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They lasted another week at sea before the whole “never going back to land” thing got old.
Look, it had sounded cool and suitably dramatic when he’d said it, but twelve raids later (including a couple of double headers) and Ed was feeling twitchy. He wanted a drink somewhere that wasn’t either: a) alone in his cabin, sobbing his eyes out and clutching the bride topper in his fist so hard it left an imprint, or b) out on deck, staring moodily at the horizon and freaking out the crew. Plus, he was tired of pretending not to notice the stench of his rotting oldest friend former first mate, or the muffled shouts of “kill me you twats!” coming from the secret room behind the galley’s starboard counter.
Also, maybe Izzy had had a point—the crew was looking a little ragged. Either shore leave would do them some good, or they’d take the opportunity to fuck off and find another ship, in which case oh well and good riddance. Not like Ed wasn’t used to being left behind.
He wasn’t sure why he chose Jackie’z.
Normally, he avoided the place. The inevitable free drinks were nice, sure, but between the papes and the fanboys and the various people who wanted to kill him, it was a bit hard to truly relax. And Jackie was always in his shit. No doubt she’d have heard about his recent exploits, maybe even some of the rumors about why he was tearing up the Caribbean and wearing so much eyeliner. And Jackie was one of maybe seven people who’d gladly tell Ed what she thought of his behavior without shitting her pants in fear. (He’d tried The Glower on her once. She’d laughed in his face.)
So yeah. No real idea why he’d chosen Jackie’z over a dozen other more private watering holes. Maybe he wanted the distraction, the noise. Maybe he wanted to be surrounded by people who saw the legend and not raw, sad sack Ed. He hated Blackbeard, sure, but he was certainly convenient armor sometimes.
Or maybe he wanted to show his face and lay some of those rumors to rest. Let everyone see he was fine, actually. Great, even. That he looked hot as shit with the shorter beard, and the eyeliner was sexy as hell, and he was raiding multiple ships a day because he was a badass legend who totally lived up to the hype and not just a sad, middle aged man, desperate to feel anything at all besides soul-crushing boredom or heart-mutilating grief.
Or maybe he was drawn in by the “buy one drink, get a free plate of tapas” sign he passed as he strolled away from the docks. Who didn’t love free tapas?
(In hindsight, the sign was a red flag, and he’d been a fool to miss it.)
Then again, maybe it was fate. Maybe it was always going to happen like this.
Ed shouldered open the door to Jackie’z. Did his habitual, instinctive scan of the room—searching for potential threats.
And immediately found one.
Ed froze. Lips parted. A roaring in his ears, like the ocean. Purple spots crowded his vision and his mouth flooded with saliva and for one brief, terrifying moment he thought he might do something super embarrassing, like throw up or faint or throw up and then faint.
Because standing there at the host’s podium was the actual last man on earth that Ed had expected to run into tonight.
A man he would recognize anywhere—in total darkness, or whiteout blizzard, or faint and fuzzy with blood loss (on account of having his heart ripped clean out of his chest.)
Stede fucking Bonnet.
Stede, at least, looked just as poleaxed to see him. Ed’s body stayed stuck in place, but his brain unfroze—working triple speed to fit all the puzzle pieces together.
Stede was standing at the host’s podium (less than five feet away—his traitor brain supplied, unhelpfully—one step, and you’d be in touching distance) and he was clutching a stack of menus. He was…working here? At Jackie’z. In the Republic of Pirates. Not home with his family in their cozy mansion, or dead in a ditch, or any of the other plausible scenarios Ed had come up with in the last three months.
So, it wasn’t piracy he’d abandoned, then. Just Ed. Cool.
He had the fucking nerve to look more beautiful than ever, too. His hair glinted like gold coin in the candlelight, and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing thick, freckled forearms. Stede had always been so clothed in all their time together, before. It felt indecent, now, seeing the hint of clavicle at the (low) neckline of his shirt, and the contours of his (broad) shoulders were mouthwateringly clear without countless layers of shirt and waistcoat and cravat and jacket to conceal them.
But he also had the distinct air of someone who’d been roughing it. His skin was ruddy and sun kissed, his face a bit scruffy. There were more freckles across the bridge of his nose. His clothes were simpler than anything Ed had ever seen him wear, and a bit tatty around the edges—like he only had the one pair, and no matter how meticulously he washed them, they could never truly be clean.
(I could buy him more clothes, Ed’s brain chose to chime in here.)
He had a frayed reddish scrap of fabric tied round his neck like a jaunty scarf, because he was still Stede so of course he’d found a way to accessorize even when he—seemingly—had nothing to his name.
Ed wanted to bolt, badly. Wanted to run all the way back to the ship (Stede’s ship) and order whoever was on watch to weigh anchor—never mind that half the crew was still ashore—and then curl up in the auxiliary wardrobe (Stede’s wardrobe) and cry and cry and cry until he was nothing more than a shriveled husk.
Fuck that.
Stede was here, in the Republic of Pirates. Fine. He’d apparently rather work for Jackie’s robber baron wages than do something cool like run away to China and fuck Ed until they were old and gray and their dicks didn’t work anymore. All right.
But this was Ed’s turf. He was fucking Blackbeard, and he wasn’t about to be run off by some guy he’d shared one (1) close-mouthed, slightly awkward (incredible, life changing, heartbreaking) kiss with.
Stede recovered first. He inhaled deep, gave Ed a sunny, self-effacing smile, and said, “Welcome to Spanish Jackie’z. Table for one?”
On second thought, fuck this.
“Nope.” Ed turned on his heel and strode for the door.
“Ed!” Stede called. “Ed, please—wait!”
Ed ignored him. Walked faster.
And Stede—who wouldn’t know a self-preservation instinct if it walked up and bit him on his perfect, flat ass—Stede fucking Bonnet followed him, practically stepping on Blackbeard’s heels as he fought to catch up.
“Please, Ed. Don’t go,” he implored. Ed kept walking. “You haven’t even had your free tapas plate.”
The fucking tapas plate. God damn it. Ed should’ve known when he saw the sign. Jackie doing drinks specials? It had the Gentleman Pirate written all over it. Stede was good at convincing hot/badass pirates that he should’ve been way more scared of to do things that they normally wouldn’t.
“Ed, please.” A hand landed on Ed’s elbow, and before he really had time to think it through, Ed was spinning on his heel, pulling his knife from his belt, and slamming Stede up against the alley wall—all in one fluid motion.
“Don’t,” he snarled. Stede swallowed, his throat bobbing beneath Ed’s blade. Ed really did not like seeing a knife at Stede’s throat, least of all his own, but his body had reacted without much input from his brain and it wasn’t like he could back down now.
His other hand gripped the front of Stede’s shirt, wrinkling the linen, and Ed could just feel the heat of Stede’s chest through the thin weave.
And Stede—total fucking menace that he was—swallowed again. Slowly. Wet his lips in a way that would haunt Ed’s dreams for all his remaining days.
His gaze tracked down Ed’s face to his mouth, where it…lingered.
What. The. Fuck.
Ed released Stede’s shirt at once and practically leapt backward. If not for the wall, Stede would have ended up in a heap on the ground. It was a near thing as it was, but he stumbled and caught himself at the last minute.
They eyed each other warily for a moment. Now that Stede had actually caught him, he didn’t seem to know what to say.
And Ed…well. Ed wanted to kiss him. Ed wanted to stab him. Or, he wanted to want to stab him. Same difference, really.
He wasn’t going to kiss him, though. Duh. Obviously. Under no circumstances was he going to kiss him.
“I can leave, if you like,” Stede broke the silence at last. “Duck out of my shift. Jackie will understand.”
Ed gave him a look. “No, she won’t.”
“No, she won’t.” Stede gave him a rueful smile. “She’ll likely fire me. Perhaps remove an appendage or two…” he trailed off, then rallied. “But you deserve a relaxing evening in peace, free of…old baggage.”
What the fucking fuck. Ed had been in this man’s presence again for all of three minutes, and he was already spouting off on what Ed “deserved.”
Like Stede had any right to say that.
Like Ed deserved anything.
Also, not for nothing, but christ—was Ed so fucking unbearable to be around that Stede was already offering to bail? Willing to lose his job and probably his nose just so he could get away from Ed as quickly as possible?
Fuck this.
Ed lowered his knife and wiped it casually on his pants. “S’whatever. Think I’ll just head back to the ship. Have a quiet night in.” (Getting pissed on the floor and sobbing ’til he puked, but whatever—Stede didn’t need to know that.)
(Maybe he’d even let himself wear the robe for a bit. Indulge in a grief wank that he’d feel bad about, immediately after. He deserved it, after this shit.)
(And wasn’t that so fucking typical? Like a virus, Stede Bonnet. Already had Ed thinking words like “deserve” again, too.)
“Oh, come on,” Stede cajoled—like Ed was any customer and not his former…something. Nothing. Something. “There’s no tapas back on the ship, surely? The prawn fritters are divine, now that Roach has taken over the kitchen.”
Ed tensed at the mention of Roach, and Stede noticed.
“They’re all okay,” he said gently. “Everyone from the island is safe and sound and accounted for. All told, they were only out there about twenty-four hours, and anyway what’s a little marooning amongst crewmates? Occupational hazard, surely.”
If anything, Stede’s kindness only made Ed feel worse. He was dying to get the rest of the story there, but he wasn’t going to ask. Fuck no.
Plus, there was the whole Lucius can of worms. His mind skittered right away from that one.
“That’s, um. Good,” he said. “Glad to hear it.” It was the truth, too, god help him. One less weight on his soul, knowing that lot had made it. Although, privately, Ed couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer idiotic luck that seemed to follow this fucking crew around like an aura of golden light, protecting Stede Bonnet’s toys for him even when he got bored of playing with them and ran off for a bit.
“Well then, what do you say? Shall we?” Stede made a ridiculous little after you gesture back towards the bar, like he was some fancy chivalrous lord inviting a debutante back into the ballroom after she’d stepped out for some fresh air.
Every cell in Ed’s body wanted to say yes. His jaw worked, like he was physically forcing himself to swallow the word back down.
“No thanks, mate,” Ed said instead, and—with herculean effort—he turned slowly on the spot. Took a long breath. And began to walk away.
This had to have been what the bloke in the myth felt like, the one that Stede had read that time—trying to walk away from his love in the underworld without looking back. Only Ed couldn’t decide if he wanted Stede to be following him or not when he turned around.
(He did. He did. He did.)
(He wasn’t going to look.)
“Ed!” Stede called to his back—far too loud, considering Ed had only made it about four strides. “Come on,” he cajoled. “Don’t let me run you off.”
Feels bad, doesn’t it? Getting left? Ed wanted to snarl.
Nothing more than what you deserve, Ed wanted to scream.
I don’t deserve this, Ed wanted to sob, you taught me that better than anyone.
But Ed’s traitor fucking body was like that dog with the bell. Stede asked him for something, gave him those big, wet hazel eyes, and suddenly Ed heard himself saying, “Yeah, all right. Could fuck up some tiny olives.”
They walked back to Jackie’z in tense, awkward silence. It was unfamiliar, to say the least. Ed had never spent this long in Stede’s presence before without hearing him say something insane about opera or bugs or Belgian lace.
Stede kept stealing extremely unsubtle glances sideways at Ed, which Ed pretended not to notice. For his part, he was a bit busy trying to ignore how close their arms were—near enough that they brushed, just once, and Ed almost leapt out of his skin—or the way that the (frankly slutty) neckline of Stede’s shirt billowed when he walked, flashing Ed little peeks of nip. He’d never been so grateful for the usual stench of mud and shit and blood that permeated the Republic, because Ed was pretty sure if he caught even one whiff of Stede’s floral scent he would have no choice but to fall to his knees right then and there (interpret as you will).
Stede held the door to Jackie’z open for him, gallant as a prince, and Ed contemplated pulling every hair out of his own scalp one by one.
Inside, Ed felt eyes on him from all directions as Stede led him to an empty table. Realistically, he knew it was because he was Blackbeard, and Blackbeard was famous, and also he hadn’t been seen in port in months while he rampaged bloody, record-breaking warfare across the seas. But he couldn’t help but think that all of these people saw it radiating off him—the heartbreak, the unwantedness—as he followed behind Stede, their bodies inches apart but not touching.
Stede hovered for a moment at his table, awkward, then said brightly, “Right! I’ll just…send someone else over to take your order. Good to see you!” Stede made a face like he immediately regretted saying that—good to see you?????—then turned tail and scurried away.
His departure sent Ed spiraling through the 5 stages of grief.
Well, he made it through the first 2.5, but then movement caught his eye.
Over behind the bar, Stede and Olu were arguing. Ed watched for a moment, wishing he knew how to read lips—a wish that was immediately rendered unnecessary by the way Oluwande gesticulated aggressively in Ed’s direction.
Ah. Yeah, that…that tracked.
Finally, Stede threw his hands up in the air, exasperated, and returned to Ed’s table.
“Sorry about that,” Stede told him with false brightness. “Looks like I’ll be your server this evening, after all. No worries, though! I’m perfectly capable of jotting down your order, and then I’ll leave you be!” Stede was doing that over-enunciating thing that meant he was nervous, like an amateur actor who’d just landed their first gig in community theatre.
Ed raised one brow. “Crew don’t want to come anywhere near me, do they?”
Stede grimaced, and Ed knew he’d gotten it in one.
“Right.” Ed stared at the tabletop. He had no business feeling all this…guilt. Shame. Regret. Longing. Whole bunch of words Blackbeard wasn’t even supposed to know.
“I could leave?” He heard himself offering, because somehow—even after everything—Stede still had him tied in knots, eager to do wild, inconceivable things, if only it meant Stede would smile at him again.
“No!” Stede practically shouted, and at least there was that. Ed risked a peek, and Stede was watching him still—face full of naked hunger and yearning, which didn’t make any fucking sense, but Ed’s head hurt too much for mind games.
“Gonna take my order then?” he asked gruffly.
“Right! Yes! What can I get you?”
“Whatever rum you’ve got,” Ed told him. Stede scribbled furiously in his little notepad—like he really needed to make sure he didn’t forget. “And that, uh, tapas plate thing. I guess.”
Stede brightened. “Oh, it’s a lovely assortment Roach’s cooked up for us. The prawn fritters are delectable, as I mentioned, but the spiced octopus is equally delicious, and I think you’ll really enjoy the croquetas.” He rolled the r with absurd panache, looking so smug with himself for knowing the Spanish word that Ed wanted to tackle him to the floor and kiss his entire face off.
Ed took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the water and/or blood stain on the tabletop. “Yeah. Sure.”
But Stede didn’t leave. Just stood there, looking at him.
Ed fidgeted under his gaze. Eyes darted away, then drifted back again of their own accord. Away, and then back.
“Oh, right. Yes,” Stede flustered. “I’ll just. Get that going for you, then. Back in a jiff!”
He turned to go, and Ed didn’t know what possessed him. “Stede.”
Stede paused. Turned to Ed, a question on his face.
Ed swallowed. “Tell…tell Olu, and the rest of them. Jim’s safe. They’re back on the ship. Frenchie, too.”
A tender smile bloomed across Stede’s face. It was a familiar one. The kind of smile he’d granted Ed in the glow of the moonlight, a bit of red silk tucked carefully in his breast pocket. Leaning over the edge of the bath tub, I would love that.
The smile that meant Ed had done something good, and Stede wasn’t surprised at all.
Maybe that was why it hurt so bad, the words that came out of Stede’s mouth next.
“And Lucius?” he asked, like it was the next logical question, because of course it was. “He’s well, too?”
All the noise cut out around them, like Ed’s ears had been filled with cotton. His mouth felt warm and sticky.
This was it, the moment that Stede realized he was a monster. It hadn’t happened back when Ed had told him his plans to kill him and burn off his face. It hadn’t happened when he’d told him about his dad. But here, now. This was the moment.
Then again…the others had lived, hadn’t they? Ed had been carrying that weight around all this time, thinking they’d died on that little island—bleached bones and skeleton rictus grins. But ten minutes in Stede’s presence, and it turned out the sun was still shining, after all. Everyone was fine.
Maybe Lucius…well, maybe.
Ed couldn’t even let himself think the thought all the way through, but he said to Stede, “I don’t know. Lucius…I don’t know where he is.” He smudged at that stain on the tabletop, like he really meant to buff it out. It didn’t budge.
Ed peeked sideways at Stede, but his expression hadn’t changed. He was still gazing at Ed with that terrible gentleness, the way you might look at a small child that had woken from a nightmare.
“Okay,” Stede said—easy and untroubled, like he wasn’t talking to a monster. “Okay. I’m guessing there’s a bit of story there?”
Ed shrugged, eyes on the table.
“Well, when you’re ready, I’d love to hear it. And…we’ll keep looking for him, of course. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
And when Stede said it like that, Ed weirdly felt sure too.
How did he do it? Bend reality around him like that—like he didn’t even realize he was doing it?
Stede stared at Ed a moment longer, like he wasn’t ready to look away, before blinking hard—coming back to himself. “I’ll just fetch your order then, shall I?”
He was gone before Ed could even begin to process…all of that.
The hubbub of the bar felt very loud, all of a sudden, now that Stede was gone. The shouts and jeers of the other patrons. The clank of glasses and plates. The HusBand was playing a reeling, bouncy sort of polka—accompanied by Buttons on the pan flute, although he appeared to be playing another song entirely.
Now what? Ed crossed his legs, then uncrossed then. Crossed them again. He tried to think of the last time he’d sat in a pub or a restaurant by himself. For years, Blackbeard couldn’t go anywhere without a whole entourage of groupies and hangers-on. And when that started to wear, Ed had stopped going out altogether. They’d make port, and he wouldn’t even leave the ship—just stay in his cabin and drink alone, maybe with company if Jack was sniffing around, or Izzy was in one of his (increasingly rare) fits of not being a total prick.
He jiggled his leg. Drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Should’ve brought a fucking book.
One drink. He could handle one drink.
Someone sat down across from him. Ed tensed automatically, then sighed when he saw who it was.
“Wickham.” He jerked his chin in acknowledgement. He was not in the mood.
Will Wickham flashed him an easy grin. “Blackbeard, mate—haven’t seen you in ages!” He gave Ed a long once-over. “You’re looking good.”
Am I? Ed wanted to scream. Am I really?? Because the corners of my eyes are sore from all the crying and I don’t think I’ve eaten anything but rum in days and I’ve caught myself standing at the railing at night a few times, staring into the black water and wondering what it would feel like to jump. So it’s honestly pretty depressing if I’m still hot in spite of all that!!
But Ed just shrugged. “Sure, thanks man.”
“So what’s a guy like you doing in a shithole like this?” Wickham leaned back in his chair, and the tip of his boot nudged Ed’s. Could’ve been an accident, but he didn’t move his foot away, or apologize.
This was the issue. Wickham was a nice enough guy, but he had a massive crush on Ed. The kid wasn’t bad looking—flame-red hair, and freckles to write home about—but he was at least fifteen years younger than Ed, and too eager by half. He had the look of someone who wanted Ed to step on his neck and say mean things to him. Ed had already been bored of that shit even before Stede, and he wasn’t any more interested now.
Under the table, Ed moved his foot away and tucked it back under his own chair. “Y’know, the uzsh. Grabbing a drink, looking for a little alone time off the ship.” He cast an idle glance around the bar—where the hell was his drink?
Wickham didn’t take the hint. He reached over and laid a gentle hand on Ed’s wrist, stilling his fingers where they were drumming on the table. “Well, wouldn’t want you to get too lonely.”
Ed groaned internally. He didn’t want to have to be a dick, but clearly the direct route was going to be necessary here.
Before he could respond, though, Stede appeared at his elbow.
“Here we are!” he announced as he set Ed’s drink before him, along with what looked like a bowl of mixed nuts. “Apologies for the wait.”
Ed stared at the little bowl. “I didn’t order this.”
“On the house!” Stede answered brightly.
Ed raised a brow. “Wow, free nuts and tapas?”
Stede looked flushed, shifty. “Yes, well. Your lucky night, I suppose.”
“Yeah. Lucky.” Ed eyed him again. Stede’s back was cheated to Wickham, and he was staring at Ed very intensely—you’d think he hadn’t even noticed the other guy at the table.
Huh. Interesting.
“So Blackbeard,” Wickham interrupted that train of thought, “been hearing some crazy rumors about you lately.” He gave Ed a knowing smirk.
Ed tensed. Stede was still fucking standing there, and Ed absolutely did not want to get into the Act of Grace and what on earth could possibly have inspired him to that temporary bout of insanity.
But that’s not what Wickham was on about, apparently. “Taking on Ned Low’s record?” He whistled. “About time someone put that shiny asshole in his place.”
Ed shrugged. “I guess. Just bored, really.”
Wickham laughed. “No need to play modest—I’m already impressed.” He flashed Ed another one of those flirty smiles.
Ed watched Stede out of the corner of his eye—trying to gauge his reaction. He was still standing beside the table, hands clasped behind his back. His face was a polite, customer service-y sort of mask…but there was a tension around his eyes, like he was thinking about setting Wickham on fire.
Again: interesting.
It was a terrible idea, but the masochist in Ed very much wanted to see how this played out.
He leaned back in his chair and gave Wickham a languid sort of shrug. “Yeah, well. Don’t get ahead of yourself, mate—haven’t quite broken it, yet. Who knows if I’ll get lucky.”
Wickham touched Ed’s arm again. “Oh, you will.”
Beside them, Stede visibly tensed. Almost like he’d stopped himself just in time, before he could reach out and grab Wickham by the collar—give him a nice, violent shake.
The motion called Wickham’s attention to him, though. He glanced at Stede with a frown, finally noticing that the waiter was still hovering over their table.
“Sorry,” Wickham offered him a pleasant, fuck-off sort of smile, “you need something?”
Stede looked flustered for a second before pasting a smile back on his face. “Just wanted to make sure the, erm…mixed nuts…were to Blackbeard’s liking!”
Ed couldn’t help but flinch, hearing Stede refer to him as Blackbeard. It felt wrong, which sucked, because wasn’t this the way it should be? The natural order of things restored? He shook it off.
Wickham seemed no less confused by Stede’s presence. “Right. Well here, you wanna try?” He held the nuts out to Ed, giving him a bug-eyed look like, eat these so this weird guy will fuck off.
Without looking at Stede, Ed leaned forward and took a handful of nuts from the bowl—tossed them back into his mouth.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he grinned at Stede like he hadn’t a care in the world, but his eyes were fixed firmly somewhere just past Stede’s left shoulder. “Cheers, mate.”
“Great!” Stede said. He patted his hands on his thighs awkwardly as he looked around, clearly searching for an excuse to linger. “Well then. I guess I’ll just…go…”
“Oh, actually,” Wickham stopped him, “fetch me a pint, would you?”
Stede blinked at Wickham once, twice. A muscle flexed in his jaw.
“Of course,” he said finally, with a close-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace, and he left.
Wickham went back to eyeing Ed appreciatively. Ed cast around for something to say. “So, uh…you still sailing for Vane then?”
Wickham lit up, practically wagging his tail in his seat. “Finally got a ship of my own, actually! The Treasure—she’s a beauty. Twenty footer with a halyard to die for and two thirty pound cannon-”
Ed couldn’t help but drift. He hmmed and ahhed at all the appropriate moments, but he was barely listening. He’d met plenty of this type of guy in his years sailing—the sort that couldn’t shut the fuck up about their state of the art ship and how many sails it had and all its new fancy features. So boring. And it wasn’t like their ships ever had anything actually cool—like secret passageways, or munitions stores full of marmalade.
Ed felt eyes on him, and when he glanced around there Stede was—barely two feet away, pretending to wipe a table with a rag very slowly while he listened in on Ed’s conversation. He wasn’t even trying to hide it; when he noticed Ed staring, he just smiled.
Wickham was still going. “And she can do aught to sixteen knots in under thirty minutes-”
That was literally physically impossible, unless Wickham had figured out some other way of powering his ship besides the wind, but Ed couldn’t be fucked to correct him.
He pasted a vapid, fascinated sort of smile on his face. “Wow, man. That sounds impressive.”
Wickham beamed. “Thanks! That means a lot coming from Blackbeard himself.” Ed fought back a grimace. Did this guy think that type of fawning was a turn on for him, or something?
Ed didn’t even know what to say to that, really, but he needn’t have worried—Wickham just kept going.
“So, guessing you heard about that little trick I pulled off with the Dutch spice merchant last month?” he asked, looking supremely self-satisfied.
Over by the bar, Stede was shining a glass—unnecessary, considering the barware at Jackie’z likely hadn’t been cleaned since at least the 90s. Ed dragged his eyes away. “What? Oh, uh, no—sorry mate.”
Wickham deflated.
Stede was still working his rag over the same glass, buffing it in circles over and over. He glanced at Ed, caught him looking again.
Ed jerked back around and forced himself to focus on Wickham. “Been a bit busy lately, is all.” He flicked his hair over his shoulder and laid a hand on Wickham’s arm. “Tell me about it?”
Wickham perked up immediately. Off to his right, Ed heard the distinctive sound of glass shattering. When he peeked over, Stede was stooped down, frantically trying to sweep up the shards.
Wickham didn’t need to be told twice before launching into his story. “Right! So! I’d heard a rumor about a Dutch merchant ship sailing off the usual trade routes, and I thought that seemed weird—right?”
Ed propped his chin in his hand and turned the full force of his eyes on Wickham. “Mhm, yeah totally.”
Wickham blinked, dazzled.
“Anyway, um,” He tried to regain the thread of his story, “so I thought we’d better go investigate, see what was what-”
“Here we are!” Stede appeared at their table again, and Ed tried not to visibly jump. Stede set two more small bowls on the table. One appeared to hold an assortment of various crackers and wafers, while the other had the tiny olives Ed had been looking forward to.
Wickham surveyed the new arrivals to the table. “How about that pint, then?” He asked Stede with a wooden smile.
Stede gave him an equally fake apologetic grimace. “It’ll just be another moment!”
Wickham rolled his eyes, but didn’t press. “So anyway, we roll up on this Dutch ship-”
But Stede interrupted again, talking only to Ed, as though Wickham weren’t there. “The olives are warm, by the way. I recommend piling them together with the crackers to make a sort of tiny sandwich!"
Ed stared at him. “Uh, yeah. I’ll…give that a try. Thanks.”
Stede gave him an officious, waiterly sort of smile and departed.
Ed watched him go for a moment, then shook it off and turned back to Wickham, who had a pinched look on his face. “Sorry,” Ed nodded at him to continue, “you were saying?”
“Right, um,” Wickham floundered, trying to remember where he was. “Dutch ship. We’re going to check it out. And, uh, we boarded? And obviously they were super scared of us, lots of screaming,” he was picking up steam now, “And I spotted the captain right away-”
Ed tried to pay attention, but he caught himself zoning out again. The thing was, he’d been a pirate for over three decades now. Listening to someone describe a raid they’d done was sort of like listening to someone recount their dream from the night before, or a drug trip. It just wasn’t that interesting.
But Wickham had really worked himself into it again. “So I’ve got my knife to the man’s throat, right? And he’s all, oh god no, please, spare me! But I’m in no mood for begging, obviously-”
Three new plates clattered to the tabletop, interrupting Wickham once again.
“Prawn fritters!” Stede gestured to one of the dishes like he was presenting Ed with a trophy. “And in the red one we have the croquetas, while this little green fellow here has your ham-wrapped dates! Sounds weird, I know, but I think you’ll like it.”
Ed peered at him through narrow eyes, but Stede swished off before he could say anything. “Back with more soon!”
“Anyway,” Wickham gritted out, “as I was saying. So the captain is beside himself, practically pissing himself at the sight of me—embarrassing, to be honest, but then-”
“And here’s that spiced octopus we talked about!” Stede sing-songed
Wickham’s face had gone a violent, pulsating sort of red. Ed could almost laugh, if he weren’t so angry himself.
“Hey man, where’s my fucking pint?” Wickham called as Stede began to walk away.
Stede didn’t pause. “The team is hard at work on it, I swear!” he tossed over his shoulder.
Wickham gaped after him. “Man, the service is dogshit here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Ed muttered. He stared down at the assortment of tapas before him. You could hardly see the tabletop beneath for all the plates crowding the surface. Covertly, he glanced at the surrounding tables. Weirdly, no one else seemed to have nearly as many dishes, even though Ed had definitely heard more than one other person order the “tapas special.”
Hm.
“So anyway,” Wickham began again, “I wasn’t about to back down, not after the captain had disrespected me like that-”
But before he could finish his sentence, the music abruptly cut out.
Suddenly, Black Pete was calling out across the bar, his hands cupped around his mouth. “Does anyone own a ship called The Treasure? Is the captain of The Treasure here?” He paused, looking around for takers. “You’re moored in the wrong spot, the dock master’s going to have you towed.”
Ed craned his neck to look over at the bar, where Stede was once again obsessively polishing glasses and making a very theatrical show of not looking Ed’s way.
Unbelievable.
“You need to take care of that?” Ed asked Wickham.
For a moment, the guy looked a bit panicked. But Wickham smoothed out his expression and leaned back in his seat, nonchalant. “Nah, first mate can handle it.” He beckoned to a tall, string-beany sort of man sitting a few tables away. Dave? Dan? Don? Ed was sure he’d met the guy at some point, but fuck if he knew.
“Yeah boss?” D-something asked as he approached.
“Head down to the docks and figure out what the fuck’s going on with our mooring,” Wickham said. He cast Ed another one of those flirty smiles. “I’m busy here.”
Ed gave him a weak smile in return. Christ. He was honestly starting to feel a little bad, leading the guy on.
Wickham settled back in his chair. “Anyway, I was saying-”
But, once again, he was interrupted before he could go anywhere with the story.
Roach ambled over with a very full tray. “Here’s that pint you ordered,” he said as he plopped Wickham’s drink in front of him.
“Thank-” But before Wickham could even get the word out, Roach stumbled theatrically over nothing and tipped the entire tray of drinks (and at least one bowl of what was either blood or borscht) straight into the guy’s lap.
Wickham leapt out of his chair with a pained yelp—the soup/blood was hot, apparently.
“Oh no!” Roach clasped his hands to his face like some kind of fucking mime. “What a horrible accident! I am so embarrassed!”
Wickham was now doused in various liquids from head to toe, and his face was flushed bright red—either from rage, or mild soup burns. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” he snapped at Roach as he swiped at his face and front in an ineffectual attempt to clean himself up. “What is this stuff?”
Roach grimaced. “Not sure you actually want me to answer that, buddy.”
Wickham blanched and then fled, with nothing more than a distracted glance in Ed’s direction.
Ed wasn’t exactly sad to see him go, but he glared at Roach anyway.
Roach shrugged, unbothered. “Sorry, not sorry Blackbeard, sir.”
“What’d he give you to pull that little stunt?” Ed demanded.
“A tenner,” Roach answered blithely. “But I would have done it for free. I love gay mess.” And with that, he turned on his heel and strolled back towards the kitchen. Ed scowled after him.
Stede popped up out of nowhere again. “Tapas incoming!” he announced as he set yet another small platter before Ed, artfully arranged with a selection of nibbles.
Ed gaped at him, but Stede just carried on smiling like nothing was amiss. “Another drink perhaps?”
Ed could feel his blood boiling under his skin. The back of his neck was hot and clammy.
“What the fuck was that?” Ed demanded.
Stede somehow managed to look both haughty and innocent. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Ed narrowed his eyes. “No—fuck that. You don’t get to pull that shit with me, mate. You know what you did.”
“Oh?” Stede’s nose was literally in the air. “And what’s that, exactly?”
Ed gaped at him. “You ran my mate Wickham off because you couldn’t handle watching some other guy chat me up!”
Stede pounced on that. “So he was flirting with you, then?” And he just looked so smug—like he was proud of himself for correctly identifying flirting for once in his life. It made Ed want to shake him and bite him and kiss him, not necessarily in that order.
“Yeah, Stede,” Ed’s voice was getting louder, “he was flirting with me. Turns out, there are people out there who actually want me, go figure. Hey, what d’you think his opinions are on China? Maybe I should track him down and ask him.”
Stede blanched. “Hey, that’s not f-”
Ed let out of a groan-scream of frustration. “What are we even doing, Stede? Look, I get it. You’re not interested. So can you just fucking let me live?”
“Edward,” Stede beseeched, stepping closer, “that’s not how I feel at all-”
“Yeah?” Ed snapped. “Funny, abandoning me on a dock in Barbados without even a note felt like a pretty clear message. Not sure how I might’ve misinterpreted that one, but hey—guess maybe I'm not as clever as I thought.”
Stede had the nerve to roll his eyes. “Oh, please. Now you’re just being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” Ed cried. “Dramatic!? I-”
“Uh, Cap?” Oluwande materialized out of the blue beside them.
“What?” Stede and Ed rounded on him.
Olu held up his hands. “Sorry, only—kinda thought you two might want to take this outside? Or somewhere more private, at least?” He cast a pointed glance around them, and it was then that Ed realized the entire bar had gone eerily quiet.
Ed’s heart was pounding in his ears. He tasted metal on his tongue, and his skin crawled with the feeling of eyes on him. He whipped his head this way and that, taking in the crowd—all the people watching. Off in the corner, someone chuckled under their breath, but Ed couldn’t see who.
All that work Ed had put into rebuilding his brand, all those raids…now everyone knew the truth: he was having a nervous breakdown because the Gentleman Pirate didn’t want him.
Ed turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the tavern door behind him as he stalked into the alleyway beyond.
“Ed! Wait!” Of course Stede followed him.
“Just leave me alone! Why are you even here?” Ed fired back without slowing down.
But Stede caught up to him. “I’ve been looking for you.” He laid a soft hand on Ed’s elbow, attempting to slow him.
Ed ripped his arm from Stede’s grasp and whirled on him. “Don’t fucking lie to me, man. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”
“I’ve been searching for you for months,” Stede insisted. “I’ve regretted not coming to meet you that night ever since…well, since pretty much the very next day. I had to find you again so that we could-”
Ed was not about to wait around and see where that sentence was going. “You’re waiting tables at Jackie’z. Can’t have been looking for me too hard, unless you thought I’d gotten lost in her storeroom.”
“Only until I saved up enough for a new ship! I left it all behind, all my fortune, but I’ve saved every spare cent from my wages here. I was coming for you, Edward. I swear I was.”
It all sounded very romantic, but that only pissed Ed off more. He knew what Jackie paid her wait staff. By the time Stede saved up enough for a ship, they’d both be senile. And all that time, Ed would just have been…waiting. Heartbroken. If he hadn’t shown up at Jackie’z tonight, he’d never have known there was anyone out there who gave a shit if he lived or died.
“I know we’re not doing our little piracy lessons anymore,” he said meanly, “but here’s a pro-tip for you, Stede: real pirates? They don’t exactly pay for the ships they sail.”
Stede looked hurt, and it made Ed feel horribly small. He hated himself for being such a dick, but also fuck Stede. Fuck all of this.
Stede sighed and looked away, almost sullen. “All right, fine! I’ve been stalling. I wanted to show up looking good, okay? Strong. Like someone actually worthy of you.” He laughed bitterly. “I suppose we’d have been waiting a while on that one.”
Ed blinked at him, dumbfounded. “What are you on about?”
Stede gave him a beseeching look. “I wanted to find you! I’ve been missing you like mad. But then I got to the Republic and I heard all about your recent exploits, and…well, I couldn’t help but wonder if your life was just better without me, after all.”
Ed opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. All he could do was stare, lost for words.
And then, entirely without meaning to, he burst out laughing.
Stede shot him another hurt look, but Ed couldn’t stop. He was laughing so hard he thought he might puke. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, and he couldn’t seem to catch a full breath.
“No need to be cruel,” Stede snapped peevishly.
Ed’s laughter cut off at once. “Better without you?” he cried. “Stede, look at me. Do I seem fucking better?”
Still sulky and slightly guarded, Stede peered up at Ed through his lashes.
Ed swiped at his eyes, clearing away stray tears. Stede was studying him very closely, and Ed began to feel a bit fidgety. What was he seeing, exactly? Ed’s imagination supplied plenty of shit answers.
Finally, something must’ve clicked. “Oh, Edward.” Stede’s face melted, all concern and sympathy. He reached out one hand, tentative and tender.
Ed flinched out of reach. “Don’t.”
Eyes full of longing, Stede lowered his hand.
They fell quiet. Ed stared at his boots. Distantly, he could hear the brays and trills of livestock in their market pens, a few streets away. At the other end of the alley, someone was either getting fucked or stabbed, if all the moaning and groaning was anything to go by. The air was muggy and close in the heart of the Republic, but even so Ed could still taste the faint, familiar prickle of salt on the wind—a reminder that the sea was near, that she’d be waiting for him when this was all said and done. When Stede had vanished again.
“I was all in,” Ed said to the ground. “And you didn’t want me.”
“I did-”
But Ed wasn’t ready to hear that. “You broke my heart. And I’m still broken.” He sniffed. “Or maybe I always was. Dunno.”
“No,” Stede responded at once, firm. It was the most assured, the most certain he’d sounded all night.
He was still staring at Ed, gaze all intense and determined—like he was gearing up to do something insane, something classically Stede.
“Ed,” he said softly. “I need you to know how sorry I am. How much you mean to me. I-”
But again, Ed couldn’t bear to let him finish. “Stop. I…I won’t believe you.” Stede frowned at him, confused and forlorn.
“Whatever you say,” Ed explained, “I’ll only wonder if you really mean it, or if I just caught you off guard. If you ever would’ve come and found me, if I hadn’t turned up here and surprised you.”
Stede looked anguished. “But I do mean it!”
It hurt to hear, it hurt.
Ed shrugged. “Sorry, mate. Can’t help you.”
“Well then what can I do?” Stede begged. “How can I show you?”
And Ed…Ed was tempted. He wanted, badly, to close the door for good. To tell Stede it was over, done. That there’d be no fixing it.
He couldn’t force the words out of his mouth. He wasn’t done with Stede Bonnet. He didn’t think he ever would be, god help him.
He answered honestly. “Come after me.” Stede’s eyebrows shot up to his hair line. “Steal a ship. You want me so bad? It’s your turn to chase me for a bit.”
Stede watched him for a long moment, eagle-eyed and keen. Finally, he lifted his chin and said, “Okay. I will.” And he sounded like he had never had a single doubt a day in his life.
If only that were true.
Ed tried to reel it in a little. He looked away, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Whatever, mate. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Stede stepped closer. “I will come for you, Ed. Count on it.”
Ed risked a glance at him, and it took his breath away. Stede’s gaze was focused, burning—full of intent. His fists clenched at his sides, like he was holding himself back from reaching out.
“Well,” Stede said eventually. “I’m sure you have many new misadventures with the law to get back to, and I have a ship to steal. I won’t keep you.”
I wish you would, Ed thought but absolutely did not say out loud.
“Right,” he muttered gruffly. “Guess I’ll just…be off then.”
Neither of them moved.
Maybe this will be it, Ed thought, with no small amount of desperation. Maybe Stede’s lying, and he won’t come—again—and this is the last time I’ll ever see his stupid, beautiful face.
Or, it was fucking piracy. Anything could happen to either of them at any moment. Maybe they’d never make it back to each other, no matter how bad they both wanted it. Maybe they were fools for not taking what they could get, here and now, while they were both alive and breathing and standing (almost) close enough to touch.
Stede had been ready to offer him something, just a moment ago. Ed hadn’t even let him get the words out. He’d told him no, told him wait…
What the fuck was wrong with him, that he couldn’t just be happy with what he had? Why was he always holding his hand out, going to bed hungry as he reached for more?
But then, Ed needed this. Needed Stede to fight for him, a bit. To show that he was ready to put some blood on the line, just as Ed had with the Act of Grace.
Because even now, after all this time and everything that had come between them, Ed still felt as devoted to Stede as ever. Given half a chance, he’d follow him anywhere. Hell, if Stede asked him right now to hop on a ship and head for China together, Ed would have to physically restrain himself from saying yes, anything, anywhere, say the word and I’ll do it—for you.
He’d thought, once, sitting on that beach, that maybe Stede felt it too. That devotion, that need to never be apart.
He’d been wrong.
Now, Stede was back, and he was saying all kinds of pretty things that Ed wanted desperately to believe. But if they were ever going to be anything, Ed couldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if Stede really meant it. If he truly wanted Ed just as bad as Ed wanted him. The thought of building a life together with those questions still hovering over them…it made Ed feel sick to think about it. Always wondering if he was a nice bonus, but ultimately optional in Stede’s life—meanwhile, Ed couldn’t live without him.
So, yeah. Maybe it was stupid. But he needed the proof.
“Okay then,” Ed said, “Guess I’ll…see you when I see you.” The words tasted like tar in his mouth.
Ed turned to walk away. He wasn’t sure if he was actually doing it in slow motion, or it just felt that way. It felt like sawing off a limb, like stabbing himself in the heart.
He didn’t make it very far, in any case.
“Wait!” Stede shouted.
Ed turned back. “Yeah?”
“I just remembered…” Stede rifled in his (tight) trouser pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers. He held them out to Ed.
Ed eyed the papers warily, like they were a wild animal with teeth bared.
“It’s a letter,” Stede explained. “I wrote it this morning, but I ran out of time before I could put it in the post—so to speak.”
Ed just looked at him, utterly bewildered. Too confused by…everything…to even ask what the hell that meant. What fucking post??
Stede offered Ed a gentle smile. “I’ve been writing to you. Every day.”
Ed’s eyes flicked to Stede’s, then back to the letter. Finally, hand trembling, he reached out and took it.
Ed stared down at the folded packet, making no move to open it. “You…wrote me a letter?”
Stede gave him one of those open, yearning sort of looks—serious as anything, clear as glass. “I’ve written you ninety-seven letters. One for every day since I came back to sea.”
It took Ed’s breath away.
Stede ducked his head, shy. “I can’t say they’re all worth reading. Some of them are quite maudlin, and a few…” here, he turned an absolutely incredible shade of vermillion.
Suddenly, there was nothing in the world Ed wanted more than to read those letters.
“But for the most part,” Stede carried on—oblivious to the crisis he’d just inspired, “I suppose it’s just been a way to feel…close to you. To share little bits from my day, funny things the crew had said or done that I knew you’d enjoy. If I saw something interesting at the market, or a customer wore a particularly offensive outfit…” he offered Ed a wan smile. “You have no idea how many times a day I’ll turn to tell you something, only to remember you aren’t there. Had to put all those thoughts somewhere, didn’t I? And maybe…maybe if, by some chance, you happened to actually find one of my letters, you’d know I was thinking of you. How dearly I missed you. That I wanted you near.”
The simplicity of the statement…somehow, it was the most romantic thing Ed had ever heard.
He stared down at his hands, still clutching the letter. He could just make out the loops and whorls of ink through the back side of the paper—Stede’s posh, spidery handwriting.
And Ed couldn’t bear the thought of walking away from Stede, going back to his life without him—no end in sight. But part of him wished he were back on the ship already, cozied up small and safe in the auxiliary wardrobe, so that he could tear this thing open and find out what Stede had written inside.
Ed had told him not to say anything, earlier. Not to apologize. Said he wouldn’t be able to trust it. Too tempting to think that he felt obligated to say those things, just because Ed had taken him by surprise tonight.
But Stede had written this letter before he’d even known Ed would be coming into port. And if he was telling the truth, it wasn’t the first of its kind. Whatever was in there, it was some kind of proof. Evidence of the way Stede really thought about him, when he was on his own.
Ed was desperate to read it. He was terrified to read it.
One way or another, Ed already knew—whatever that letter said, it was going to wreck him.
“Okay then,” Stede said after a long pause—when it became clear Ed wasn’t going to respond. “I’ll just…let you go then.” He sounded just as devastated about it as Ed felt, at least.
Ed looked up, finally—determined to drink in every last moment he had left with Stede’s face. To savor every remaining second where he was in Ed’s sight.
Stede began to turn, and Ed’s heart kicked into a gallop, like it was racing to chase after him.
“Stede,” he said suddenly, not sure where he was going with it.
Stede paused.
Ed looked back down at the letter in his hands. Took a long, slow breath.
He met Stede’s gaze once more, and tried to let every ounce of longing and love and sorrow and need shine out of his eyes—even if he couldn’t say it, he wanted Stede to know.
“Come find me,” Ed told him again. Urgent and imploring.
And Stede flashed him a pirate smile. “Oh, darling. Try and stop me.”
*
Dear Ed,
I had the most ridiculous dream last night. We were both mice, and we lived in a small but cozy burrow. We used a thimble as our kitchen table. An oyster shell served as our bed, with a scrap of one of my finest handkerchiefs as our blanket (the one with the embroidered violets that you so enjoyed!) In the dream, you’d found a lady’s sewing kit on one of your excursions out of the nest, and we were quite excited about how we might decorate our home with all the fine ribbon and other fripperies we’d discovered inside. Lots of squeaking!
I know this must all sound rather fanciful and twee, but I thought you might like to know that even in my dreams—no matter how absurd they might be—I think only of you, and the life we might share together.
Anyhoo, enough about that. Today I had the privilege of watching a tattoo artisan do their work up close! A young fellow by the name of Three Tooth Tim came by Jackie’z during my shift, and of course I had never heard of him but apparently he’s something of a local celebrity—are you familiar with his work? He claims to have done the rather distinctive piece on your back, but I do know people are prone to tell tall tales about you, Ed, eager to claim a share of your starglow, so I’m not one to believe anything unless it comes straight from the horse’s mouth. (Not that I’m comparing you to a horse, of course.) (Although, I do think you’d make a stunning horse, Edward! A dapple gray thoroughbred, perhaps; all speed and strength, but with such a sensitive temperament…but I digress.)
In any case, this Tim came by and set up a station to work. I had a spare moment in between my usual duties as host—seating guests, mopping up blood/viscera, chasing rats from the pantry, etc—to observe him work. Oh, Ed—the artistry! The dexterity! I remembered you telling me you had done most of your tattoos yourself, and I felt a renewed sense of wonder and admiration for your boundless skill and talent. (I could sing your praises for days, but I suspect you’re doing that thing where you get all huffy and bashful when you receive too many compliments all in one go, so I won’t torment you further.)
In case you were wondering, the tattoo I observed Tim administer was a photorealistic rendering of a sea turtle standing upright on its back flippers, holding a bottle of rum in one hand and a knife in the other. A bit crass, certainly not what I would choose for my own body, but the line work was exquisite!
Nevertheless, it set me to thinking about what sort of tattoo I might get, for my first. Surely I’ll need one eventually—one can hardly call oneself a pirate without a tattoo, right? This led to a spirited debate amongst the crew as to what tattoo might suit me best. Suggestions ranged from the sentimental (Wee John offered to ink your face over my heart, a suggestion I’m not entirely opposed to, but I felt iffy about his skill in rendering a beauty such as yours, so I demurred) to the ridiculous (Roach suggested a frog wearing a tiny pirate hat, which does sound cute but also…why??).
Ultimately, I decided to wait. I have no doubt I’ll sport my fair share of ink, one day. But, well…call me a silly old romantic, Edward, but I can’t help but hope that when the day comes for my first tattoo, you’ll be the one to do the honors. There’s no one I’d trust more to stab me repeatedly with a sharp object, after all. And there’s something that speaks to my heart in the idea of a tattoo not just as a symbol of how I feel about you, but drawn in grains of ink literally placed under my skin by your own hand. As close to a brand as I might get. I’ll wear it, and proudly, knowing I am yours.
Well! This letter has certainly taken a turn. It’s been a tedious morning at work, is all, and in boring moments such as these, I’m reminded all the more of how terribly I miss you.
What else? Pete stubbed his toe yesterday evening, and while he was hopping around and swearing he managed to trip over a crooked slab in the flagstones, fall over, and knock himself out. It took 20 minutes to revive him, and he has quite the goose egg in the center of his forehead—sort of like a unicorn horn!—but there doesn’t appear to be any lasting damage. At least, he seemed much the same to me…Pete insists he speaks German, now, but let’s just say I remain skeptical. Roach tried out a new flavor of stew as last night’s special, and it was so spicy the Swede fell out of his chair. Wee John’s flatulence problem continues unabated, but our new friend Sue (I believe I’ve mentioned her in previous letters, if you got them?) has recommended an herbal tonic that she seems to think might help, so please keep us in your thoughts (especially me, as I sleep in the bunk next to his.)
Needless to say, you are in my thoughts always. I can only hope I will see you in the flesh again soon, and that when I do…I will be brave enough to tell you how I truly feel.
All my heart,
Stede Bartholomew Bonnet XV
PS: It’s been a bit dry of late, and I know your cuticles tend to crack in the heat. There’s a lovely rosemary scented oil amongst my toilette that I personally love for my nails, so please feel free to make use of it!
PPS: Yes, I know. The crew told me what you’ve done with the cabin, and my things. But I only mention the cuticle oil in case you’ve set any amenities aside for yourself. I only want to see you taken care of, Edward.