hoity-toity folks. Or a phoenix, if he’s lucky. “But yes, still an arsehole either way. I bet that guy regrets it. He doesn’t deserve you. Do you think you could ever forgive him?”

Gentle waves lap against Revenge, whisper in the darkness, lap against Exquisite. A shadow-sailor steps out on to the deck of the larger ship, silhouette-walks from bow to stern, blends into shadow once more.

“I don’t know.” Ed’s voice rumbles so low, so quiet, it seems to bypass Stede’s ears, sea air and skin-warmth slowly fusing until words appear, fully-formed, directly in Stede’s mind. “It scares me, how much it hurt. Still hurts.” He takes a shaky breath, darts a look at Stede from the corner of his eye. “I felt so stupid, because I should have known. This guy, he’d done it before. Walked out on his wife and kids in the middle of the night with no warning. Leopards don’t change their spots, and all that.”

The soft light of the ship’s lanterns dances over Ed as he shifts his weight, rocking from one foot to the other, golden lamplight catching in his hair, on each dewdrop-fine hint of moisture on his eyelashes.

“This leopard would. He’d get his fur dyed into stripes. Or shave, get rid of the spots altogether.”

“Nobody wants a hairless cat. They’re creepy, man.”

“Well, if you’re going to get all realistic about it, who wants a leopard as a pet at all? That’s lunacy, surely.”

Ed hums. “I don’t know. Quite like them. Even though they scare me.”

A laugh, half relief and half desperate longing, bubbles up through Stede and escapes. The railing is smooth and warm under his hands, and then warmer still, as the smallest of Ed’s fingers sneaks across no-man’s-land and arrives in Stede’s territory, side-to-side, flush with Stede’s own finger from nail to knuckle.

“I would, you know,” remarks Stede, keeping his eyes studiously fixed on the Revenge. “Dye my hair into stripes. Shave it off completely. If you wanted me to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“No.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

“Yes, it’s been said.”

“I still like it.”

“I still love you.”

“Stede?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you really? Get nearly-murdered?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m afraid I didn’t react with the aplomb I might have wished for.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“I don’t have any plans to.”

“Not any of it. Not the nearly-murder or the running away.”

“Okay. Although I can’t really promise anything about the murdering. Quite a few people have tried now. I can’t say there won’t be another.”

“Don’t leave me, Stede.”

“I won’t.”

:::::

They sail. They pirate, getting into a neat little routine in which Stede hides Exquisite behind an island while Ed acts the innocent on Revenge, luring in unsuspecting merchant ships. Stede gets pretty good at bringing his ship up at speed, boxing the victim in, and it’s rare they have anything other than the merest of token resistance.

They heal.

Ed invites Stede to dinner on the Revenge. The ship’s cook isn’t up to Roach’s standard, but at least the dessert has an identifiable flavour.

“You know,” Stede says thoughtfully, as he finishes his orange cream, “this is the first time I’ve been on one of your ships.”

“You’ve been here before, Stede. You built this ship.”

“Well, yes, and I know we had that talk, but it’s not quite the same, is it?”

Ed tilts his head, conceding the point as he licks the last of his own dessert. His spoon doesn’t match Stede’s, and the crockery neither matches nor contrasts enough to be pleasingly mismatched, but Stede can’t find it in himself to care.

“I loved the Revenge when I designed her. Right from the shipwright drawings, and models, and going to see her being built, and launched, and every moment I spent on board. I love this ship, but she’s not mine any more.” He laces his fingers together in his lap, smiles gently. “I’m not sure she ever was, really. I think maybe I was her custodian, just a placeholder while we both waited for her rightful captain to come along.”

He looks up. Ed is watching him, still and quiet, almost but not quite casual.

“And now here you are. Captain of the Revenge, and she feels different. Shipshape. She even moves differently through the water with you.”

“It’s all about loading the ballast,” Ed says. “You’ve got to get the weight distribution right to keep a ship balanced.”

“You mean more than just ballast, Ed. And now Revenge isn’t just a ship, either, she’s a flagship, and you’re the admiral of this little fleet.” He rummages in a pocket, fishes out a small notebook. “Speaking of flags…” He pushes the book across the table.

Ed raises an eyebrow, reaches out. He riffles through the pages. “It’s a signal book?”

Stede beams. “I wrote it myself. They’re all the usual signal flags, but the meanings were a bit uninspiring, so this is a new version. A reimagining, if you will.”

“You’re planning on signalling our next mark before we raid it?”

“Er, no. It’s for you. So we can talk at a distance. If you want to. I mean, you don’t have to. But we could.”

Ed turns the book around, taps a blue, white, red striped flag.

“Oh, which one’s that?” Stede leans forward, squints to read his own handwriting in the gathering dark. “Oh. Affirmative.” He can feel the grin spreading across his face, though Ed’s avoiding meeting his eyes. “Alright then.”

The first time the signal book gets used is a week or so later. Izzy stares at him, nonplussed, as Ed sorts through the box of signal flags, selects the correct one, and sends it flying up the mast himself.

“You’re the captain, Edward,” he says, flatly. “This is beneath you.”

“A captain knows every job on the ship, Mr Hands,” Ed says, quoting a captain they’d sailed under together as boys. Izzy’ll remember that old salt; hard and unforgiving, but scrupulously fair.

“What are you signalling, anyway?” Izzy tips his head back, frowns at the blue-and-yellow flags flapping above him.

“I wish to communicate with you; I have something for you.”

“Oh right,” Izzy says. “So you’re inviting your boyfriend over for—”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, Iz,” Ed interrupts, tension threading through his shoulders.

Izzy backs down immediately, all conciliation. “No. Alright. Just, Edward, please, don’t let yourself get in the same state again?” His eyes are wide and shining in a way Ed doesn’t ever remember seeing before. “I’m your first mate, I’ll be here regardless, but, just, don’t?”

Ed’s frown deepens. “And when you say ‘state’, you mean what, exactly?”

Izzy drums his fingers on the flag box, looks away. “I mean, don’t let him hurt you, alright. Fuck’s sake.” He stalks away, back stiff, snaps at one of the crew for some minor crime against good seamanship.

A rowboat with a few of the Exquisite crew at the oars is met with cheery waves from Fang a couple of hours later. “My boys! Come here, come here.”

Stede has eyes only for Ed, almost bouncing with delight as he whisks past a tangle of arms gathered in a multi-person hug. “It worked!”

“Yeah, mate, it worked. Come and have a look at this.” Ed beckons Stede to follow him, heads to the captain’s cabin.

“Oh, Ed,” breathes Stede, as he pushes the door closed behind him. “This is wonderful.”

For a moment Ed can’t make out what Stede’s talking about. Then, the look on Stede’s face as he gazes around the room registers. “Yeah, did a bit of redecorating, I suppose.” He knows it’s not much of an explanation, knows the room is vastly different from the last time Stede saw it.

It’s clean, for a start. The curtains around the bed are neatly tied back, the bed is made, and though the furniture is more utilitarian than beautiful, it’s tidy.

Ed coughs. “That’s not—” he catches Stede’s eyes, soft and unbearably tender. “That’s not what I wanted to show you,” he says, breaking free and opening a desk drawer, carefully pulling out a large book. “This is for you.” Pushes the book into Stede’s hands, glances back at those curious eyes, away. “If you want it.”

“Of course I want it. Thank you.” Stede strokes a finger down the spine of the book almost reverently. It’s a beautiful thing, all soft leather binding and shiny golden title, and the illustrations inside so obviously Stede, that Ed had been shocked into stillness mid-raid.

“It’s about insects,” Ed offers, as Stede turns a page. “Thought you might like it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Stede murmurs, transfixed. “And goodness, look at this. Metamorphosis, how curious.”

“Turns out caterpillars turn into butterflies. Moths. Whatever. Reminded me of—” he can’t continue, not looking at Stede, not with Stede’s eyes on him. Turns away, gazes out of the cabin windows at the water rippling away behind the ship.

“Dryocampa rubicunda,” whispers Stede.

“Yeah. Maybe. It’s not in there, though. I checked.”

“You remembered?”

Stede’s eyes, wide and delighted, fingers outstretched to Ed, holding a creature so bright and fluffy it doesn’t seem real. Irritated confusion at a wild goose chase turning to trembling hope. The way Stede had looked at him, when the rock he dug up turned out to be an orange.

Ed’s voice shrinks, claws its way up his throat, exposes his heart. “Of course I did.”

When Ed next visits Exquisite, retreats from the heat into the welcome shade of Stede’s cabin for brandy and conversation, he spots the book on the desk, several lacy bookmarks poking out from between the pages. The knot inside him eases, just a little, a tumble hitch not yet tugged loose, but the free end picked up, a promise of an untying.

A couple of weeks after that, the weather turns. It’s still Caribbean-warm, but not unrelenting heat. Fresh breezes bring clouds, rain, and sailing conditions that require a bit more thought. It feels like coming up for air after a deep dive, like the dawn of a new day. Like taking a risk and winning.

They raid, they trade. Stede goes shopping, delivery boys trotting dutifully up the gangplank on to Exquisite burdened with bulky parcels. Ed follows one, steps on deck without an invitation, feels both welcome and an imposter.

“Get anything good?” he asks, watching Stede direct the deliveries to the correct locations.

“Ed!” Stede whirls to greet him, all twirly coat and beaming smiles. “Yes, in fact that last one I’m hoping will be something rather marvellous,” he says, as a boy elbows his way out of the captain’s cabin and leaves the ship. “Want to see?”

Ed shrugs. “Sure. Why not.”

Stede is all enthusiastic babble as he finds the parcel in his cabin, pulls the string wrapping it free. “I’ve been waiting for this one for some time, actually. I had it made from items that were on this ship when we took possession of her - it was all very lovely and something of a good omen, I thought.”

He pulls the contents of the parcel free of the paper. It’s soft, fabric, probably clothes, but Stede doesn’t unfold it, and it’s hard to make out with Stede’s shoulder obscuring most of it.

“What is it?” When Stede turns, dark and silvershot cloth spilling over his arms, he looks more anxious than Ed’s seen him in a long time. “Not your usual colour, hmm? Fancy a change?”

“Aha, no.” Stede coughs, smoothes a thumb over the fine silky thread. “I had this made for you, in fact.” He shakes the cloth out like a magician, and all of a sudden it’s a jacket. Black, dark grey maybe, with silvery patterns traced all over the surface. A silk lining in a deep, lustrous purple. “Obviously I don’t have your measurements, but, I thought you were not that different to my size, and we’ve shared clothes before, and I thought, perhaps, you might like something fine.”

“When did you get it made? We’ve not been in this port for ages.”

“Some time ago,” Stede replies. “Before we’d found you.”

All that time ago, it’s a heady thought, so dizzying that Ed sways on his feet. He reaches out a tentative hand, strokes around the patterns. The silk lining is so smooth it’s as if it isn’t even there, slipping through his fingers like a memory of water.

“Can I—” His voice is hoarse, coarse, stitched together in amateur fashion.

“It’s yours,” Stede says, gently. “It’s for you to do as you wish.”

Ed wordlessly nods, accepts Stede’s help to put it on. It fits like a dream, eases over his shoulders, snugs in at the waist, flares ever so slightly, just enough for a hint of Stede’s flamboyance. It’s a pared-down version of the fine things of Stede’s that he’d enjoyed dressing in, more austere, more practical, more dangerous, but every bit as beautiful, every bit as luxurious.

He keeps it on. Stays on board for bedtime stories, listens to Stede reading poetry in the gathering dark.

Please, let me sit down beside you

I"ve got something to tell you, you should know

I just couldn"t wait for not another day

I love you, for more than words can ever say

The tumble hitch in his chest loosens a little more with every word. Stede reads, the cadence of his voice rising and falling gently with each new verse. 

Dreams of you all the time

Feels so good when we"re together, love

It’s impossible to mistake the wistful affection in Stede’s eyes as he glances around at the crew, back down to the book, back up to Ed, and holds, and holds, and holds.

Can"t we give ourselves one more chance

Why can"t we give love that one more chance

A final tug on the rope, and the knot comes undone, the hitch tumbling free, and that caged little something in Ed’s chest escapes, takes him up with it, soaring.

:::::

Revenge cuts through the water beautifully in the evening light, after a fairly calm day of sailing, a steady breeze but no ships worth their attention. Exquisite is a little way behind, slipping along smoothly.

“Signal!” The lookout in the tops breaks the peace, and Ed turns to see that there is, indeed, a signal flag flying on Exquisite.

Fang appears at his elbow, hands him the signal book. It’s a blue flag with a white stripe through the middle, and there, in Stede’s neat copperplate, is the meaning. “Just look at this wondrously beautiful sunrise or sunset,” he reads aloud. Looks to the west. Stede is not wrong. The sky and the sea alike are glowing pink, red, orange, the clouds painted with softness.

“You’re looking a little rosy there, boss,” murmurs Fang, a gentle smile crinkling his eyes.

“Shut up, no,” Ed retorts, but there’s not much heat in it. “It’s just the light.”

“Yeah,” agrees Fang mildly, the twinkling crinkles deepening.

“When I was in the Navy,” offers Izzy, joining them at the rail, “that flag meant ‘my vessel is on fire’. Pretty important. And Captain Bonnet has replaced it with sunsets.” He’s gazing out at the sunset, seems more baffled than anything else.

“I think it’s lovely.” Fang, ever the diplomat.

Ed walks away, cheeks warm.

Stede sends the same signal a few days later, and a few later again. On the fourth promising evening, Ed’s ready. The weather has been perfect, clouds stretched thin across the sky, and he knows that all those different layers will catch the setting sun perfectly.

He hooks the signal flag to the line himself, hauls it up, ties it off. He’s barely had enough time to saunter over to the rail before the lookout calls down that Exquisite is signalling. It’s not just a single flag this time, it’s four, fluttering cheerfully one below the other.

“What the fuck does that lot mean?” he mutters to himself, taking the signal book from Fang, running a finger down the little pictures, matching the explanations to Stede’s message as he goes.

“What have we got, captain?” Izzy’s peering over his hands, trying to see the book.

“The first one’s ‘agree’,” says Ed. “So that’s easy.” He looks over at the other ship, as if he could garner another clue. “But the next three are ‘negative’, ‘same’, and ‘captain of flagship’.” He shrugs.

“Aww,” says Fang. “That’s sweet.”

Ed looks at him through narrowed eyes, at the soft smile spreading across his face. Shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

Izzy glances at Ed, rolls his eyes. Asks the question so his captain won’t have to. “Go on then, translate Bonnet’s nonsense for us.”

“You said ‘look at this beautiful sunset’, yes?” Fang raises an eyebrow at Ed.

“Yeah.”

“And then he’s said ‘yes it is, but it’s not as beautiful as the captain of the flagship.’” Fang’s expression is so charmed now, Ed can almost see little heart-shaped lights in his eyes. "Which is you," Fang adds needlessly, nudging Ed with an elbow. "He thinks you"re pretty."

“Fuck’s sake,” Izzy says, staring across the water at Exquisite. “I was right about the fucking theatricality.”

“It’s romantic, Izzy,” says Fang, bumping his shoulder.

It is. It’s wholeheartedly romantic, if a weirdly convoluted way to express it. Ed gazes at Exquisite while the sea glows gold and orange and pink around him, stays there as the light shifts through to deep purples and red, fades to indigo. As full darkness descends, and ships’ lanterns the only light besides the stars, he’s still there, heart full, and it doesn’t hurt.

The crew of the Exquisite is starting to look like a well-oiled machine, Stede thinks, watching them manoeuvre the ship around a small island, separating them from the Revenge. It"s the perfect place to lie in wait while Ed makes first contact with their next victim. They"ll wait just long enough for the target ship - a heavy-looking merchant vessel with the name Sunderland painted on her side - to get too close to Ed, and then sweep down with the wind behind them, closing fast. It"s all been very dramatic, the last couple of times, even if they have miscalculated a little, got their timing or their steering wrong. Stede has no intention of letting things go wrong this time. He"ll wait for the sound of a warning shot from Revenge, and then out they"ll go.

The shot, when it comes, is not quite what he expects.

“Um, Oluwande?” he asks, sidling over to the other man. “Did that sound like one of the Revenge "s cannons to you?”

“No,” Olu frowns. “It sounds more like—”

He"s cut off by more shots - definitely heavier guns than the Revenge has, and several of them too.

“Right!” Stede shouts. “We"re going down there now! Come on, chop chop!”

It takes a while to gather enough speed to round the island, Buttons manoeuvring with the caution a lee shore deserves, and there’s sporadic cannon fire the whole time. When they finally get a clear view of Revenge and Sunderland, it’s nowhere near as clear as Stede would like, the air behind and above the two ships grey-blue with gunpowder smoke.

“What the hell is going on?” he squawks, pacing from the rail to the wheel and back again, restless with impotence. “People aren’t supposed to fight back, don’t they know they’re up against Blackbeard, for heaven’s sake?” Shock wars with outrage, fizzing in his blood, and it’s impossible to keep still.

“Aye, looks like they haven’t got that message, captain,” replies Buttons, calm as ever as he steers Exquisite away from the wind, sails snapping, filling, and pulling the ship into greater speed. “Mebbe they’re not a merchant at all. Could be a privateer, or even Navy.” He leers at Stede, eyes wide, and pushes his set of fangs into his mouth.

As they get closer, it becomes steadily more obvious that Revenge is in a poor state. She’s partially dismasted - the main-topmast is hanging at a sickening angle, fouling the mainsails and impeding her ability to move. As Stede watches, Sunderland fires another volley, aiming not into the hull of Revenge, but into the sails. The sails on the foremast tear into ribbons, hampering her even further. Peering through his telescope, Stede can just about make out Ed, calm and competent as he directs his crew, and sailors jumping to his command, flying up the shrouds, returning fire with the small guns, despite the poor angle.

“Ah, that’s a pity,” Buttons remarks, voice muffled by his fangs.

“What is?” asks Roach.

“It might be all over before we get there,” says Buttons, calm as if he’s talking about the weather. “They’re using chain shot, by the looks of things.”

“What’s chain shot?”

Roach and Buttons turn as one to look at Stede.

“It’s like two small cannonballs joined together by a chain,” shrugs Roach.

“Ideal for fouling the rigging, ripping the sails,” adds Buttons.

“Oh,” says Stede. “That doesn’t sound so—”

“Also very handy for use as an anti-personnel weapon,” continues Buttons, cutting him off.

“As a what?”

Roach leans in, grinning. “Anti-personnel.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Aye, for disabling people,” Buttons’ continual air of calm is probably his least favourite thing about the man, Stede thinks absently. “You know, giving the enemy a good maim, mangle them a wee bit, mutilate, incapacitate, dismember—”

“Yes, okay!”

Stede glares out across the water at the Sunderland, at the orderly way in which her sailors load the guns, fire them, reload. They’re firing at his ship, at his people. At his Ed.

“How bloody dare they,” he says, and it’s only as he turns back toward Buttons that he realises how tightly he’s been holding on to the rail. “Buttons, I’m going to take over steering. Make sure you get everyone to do all the things with the sails so we get there as fast as we can, please.”

“You?” asks Roach, doubtfully. “Have you ever steered a ship before?” He backs away easily enough at Stede’s glare, though, and heads forward to pass the word.

Roach is right, really. The huge ship’s wheel feels unfamiliar under Stede’s hands, but how hard can it be to steer in a straight-ish line with the wind behind you? More sails billow out ahead of him, Buttons apparently taking his captain’s commands seriously. Before long every mast is groaning with the press of sail, ropes humming under the strain, and the tension in the ship vibrates through the planking of the deck, up into the wheel, into Stede’s hands. His heart feels like it’s throbbing in his throat, thumping every clear thought out of his mind other than get to Ed, other than visions of Ed mangled, mutilated, dismembered.

No. He will not allow this to happen, and Exquisite seems to feel the urgency, gaining speed with every beat of Stede’s heart.

As they draw closer, the cannonfire on the Sunderland eases, the heavy ship turning away from Revenge, her captain clearly planning on bringing her broadside around to meet that of Exquisite, assuming the smaller ship will heel round and fire a broadside herself. It’s a reprieve for the crew of Revenge at last, but there’s no time to look for Ed, to try and assess the situation over there.

The captain of the Sunderland is wrong. John and Pete are at the bow, fire the small guns in a single volley, then bolt for the rear of the ship as Stede yells out “brace for impact!” Exquisite is moving at astonishing speed, chasing her own ammunition across the water, and Stede steers her directly into the exposed side of Sunderland. Taken utterly by surprise, they’ve not even fired at Exquisite, and Stede sends a silent prayer of thanks to anything or anyone who might be listening.

The noise is incredible. Who knew ships screamed when they died, or maybe it’s the crew of all three ships together. It’s almost like the air itself is being torn apart, as the two ships tear into each other, wood with years of loyal service behind it collapsing into splinters, ropes snapping and fraying, bursting apart and whipping lethally through the air. Still under full sail, the prow of the Exquisite drives down under the impact, shredding the hull of Sunderland. The gurgling sound as the Sunderland seems to suck water greedily into herself is almost obscene, Stede thinks idly, still clinging to the redundant wheel like a statue of a man, still and separate from all this human nonsense. The two ships’ masts tangle as Exquisite continues to press forward and down, the rigging snarling together in knots not found in any sailing handbook.

“Captain!” Oluwande, yelling. “She’s pulling us under, we’ve got to get free!” He runs forward, leaps into the shrouds, pulls himself upwards with the sure and certain movement of a lifelong sailor.

Years of schoolboy mathematics and enthusiastic research into sailing and piracy suddenly leap to the forefront of Stede’s mind with an equation so simple a small child could work it out. If the little ship is fixed to the big ship and the big ship sinks, the little ship will sink too.

The rest of the crew are already aloft, furling the sails as best as they can, trying to ease the pressure, but Exquisite still has enough momentum that her prow is pushing down on Sunderland, helping to sink the larger ship. She’s almost standing on her prow - like when Alma went through her handstand phase, Stede thinks wildly - stern practically clear of the water, and there’s only Stede left who can do anything about it.

He’s wearing his battle gear, such as it is, mostly consisting of a rather blunt short sword on one hip and a considerably sharper dirk on the other. That’ll do for this though, all he needs to do is persuade his fingers to let go of the wheel. He glances sideways to Revenge, broken and small with her masts and rigging in such disarray, and her deck seems at a strange angle until he recalls that no, it’s Exquisite that’s in the middle of a swan dive. Sailors are scattered over the deck, still and silent, or at least he can’t hear them over the wailing death throes of the Sunderland. He spots Ed, finally, on the quarterdeck, a dark figure upright and alone, and moving to the rail, and he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, and Stede’s poor battered heart remembers its job and thumps once, twice, and he can feel his fingers again.

He runs forward, past the mainmast, where his crew are still frantically bringing in sails, pulls himself up the foremast shrouds, climbs along the mast - it’s so much easier when the damn thing is lying almost on its side like this - to where the mad tangle of rope begins, Exquisite ’s fore-topmast meshed so completely with Sunderland ’s mizzenmast it’s hard to tell the ropes apart at all. Ed could probably tell, Stede thinks, drawing his dirk with one hand and clinging to the mast with the other. Ed would be able to pull one piece of rope free and the whole situation would be resolved. The dirk is sharper than he’d thought, and the ropes are so taut they make cutting them simple. He slashes indiscriminately, pieces of rope and sail falling away beneath him, and it’s so easy, when all you need to do is this one thing.

A heavy piece of block and tackle falls hard and fast, smacking into the deck and bouncing into the sea. The prow of Exquisite is underwater now, Sunderland halfway to sunk, and all Stede can do is keep cutting ropes. He edges further forward, almost on to the Sunderland ’s mast, and there, there’s one line looped around both masts, vibrating with tension. Stede lifts his dirk and slices through it in one blow.

That’s enough. Exquisite wrenches away from Sunderland like an outraged mother rescuing a girl from a lecherous older man, and Stede is thrown off the mast like a ball from a cannon.

It’s not the raid Ed was hoping for. A nice plump merchant vessel, it had looked like, low in the water and heavy with cargo. But no, the devil is spitting on Ed today and it turns out that all that weight is ammunition. Complacency gets you nowhere, but it’s too late to reflect on that, with chain shot whistling through the air and fucking up the ship. And the crew, but there’s no time to do anything about it now.

His voice is hoarse with yelling and smoke by the time he hears the call that Stede is heading their way. Exquisite is a trim little ship, neat and handy, but she’s not got the guns to tackle an adversary the size of Sunderland. He catches his breath at the rail for a moment, dares to let his attention slip from the screaming men and the battered ship and the overwhelming enemy. The wind is perfect, sending the smoke away, and there’s clear air between him and Stede, Exquisite under full sail and with her prow pushing down, cleaving the waves with greater and greater speed.

Closer she comes, and closer, and the onslaught of cannon eases at last as Sunderland starts to turn broadside on to Exquisite, ready to meet whatever small guns Stede’s got with a devastating volley, no doubt, and Ed’s heart leaps into his mouth. Even the thought of cannon fire aimed in Stede’s direction makes his blood run cold. There are men on his own deck with fewer limbs than they had this morning, bleeding to death in agony, and his mind skitters away from imagining Stede in the same position.

He’s frozen at the rail, eyes on Exquisite even as he calls orders to make the most of this surely brief reprieve, and get the masts and sails into something approaching order once more. The sick panic gets worse as the smaller ship approaches, still gathering speed, and there’s surely no way she’ll be able to turn her broadside now. Maybe Stede’s just going to race past and get away, leave Ed to it, and for a moment a wash of relieved grief threatens to take him out at the knees.

No, though. There’s Stede at the wheel, and who knew he could look so fierce. He’s leaning forward over the wheel with the same eagerness as Exquisite, as if they’re one creature with one goal, and that is to race into the fray. A couple of sharp pops from the small guns at the prow, and that’s the only gunfire in this, because it’s clear that Stede has no intention of engaging the Sunderland in a pitched battle at all. What members of Ed’s crew that aren’t trying to repair the rigging are at the rail watching, transfixed.

“That mad bastard.” Izzy’s never sounded like this when talking about Stede before, breathing the words in the same reverent tone he used to talk about Blackbeard’s exploits in seedy bars. It’s bordering on obscene, really.

Exquisite slams into Sunderland, and the world explodes into flying splinters, if you can call pieces of wooden planking a foot long and three inches wide splinters. Time seems to stretch, compress, go all wobbly as Exquisite pushes Sunderland round and down, as if she’s diving herself, leaning on the larger ship and kissing the water. There’s Stede on the foremast, cutting the ships free of each other, desperate and indiscriminate, and utterly, foolishly, careless.

“No, fuck, no!” Ed’s knuckles are white and his heart in his mouth is the only thing stopping him spewing his guts over the side as Stede flies through the air. It’s not a stupid game of yardies, falling from that height: hitting the deck will turn him into nothing more than a boneless bag of jelly. He’s already a ragdoll, turning in the air, hanging at the top of the arc, and plunging down.

He misses the ship. Hits the water hard, and disappears immediately. The yells of “man overboard” are so loud they make his ears ring, until he realises it’s his own voice, shuts his mouth with a snap that rattles his teeth.

The sea between Exquisite and Revenge is full of debris, broken pieces of all three ships, churning white-topped water, and dark, smooth currents as the Sunderland sucks what she can down with her.  Time stretches again as Ed stares helplessly, desperately searching for a hint of a living man in the maelstrom.

“There! Captain!” Fang points, and Ed looks, and there, there’s Stede, and there he is breaking the mould again, because he’s fucking swimming. Fully dressed, in that chaos, and he’s doing a front crawl so neat he might as well be casually taking an early morning dip.

There’s a rope ladder dangling down the side of Exquisite, John and Oluwande at the top of it, and Stede hauls himself out of the water like a fucking mermaid, hand over hand until he gets a foot on the bottom rung, pauses for breath.

“Jesus, he’s strong,” mutters Izzy. “How much does all that fancy shit weigh when it’s soaking wet?”

Maybe he’s giving Stede a little more credit than he deserves - he’s not exactly wearing the elaborate three-piece ensembles that he favoured when Ed first met him, but Ed couldn’t care less about his fancy shit, because all that matters is that he’s alive. Alive, and gazing up at Revenge, scanning along the rail, and all of a sudden he’s looking right at Ed, and it’s like the sun comes out. Stede waves like the lunatic he is, a victorious hand in the air and a smile breaking across his face like a fucking sunrise and Ed is absolutely done for.

“Fang,” he says, calmly. Definitely not at all like a man just barely holding himself together. “Signal the Exquisite, please. Something along the lines of ‘captain report to flagship immediately’. If the galley’s not completely fucked, see what you can do about some tea too.”

:::::

Stede falls over the rail on to the debris-strewn deck of Exquisite, and flops on his back, just breathing, staring up at a blue sky caught in a spiderweb of ropes in the kind of disarray you might see if the spider in question had been on drugs. The image of a spider snorting powdered rhino horn flashes into his mind. Laughter bubbles up through him, hysteria shaking him until tears are running down his face, and it doesn’t stop even when Swede comes to tell him that Revenge has signalled their ship.

It’s a rather full little dinghy crossing over to Revenge. Roach and Pete on the oars, a couple of others there for moral support, alert and bristling. Stede follows them up the ladder, takes the offered hand as he climbs on to the deck, and it’s only when said hand doesn’t let go that he looks up, and it’s Ed’s hand. He’s holding Ed’s hand, and Ed is upright, and uninjured, and just looking at him.

“Oh my dear,” breathes Stede, utterly unable to keep the affection out of his voice, unable to keep the professional distance required of a sailor to a superior, but it doesn’t matter a whit because Ed keeps hold of his hand, pulls him another step, and then he’s in his arms.

Ed in his arms, warm and solid and safe, his face buried in Stede’s shoulder, taking one deep, shuddering breath after another, and despite the scene of destruction it’s the calmest Stede’s ever felt.

“You two should get a room,” a familiar sardonic voice remarks.

Ed jumps like a scalded cat.

“Hey, hombrecito,” says Jim, raising a hand in a casual wave.

Fang barrels past them, sweeps Lucius into his arms, because it is Lucius, it is, and Ed’s shaking even more now.

“What the fuck,” he stammers, white as a sheet.

“Oh, the whole murdering thing?” Lucius purses his lips. “Didn’t quite take. Try harder next time. Or, you know, don’t push people overboard at all, actually, that’d be better.”

“Where? How?”

“Turns out this lot are not actually so keen on the murder idea either, to be honest,” Lucius replies, twirling a finger as if to encompass the whole crew.

“Lucius! Where on earth did you come from?” Stede looks round questioningly at the crew.

“He said he wanted to spend time on Revenge. Stay for the drama,” shrugs Jim.

“Yes,” chimes in Fang. “We’ve been working on a bit of a hot-desk situation.” He looks doubtfully between Stede and Ed. “Nearly every time a dinghy has been in the water, Lulu has been travelling between ships. You didn’t realise?”

“Now really,” chastises Stede. “Not one of you could have mentioned anything?” He glares at Jim.

Lucius’s glare is even more pointed than Stede’s. “What the fuck, Stede? We literally had breakfast in the same room yesterday. I"ve been to nearly every story night.”

Stede wrinkles his nose. “Are you sure?” Lucius narrows his eyes, takes a deep breath. Stede heads him off, quick. “Well you"ll have to speak up a bit more then, boy, I"ve been having to write my own diary all this time! Tighten up, mate.”

Pete cuts in. “How’s your comic of Blackbeard’s kraken era coming on, babe?” he asks eagerly. “Jim was telling me all about the latest panel, but it’s not the same as seeing for yourself.”

“Fuck’s sake,” mutters Izzy, a little pink around the ears. He looks over at Stede and Ed, aims a thumb at the captain’s cabin. “There’s tea waiting for you, if you want it.”

Despite the disarray still reigning on deck, the captain’s cabin is neat and tidy. Even the large windows are undamaged, and the cushions on the small sofa are plump and inviting. There’s a tray on the desk, a large teapot gently steaming beside a plate of biscuits.

“Oh good,” says Stede. “I thought I saw Roach bringing some of those over. Fab!” He bustles over, makes the tea, brings Ed a cup, dainty little biscuit perched on the saucer.

When Ed takes it, the cup rattles so badly that tea sloshes over the edge, leaving the biscuit half-floating in the saucer.

It’s eerily familiar. Stede takes the cup back, sets it down on the floor, and sits down. “Ed? Are you okay?”

Silly question, really. Ed leans into his arms, rests his forehead on Stede’s collarbone. “It’s alright,” Stede murmurs, stroking a hand down his back, slow and gentle. “Everything is alright.”

Ed’s voice is small and muffled. “I thought you were going to die again.”

“Ah, I’m a good swimmer,” Stede replies, jolly. “Takes more than a dip in the water to finish me off.”

“No, not that - well yes that as well, actually - but the bringing a tiny ship up against a big ship?” Ed pulls back, looks him right in the eye. “That’s suicide. If they’d fired a broadside the Exquisite would be matchsticks.”

“But they didn’t.” Stede grins. “It’s not suicidal if you don’t die!”

“Even then, sailing head on into another ship at that speed? What were you thinking?” A flush brightens Ed’s cheeks, so strong Stede can almost feel the heat of his skin. He shakes his head, disbelief warring with defeat. “We’d already lost. You should have gone past, you should have left us. You should have left me. You should have stayed safe, Stede.”

“Ah well. That wasn’t an option.” A tiny, crooked smile quirks Stede’s lips as he looks away. “I promised I would never leave you again.” Looks back up, shrugs. “I don’t intend to. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever felt fear like that before, watching Revenge getting shot at, knowing you were there, and there being absolutely nothing I could do to help you.”

“Why?” He’s never seen Ed look so entirely at sea. “Why would you take such a risk? I’m not worth it.”

Stede gathers him into his arms again, squeezes. “Of course you are.”

Ed scoffs, even as he shuffles closer. “Don’t think Lucius would agree with you there.”

“That boy’s made of sterner stuff than you think. Besides, he’s fine, isn’t he?”

“I’m not a good person, Stede.”

“I know. Neither am I.” Stede sighs, fingers gently pressing down either side of Ed’s spine. “Don’t go thinking I don’t know who you are.”

“But—”

“No buts. I love you, my treasure, my darling, my dear.” Stede chuckles gently. “Ed, I love everything about you.”

A faintly doubtful hum reverberates through Ed, but he doesn’t reply. Stede carries on stroking him. It’s so warm and comfortable, nestled up against soft cushions with Ed in his arms. Ed’s breathing gradually relaxes into such a steady, slow rhythm he thinks he’s asleep, until he says “Stede?”

“Mmm?”

“When did you learn to swim?”

“I don’t remember, honestly. Must have been as a young boy, I could already swim when I went away to school. One of the few things my peers couldn’t laugh at me for.”

“It’s not a thing, usually, with sailors.”

“What? No? Are you sure? Being able to swim would be a useful skill, surely?”

“If you go overboard on a moving ship you’re not all that likely to get rescued. Swimming just means you take longer to drown. The sharks find you when you’re still alive.”

“Oh.” Stede ponders this. “Still seems a tad pessimistic.”

“Yeah. Stede?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you can swim.”

Ed refuses to let Stede go back to the Exquisite. They cobble together enough of a crew for both ships, and manage to limp to a safe location to start repairs by the time the light starts to fail.

“No need for a signal flag today,” says Stede, watching the sunset paint blushing highlights through Ed’s hair and down the silvery stitching of the jacket he’d had made for him.

“What? But it is a beautiful sunset.” Ed frowns at him.

Stede grins. “Oh yes, it is, but I don’t need a flag. Here I am in person, talking about it instead.” He does jazz hands, and laughs giddily as Ed tries - with only a small amount of success - to keep his expression stern.

“Captains?” Frenchie sidles over, looking from one to the other.

“Come on now, Frenchie,” admonishes Stede. “You know I’m not the captain any more.”

“No, but you are still a captain of the other ship, aren’t you? Even if Ivan is in charge of it at the minute.”

“What do you want?” Ed interrupts.

Frenchie coughs, twists his fingers together. “We were just wondering if you’d brought the book with you? If we were having storytime tonight?”

Stede looks over at Ed, shrugs. “I have got the book, yes. But storytime is at the captain’s discretion.”

“Fine by me, mate,” says Ed. “When?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

It settles something in Stede, sitting on the capstan of the Revenge, an open book in his lap. That he’s here, on this ship that he loves so much, with people he loves and who love him. Who forgive him his faults, his mistakes, who don’t expect more from him than he can give.

“We don’t have a story book at the minute, I’m afraid,” he apologises, looking round at the Revenge crew, who look both puzzled and curious as they lounge among his original crew, sharing cushions and blankets. “We’ve got this little volume of poetry though! There’s some good bits and pieces here, I think we’ve all enjoyed it so far.”

He leafs through the pages, scanning for something he hasn’t already read. “Ah, here we are. I rather like this one.”

We"ll live our lives together

As we go hand in hand

Just say you love me

He looks over at Ed, and knows his heart is shining out of his eyes, pleading. He turns the page, blinks a few times, and reads on.

You say boy do you really love me

Well I ain"t got much words to say

Let me write my answer

Down in the sand by the waves

Ed doesn’t take his eyes off him, sprawled on the other side of the circle with his jacket half-unbuttoned, purple lining gleaming in the lantern-light. The crew discuss the verse, bicker, heckle Stede to keep reading.

“Well, here’s an answer that one might give to the previous question,” Stede says.

I want you forever I want you for good

So I"m gonna treat you the way that I should

Lucius snorts at this. “Pretty sure you don’t need writing for that one,” he says, making an obscene gesture. “A dirty cartoon’d do it.”

“No!” objects Stede. “It’s romantic and lovely!”

“If you say so, boss.” Lucius rolls his eyes.

“Maybe it’s both,” offers Roach. “Romantic and lovely, and also hardcore filthy.” He grins, baring what seems like far too many teeth.

“Yes, well, maybe,” Stede replies, flustered, catching Ed’s eye. Warmth suddenly floods him from head to toe. “Let’s carry on, shall we. How about this one?”

I believe in happiness

I believe in love

“Ah, that’s lovely,” says Wee John. “Now there’s your romance.”

“Yes.” Stede closes the book gently. “We’ll leave it there, shall we? Goodnight, everyone.” He slides off the capstan, stretches just enough to let his back pop a couple of times. It’s such a familiar routine, he’s halfway back to the captain’s cabin before he remembers he’s not, in fact, the captain.

“Lost?” Ed’s voice is low and dark. He offers his arm, and it takes Stede’s breath away. It’s all Stede can do to nod, slip a hand over Ed’s arm and let himself be led away.

“I don’t know why I ever thought I could be the Gentleman Pirate,” he says, as Ed shuts the door to the cabin, still with Stede’s hand on his arm. “You do it so much better.”

Ed says nothing, merely frowns, questioning.

“Look at you,” Stede breathes, gesturing, trying to encompass in one movement everything that Ed is, was, or could be. “Here you are in fine things, you could walk into any upper-crust establishment in the world, and they’d be falling over themselves to grant your wishes. You’re more elegant than anything or anyone I’ve ever seen.”

His free hand seems to move of its own accord, drifting up Ed’s other sleeve and tracing over the embroidery. Ed’s skin is soft and warm under his fingers, his short beard just long enough not to scratch. His eyebrow is wiry under Stede’s thumb as he smoothes over it, his eyes fluttering closed, breath hitching, uneven.

“And then,” continues Stede, so quietly he can hardly hear himself. “You’re a pirate too. Dangerous, when the mood strikes you. Independent. Free to go wherever you wish, with whomever you wish, whenever you wish.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” whispers Ed. “I want to stay right here, with you.”

Stede smiles gently. “As you wish.”

It doesn’t feel like either one of them leans in, makes the first move. It’s more like an irresistible force finally wins, magnetised iron coming together, and with just as little desire to be separated. Ed’s lips are soft, just as soft as he remembers, though his moustache is a little scratchy.

Their hands wander, slow and gentle, taking the time to feel their way step by step. “I love you,” Stede says, as he unfastens each button of the jacket, eases it off Ed’s shoulders. “I love you,” says Ed, pushing Stede’s shirt up and over his head, kissing at his jaw, his throat, his shoulder.

Every sensation feels new, as if he has never felt anything before, the way Ed’s fingertips send sparks into his spine, lighting him up from the inside out. Ed’s body feels like venturing into a new world, smooth expanses of soft skin crossed with raised scars and beautiful decoration. Stede pushes splayed fingers through the curls of his salt-and-pepper chest hair, so much darker and more sparse than his own.

Unpracticed though their choreography is, they tread the steps to the bed easily. “I love you,” Stede breathes, settling on the mattress he’d bought never expecting to share. “I love you,” Ed replies, settling in beside him. It’s generous enough for one grown man, a bit of a squeeze for two, but when there’s barely more than a breath between them, it doesn’t matter. “I love you,” Ed whispers into Stede’s belly, kissing the thinner skin of his scars. “I love you,” Stede replies, trickling tears tickling at the corners of his eyes.

“I love you,” Ed says, nosing into the crease of Stede’s hip. “I love you,” Stede cries, bucking upwards, hot and urgent. “I love you,” Ed gasps, scrambling back up the bed, weaving his fingers with Stede’s own, grasping and frantic, all curves and motion in the candlelight.

“I love you,” calls Stede, high-pitched and breathless on the crest of a wave, and “I love you,” groans Ed as it breaks over them both, shuddering.

Silence broken only by steadying hearts and the sea.

“I do, you know,” Stede murmurs, combing fingers through Ed’s hair. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ed snugs closer in, a knee over Stede’s thighs, head resting on his chest. “Stay?”

Stede chuckles softly. “I love you, and I know it. You’ll have a hard time getting rid of me now.” He squeezes the arm wrapped around Ed’s back. “I’ll stay forever, if you’ll have me.”

“I love you,” sighs Ed, quiet and sleepy. Content. “Forever. Yes.”

Forever is a long time coming. There’s the ship to repair, and the other ship to repair, and a hundred and one decisions to make before breakfast, it seems. Ivan takes the Exquisite with a skeleton crew to get her properly refitted. Ed and Izzy spend a morning making a plan to step Revenge ’s spare mast, and within the first five minutes of listening to them Stede becomes acutely, painfully aware of just how dangerously ignorant a captain he really is.

He’s nothing if not determined, though. It’s a different experience to mathematics lessons at school, sitting on the quarterdeck with Buttons, slate in hand, but he’s missed the boat on learning practical seamanship as a boy, so theoretical first principles it is. Ed checks his figures, teaches him about navigation and meteorology, chats to the crew.

When the new mast swings upright above the deck and slots into place, it’s so precisely done that it’s hard to give the credit where it’s due. The satisfaction on Ed’s face - and the relief on Izzy’s - gives it away, though, and Stede brings out the good brandy and a trayful of glasses for everyone.

“A good job well done,” Stede says, handing a glass to Izzy.

Izzy takes it, looks at him with narrowed eyes as if trying to parse out the insult, then shakes his head minutely. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing half the brandy in one mouthful. “It was.”

It feels strange, sharing a silence with Izzy, unsafe in the manner of a small animal spending time with a superior predator, but curiously natural nonetheless. Perhaps, Stede muses, spending time with Izzy is like spending time with a fearsome jungle cat - you’ve just got to understand their motivations.

“Thank you,” he offers. “For the mast. Excellent job all round, there, I think.”

“Yeah, well,” Izzy says, prickly as ever. “Sailors can do all sorts when they’re not distracted.”

They look at the new mast, at Ed chatting with Frenchie and Fang, at Lucius and Pete deep in conversation and flicking through a sketchbook.

“I can’t help wondering,” Stede says, softly, “why it is that Ivan took the other ship and not you?” He slides his eyes sideways, trying to get a sense of the other man. Izzy’s not giving anything away, motionless and silent as he gazes across the deck. “I’d thought it was common practice for the first mate of a ship to get the captaincy of a prize vessel.”

Izzy sighs, looks down. “It is.” When he looks back up at Stede, his eyes are bigger and deeper and more honest than he can remember ever seeing them before. “But I didn’t want it. I don’t want to be a captain, or on another ship. I know my place, and it’s serving the finest captain I’ve ever met.”

“He is the best,” Stede replies. “We can definitely agree there.”

“You don’t understand,” Izzy says. “He’s not just good, not just clever, or a good sailor. He’s brilliant. He’s exceptional. Literally brilliant: he dazzles everyone he comes into contact with.”

“He doesn’t dazzle you.” Stede quirks a small smile. “You never seem overawed by him.”

“I know him too well to be dazzled any more.” Izzy sighs. “And I know him well enough to know that there’s only one man who’s ever dazzled him right back, and it’s not me.” He swallows the last of his brandy, pushes the empty glass at Stede. “It doesn’t matter. He’s my captain regardless, and I’m not leaving him.”

“I would never ask you to,” Stede murmurs. “And for what it’s worth, he values you highly. More highly than anyone else on the crew.”

“I know. But he loves you.” Izzy disappears into the growing dusk with a straight back and a barely-there limp.

:::::

Ed does, in fact, love Stede, and now the cat is out of the bag he throws himself into it with a full-hearted abandon that surprises Stede. It’s not all gifts and poetry - though sometimes it is those things - it’s time, and consideration, and confidence. It’s there when Stede sits at his desk and finds his pen nibs all cleaned and neatly laid out in order of size. It’s there when Stede’s on lookout duty, climbs to the tops to find a note pinned to the mast with a knife: a few sketched signal flags translating to “hello beautiful”. It’s there when Stede looks for Ed and finds him already looking his way. It’s there in shared jokes and soft words and breathless nights.

It’s there one morning when Stede wakes to find Ed gone from the room, and his first thought is curiosity rather than panic. He pulls on a dressing gown and pads out on deck, into a bright and sparkling day. Sunrise has been and gone, the sky a cheerful blue with a few wispy clouds sewn through it, the air fresh and clean as Stede fills his lungs with the brand-new morning.

It’s not quite the usual scene out here though - the deck is both rather emptier and rather noisier than usual. Up toward the front of the ship there’s something of a commotion, several sailors crowding together and crowing about something or other, laughter drifting through the air.

Stede wanders over, curious. “What’s going on?” he asks, elbowing past the Swede hard at work with a deck pump. “What are you doing? Are we sinking?” He stares at the pump, at the hose that seems to be, inexplicably, pulling water up from the sea and pushing it out over the deck, over the deck and all over—

“Captain Blackbeard wanted a bath,” explains the Swede.

“Oh,” replies Stede, faintly.

A saltwater shower-bath in the open air may not be as luxurious as a soak in a tub, but as Stede watches the water arch through the air and splash all over Ed’s bare back, he finds he can’t fault it as a course of action. There stands Ed, not a stitch on him, hair so heavy with water it’s rippling right down almost the full length of his spine as he tips his head back. The tattoos curling over his skin play hide-and-seek as Ed scrubs himself all over with a rough cloth, and Stede is mesmerised.

He’s seen Ed naked before, of course, even before their reconciliation, even before their co-captaincy. It’s part of a sailing life, being a party to the bodily functions of your fellows, and Ed is one of the least self-conscious men Stede’s ever met. And then, in this last week or so, he’s seen him unclothed in a much more intimate way, privately, in the dimness of their cabin, where even at noon with both chandeliers doing their best it’s never exactly well-lit.

This, though, is different. This isn’t quite practical nudity, and definitely isn’t carnal nakedness. It’s straddling a fine line between the two - sensuousness right out in the open, or it is to Stede’s eyes, anyway - and it takes Stede’s breath away.

Ed half-turns under the spray, catches his eye. Winks, as if he knows exactly what Stede’s feeling, watching him. “Morning,” he calls, a tiny grin making his eyes sparkle.

“Good morning,” replies Stede archly, trying to affect a little more poise than he really feels. “Feeling clean?”

“I am now,” Ed replies, waving at Swede to stop the pump. “Woke up feeling all sticky for some reason.” He squeezes the excess water out of his hair, shakes his head a little until loose, gleaming curls cascade dripping down his back. “How about you?” The grin is definitely bigger now, and more shark-like.

“I prefer the tub.” Stede stares him down. Definitely doesn’t watch a droplet of water trace a path over Ed’s clavicle, join a couple more, skate round a pebbled nipple and vanish into dark belly hair trickling southwards.

“Tub’s more work, and not so invigorating,” says Ed, stepping forward, and Stede’s eyes snap back up to his face.

“Yes, no, you’re probably right there,” he stammers. “Is it not cold?”

Ed shrugs. “Colder than buckets of hot water. But it’s the Caribbean, mate, not exactly the freezing north.” He pulls a towel from the rail, winds it around his waist. “You should try it sometime.”

Three days later, on an unpleasantly humid but not quite thunderous day, desperate for some relief from the weather, Stede calls Ed’s bluff. He takes the lavender soap, his fluffiest towel, and the scrubbing brush on a stick that he uses to clean his back, and lays them out like a surgeon preparing instruments. It’s Roach on pump duty this time, and he sends a blast of cold seawater directly into Stede’s face with an enthusiasm that seems almost sadistic.

It’s worth it to see the look on Ed’s face as Stede wipes the water out of his eyes and sets to with the soap and scrubbing brush. “You’re right,” he says, waving the brush in a friendly way as Ed wanders over. “Very invigorating.”

Ed’s reply is cut off by the Swede flinging a threadbare towel over the rail beside Stede’s, and before long over half the crew are trying out the Blackbeard bath method, covered in bubbles and not much else.

:::::

“Stede?” Ed asks one morning, on the deck of a Dutch merchant ship.

Stede makes his way past the sullenly subdued merchant crew, weaving between sharp elbows and suddenly-outstretched ankles until he’s at Ed’s side. “What is it?”

Ed waves a newspaper at him. “Can you read Dutch?”

Stede takes the paper, peers at it as if close scrutiny was enough to effect a translation. “No,” he says in the end. “I can ask the crew?”

It turns out that Roach is in fact fluent in Dutch. The newspaper has several references to pirates - but not those operating in the Caribbean, which niggles irritatingly at Stede.

“It says there’s a massive fleet of pirates in China,” shrugs Roach, scanning the front page. “Some woman has four hundred ships.”

“Four hundred?” Stede asks dubiously. “Are you sure? It doesn’t say forty, maybe? Or four?”

“Read it yourself if you want,” Roach snipes.

“Four hundred,” muses Ed. “That’s something different.”

“Yeah,” says Stede. “We could learn something from a pirate like that, hmm?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Stede?”

“Yes?”

“Do you—” Ed breaks off, chews his lip. “Shall we—”

Stede gently bumps a shoulder into him. “Would you like to go to China?” he murmurs. “Go find out how piracy works over there?”

Ed looks at him, eyes huge and nervous. “Yeah, could do,” he shrugs, half-turning away. “If you wanted. No biggie.” He glances back at Stede, peering through his eyelashes. “It is quite far.”

Stede slides an arm around his waist, pulls him in until their sides are snug together from shoulder to hip. “It is quite a long way,” he agrees. “But I’ve got everything I need right here on this ship. So really, we could go anywhere. Or stay here. I’m happy either way.”

Ed sighs, turns, relaxes into his arms. Holding him in his arms feels like coming home. “How about,” murmurs Stede into the crook of Ed’s neck, “how about we just head in that direction? See where the wind takes us?”

“Maybe it’ll take us all the way to China.”

“Maybe it will. Let’s find out.”

When I wake each morning

And the storm beats down on me

And I know we belong together

Only love can set you free