Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After eight months of searching for the Revenge they’ve finally found her - by complete luck - docked in Nassau. The port is full of ships waiting out the incoming storm, with a handful of unfortunate men loading and unloading supplies and materials in the heavy rain, or doing last minute repairs before the worst of it hits.

The Revenge sits proudly among them, silver and ominous under the darkness of the storm clouds.

Stede and his crew are holed up in the gun room of the Royal James, peeking out through the canon portholes to watch as Izzy and Ivan disembark the Revenge. They can only see a slither of the other ship, their view obscured by a merchant vessel that had, perhaps unwittingly, found it’s way to the Republic of Pirates.

“Where have they been?” Stede muses as Fang steps off the gangplank and hurries after Izzy and Ivan, arm braced against the rain and wind. Izzy almost looks at the Royal James then, but if he recognises Stede’s new ship he shows no sign of it.

“Holiday?” Roach suggests from where he’s crouched next to Stede. “Europe, maybe? Bit of a tour de France? Good food in Paris.”

“That’s a big change, for him,” says Stede, furrowing his brow. He’s leaning against a canon, holding it for support as waves batter the ship. Every time the Royal James is pushed forward he gets a better look at the Revenge. Light flickers from the captains cabin windows, tugging painfully at his heart.

“Midlife crises will do that to a man,” says Lucius, quoting something Stede said months ago - that maybe Ed was going through a bit of a midlife crisis when he decided to try and kill most of Stede’s crew. Black Pete laughs drily at the comment.

Perhaps it had been a poor choice of words, but Stede had apologised and it had been ages ago. He tries not to let their sour moods get to him.

“Europe sounds pretty good right now, if I’m honest,” says Olu. “Hurricane season and all. What’s the plan, anyway?”

“I don’t have one,” Stede admits, biting his lip. He wants to rush over to the Revenge, to throw himself at Ed, to cry and apologise and beg his forgiveness. He wants to believe words can fix everything.

“He’ll kill you,” says Jim softly from behind him, as though they can read his mind.

“Probably,” says Stede, almost as quietly. He’s heard the stories - who hasn’t? - not just from Jim, from when they escaped and rejoined Stede’s crew, but from other sailors and pirates they’d encountered after misappropriating the Royal James. His stomach is twisting painfully, and he wonders if a sword to the gut would be better than what he’s feeling now. “But I have to do something - I have to try.”

He looks back at the crew; they’re all looking at him with pity - or in the case of Lucius and Black Pete, with disappointment and disgust. He knows they think it’s hopeless - he’s known for a long time, really. They’ve been humouring his ghost hunt, along for the ride and the raids, enjoying their Blackbeard-free ocean. There were times when even Stede had lost hope, believing Ed and Frenchie and the Revenge were sunk at the bottom of the ocean somewhere. But he had always dragged his heart back, never fully committing to giving up.

He would have gone on looking for Ed for the rest of his life, probably. And now here Ed is, not a hundred yards away, and he has no idea what he’s going to do about it.

“Let’s keep an eye on them for now,” Olu suggests. “We’re stuck here for a couple of days. We can get a feel for the situation before we do anything.” The rest of the crew nod along encouragingly.

“No need ta do anythin’ rash,” Buttons agrees.

“At least not until we have an easy escape,” Roach points out. “Though if I gotta pick between Blackbeard and the storm, well.” He shrugs. “I’d pick the storm.”

“Storm for me too,” says Wee John, nodding wisely. “Less stabby.”

“We’re not leaving without Frenchie,” says Jim. “And if that fucker’s hurt him, I’m gonna gut him.”

“Jim’s right,” says Olu quickly. “We can’t rush in, but we have to get Frenchie. Cap, I think you need to sit this one out.”

“What?” Stede starts, “No, I-“

“You’ll set him off,” says Jim. “If he sees one of us, we’re a nuisance - a piece of the past. If he sees you, we’re fucking dead.”

“All of us are,” Olu agrees. “I know you want this, Cap - you want to see him, I get it. I think we all know, at some point, it’s gonna be unavoidable. But Frenchie is more important right now. This needs to be a covert operation.”

“He’s back this side of the Atlantic now,” says Roach. “There’ll be other chances to talk it through… or cut each other up,” he adds, a glint in his eye.

Stede swallows the lump in his throat. He knows they’re right, but he can’t agree to it - not when Ed is so close.

“Don’t make us lock you in the brig,” says Olu, but his tone is gentle.

Stede tries his best to look mollified. They’re all looking at him, waiting for him to argue. They haven’t moved an inch, but he feels closed in, almost claustrophobic in their united front against him.

“We’ll watch and - and get a feel for the situation,” he finds himself saying, looking away. “For now.” This seems to appease them, cutting the tension in the room.

“Let’s take shifts,” Olu tells the crew as Stede’s eyes roam back to the Revenge. “Jim, Cap and I will take first watch.”

“Yes,” says Stede absently, waving a hand at them. “Go get some sleep.”

There’s been very little movement on the Revenge over the last couple of hours. Stede watches as Izzy, Fang and Ivan return to the ship, then Izzy and Fang leave again. Someone is playing music, but if it’s Frenchie or even coming from the Revenge, Stede can’t be sure. It carries on the wind, a cheerful melody broken by the rain and distant thunder.

Olu and Jim are quiet, mostly. When they talk, they talk of simple things, and Olu does most of it, about raids or supplies or what they’ll do after the storm. To Stede’s relief, no one talks about Ed or Frenchie.

When Wee John comes to take over, Jim tells Stede to get some sleep. Stede pulls himself up, his knees and back aching from being crouched between the canons for so long. He’s so incredibly tired, both physically and emotionally.

Well, he thinks, no rest for the weary.

Under the stairs he finds a grappling hook and a pistol. He considers the pistol, but decides against it, taking only the hook and making his way back to the cabin for his sword and his good boots. He puts the boots, hook and a pair of socks in a turpentine sack, securing it as tightly as he can to his belt.

He pauses at his chest, then kneels down and retrieves his turquoise ring from a small box. It’s a little thing, a trifle from his past - he hasn’t worn it since he left Barbados to find Ed. He always imagined himself giving it to Ed one day; a foolish, romantic fantasy.

Before he can think too hard about it, he slides the ring back on. It feels weird - wrong, almost; the gentle pressure on his finger that’s been missing for so long.

Beyond the door he crouches down behind a barrel until he hears Buttons and Roach climb the stairs from the crews quarters, on their way to relieve Jim and Olu. He slips past them as they yawn and chatter quietly, and heads to the beak of the ship.

Descending into the water is a lot more intimidating than he anticipated, but it’s the only way off the ship without being seen. The water is rushing hard and fast, and he wonders briefly if this is really a good idea. He pushes that thought aside.

The first wave hits him cold and hard, almost pulling the rope from his grip. He clamps his mouth down from crying out. Every wave smashes him back into the ship, but the dock is only a few feet away. If he can time it just right - he lets go of the rope as a wave surges forward, and crashes hard into a wooden post.

Clinging to the leg of the dock tightly, he counts to ten, and then carries the next wave to the next post. He’ll be bruised and bloody tomorrow - if he survives tomorrow. It feels like an age before he makes it the last one, and scales the breakwater, wet and slippery beneath his hands.

He sits on the bank for a while, shivering and catching his breath, the rain stinging his face. He can see the Revenge clearly from here - the sight of it chokes him up. It has a scar down one side, from being driven into something - rocks or another ship, maybe. But the flag - it’s the flag that really gets him. It’s Ed’s flag, whipping wildly in the wind, but there’s something new.

It takes Stede a moment to make it out - now the skeleton is stabbing a heart. It fills Stede first with pain, and then with a sobering apprehension.

He changes into his dry boots; he’s soaking wet, but at least he won’t get blisters. He moves behind the buildings to stay clear of the Royal James. It’s doubtful anyone’s paying attention; They’re probably playing cards or talking amongst themselves, but he can’t be too cautious. They’ll stop him, if they see him.

He tries to keep his mind clear. Thinking leads to feeling, and he’s not ready to do that yet.

There’s a mad dash from his final hiding spot to the waterfront, and then he’s crouched down before the Revenge.

Scaling her is embarrassingly easy; he catches the grappling hook on the chains, and uses the rope securing the ship to the wharf to swing closer. He’s gained some upper body strength over the last few months, enough to haul himself up with only a little scrabbling. He hopes the noise he makes is drowned out by the rain.

The deck is empty; all he can hear is the mad flapping of the sails and rain against wood, but he crouches in the shadows anyway, waiting for any sign of disturbance. There‘s none, so he creeps forward across the deck, slowly inching towards the cabin.

He has no game plan. He has no idea what he’s doing. He has no clue what he’ll say, but Ed is in there and he has to see him, even if it kills him.

He hears the hatch door to the crews quarters open too late, spins around too slowly.

“The fuck?” Ivan stares at him, and Stede stares back, half crouched and stock still. Then Ivan jumps forward, pistol drawn, and Stede reaches for his sword, but Ivan is faster - Ivan hits him hard in the temple with the barrel of his gun and his vision goes dark.

“Well, what would you do then?”

“I don’t fucking know! Ask Izzy?”

The voices wake Stede. As soon as he realises he’s gagged and tied up, it takes every inch of willpower not to thrash out in a panic. He forces his eyes shut, forces his breathing steady, focusing on what he can; from the earthy smell and the uneven prickle of something through linen, he decides he’s lying on some sort of pallet of straw or grass or wood chips. His hands are tied behind his back, and his feet are bound tightly.

His boots are gone, probably to better secure the ropes around his ankles, and the sword too, of course.

“He’ll wanna throw him overboard,” Fang was saying. “Why didn’t you just leave him in Nassau?”

“I don’t know,” says Ivan, sounding irritated. “I panicked.”

“So we just keep him here?”

Leave me in Nassau? If Stede wasn’t panicking before, he is now - have they left port? In the storm? From the violent, arcing movements of the ship beneath him, he thinks it’s likely. He tries to slow his breathing. You’re still asleep, he tells himself fiercely, as though he can will his hammering heart to silence.

“Think he’s awake,” says Fang.

“Shit,” says Ivan.

Stede stays very still, barely daring to breathe. Someone comes to crouch next to him.

“Hey,” says Fang gently. When Stede doesn’t reply, Fang pokes him in the cheek. Stede opens his eyes and shoots him what he hopes is a fearless glare. The room is dark and narrow, almost pitch black save for a candle Ivan’s holding, casting flickering shadows across the wall.

Fang blinks, his face impassive.“Like, what was your plan, even?” he asks.

Stede makes a muffled noise through the gag. Fang looks up at Ivan, who shrugs, then ducks down to pull the fabric out of Stede’s mouth.

“Don’t scream,” Fang warns him. “Boss will kill you bad if he finds you. Pretty sure this place is soundproof, but we haven’t exactly tested it.”

“Where am I?” Stede asks, trying to guess from what little he can see, which isn’t much.

Fang shrugs. “Some hidden room behind the fireplace. Lucius found it after we-“ Ivan swats him on the arm to shut him up.

“Ow,” says Fang, shooting Ivan a dejected look. “What was that for?”

“Doesn’t need to know that,” Ivan hissed.

Stede already knows the story; he heard it from Lucius himself. Well, that clears that up; he’s in the secret passage behind the library, where Fang and Ivan had kept Lucius hidden until they’d been able to dump him off in Tortuga.

“I want to see Ed,” he says adamantly.

Fang and Ivan share a look.

“Yeah, no you don’t,” says Ivan.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Stede says.

“I think we do actually,” says Ivan.

“Look,” says Fang, looking at Ivan for encouragement - Ivan just shrugs. “You haven’t been around, so you might not know, but Blackbeard is… volatile.”

“Fucked up,” Ivan agrees.

“He cut off Izzy’s toe,” says Fang. “Made him eat it.”

“Starves us if we piss him off,” says Ivan.

“Flogging sometimes, too,” says Fang with a grimace. “Half the crew’ve quit, or tried to. Gotta be careful about it, ‘cause if he finds out before you reach land, he’ll just throw you overboard.”

“Same loss to him, either way,” says Ivan. “How he sees it.”

Stede closes his eyes, as though he can shut it all out. Hearing it from Jim and Lucius had been one thing; their hatred might have lead to hyperbole, and he knows how much Lucius enjoys hyperbole. But hearing it from Ed’s own men? It’s guilt that makes him close his eyes to them; guilt that, even now, he still wants to see Ed.

But it’s fear that stops him from crying out to the man who might be on the other side of the wall.

“He thinks you’re dead,” says Ivan.

Stede’s eyes snap back open.

“He dug up your grave on Barbados,” says Fang with a spark of curiosity. “How’d you do it? Wait - are you even Stede Bonnet?”

“What?” Stede asks incredulously. “Of course I bloody well am, who else would I be?”

“Maybe you’re a twin, I don’t know,” says Fang, almost a whine. “You’re dressed different - beard is new - and we saw the body. No one doubted it.”

“Face was caved in,” says Ivan with a shrug. “Clever. You know, you really fucked us over with the little fake death thing.”

“He was crazy before, but he really lost it then,” Fang agrees.

“Where is he now?” Stede asks hopelessly.

“Crows nest,” says Fang. “Thinks he can find the end of the storm.”

“Fucking insane,” says Ivan.

Stede tries to sit up, and Fang helps him. “Sorry ‘bout the ropes,” Fang says. “Gotta take precautions.” Stede just shrugs, leaning back on the wall as comfortably as he can, trying to process the situation.

“So, what are you going to do with me?”

“No clue,” says Ivan.

Fang sighs heavily. “Guess we got us a new Lucius,” he says.

-

Fang brings Stede food and water later that night - or early morning, Stede supposes - and feeds him like an invalid, unwilling to untie his hands. It’s salt pork and tack. Stede wonders if they had to steal it, or if he and Ivan split their own rations. He doesn’t ask.

Fang warns him their visits will be intermittent, because they have to work it around Blackbeard’s schedule, which is unpredictable at best. He’ll try and steal Stede a lantern though, he promises.

When Fang leaves, leaving Stede in darkness, Stede presses his ear to the library wall. He wishes he had his hands free, or at least bound in front of him; along the wall, behind every lantern hook, is a secret peephole. Six lead through to the bookcase, and one to the outer corridor. He’s never had the chance to try them out in a real-world scenario, but Lucius, who found them in his brief stint in the room, had described them as ‘perverse’ and ‘disgustingly effective’.

Stede just wants to hear Ed’s voice. There are grates too, over little amplified tunnels. He tries wriggling one of the latches free with his nose, but it’s useless.

Sometimes, if he holds his breath, he thinks he hears muffled sounds through the wall; arguing, raised voices, music. But he can’t make out the words, or tell who’s speaking.

He sleeps eventually. When he wakes up it’s still dark, and it’s then that he realises, in quite a dramatic way, that he might never see sunlight again.

When Stede wakes up again, he opens his eyes to a pair of lantern-lit knees. He tries to roll over, as best he can with his arms behind his back, to look up.

“What the actual fuck,” Izzy breathes, looking down on him. He looks personally offended, as though Stede came back just to ruin his week.

“Izzy,” says Stede, forcing a smile. “Lovely to see you again! It’s been a while.”

“We didn’t know what to do,” says Fang nervously from the other side of the room, almost as though he’s afraid to be near Izzy. “You’re not gonna kill him, are you?”

Izzy’s lip curls up in disgust. “Should kill him,” he says to Fang. “Blackbeard thinks he’s dead anyway. Wouldn’t change anything.”

“Well I would argue that it would change a lot for me, certainly,” says Stede.

“Shut the fuck up,” Izzy tells him. “It’s all your fucking fault. And you had the nerve to come back to fucking life and to this fucking ship.”

Stede’s smile fades. “I was always going to come back. But I, well. Ed he - that is,” he stumbles over the words. “You all - you just disappeared.”

“Blackbeard needed a break from the Indies, after he saw your body,” says Fang solemnly. “Clear his head.”

“Did he?” Stede asks. “Clear his head?”

“Not one fucking bit,” says Izzy. “And of course, you’re the first thing we drag up when we get back. We shoulda stayed in fucking France.”

“No hurricanes in France,” Fang agrees.

“Should kill you,” says Izzy again, drawing a knife from his belt and crouching next to Stede. “Cut your throat and throw you overboard while it’s dark, before he sees your body.”

“That’s not you, Izzy,” says Stede. He’s not entirely sure he believes it, but no harm in sowing some doubt on the morality of murdering a prisoner.

“What the fuck would you know,” Izzy spits out, but he stands up and looks at Fang. “Tell Ivan I’ll take over this” - he motions at Stede - “while I decide what to do with him. But I’m not fucking feeding him. Tie his hands so he can feed himself.”

Stede breathes a sigh of relief as Fang rushes over to untie his wrists. His shoulders ache horribly from the prolonged tension. Izzy’s knife is still pointed at Stede’s head, presumably in case he tries to make a run for it, but Stede just doesn’t have the energy. He offers no resistance as Fang reties his wrists securely in front of him, rolling his shoulders to ease their aching.

“Thank you, Fang. Would love a book too,” he adds with forced joviality. “If you can find one. I imagine it’ll be awfully boring in here.”

“No books - Blackbeard can’t read,” Fang supplies.

“Ah,” says Stede. Well, that explains why Ed had always signed his name with an X. There were so many things he had never asked him, so many things they’d never talked about.

He could have taught him to read. He could picture it clearly, them reciting Shakespeare back and fourth, curled up on the chaise together. Ed would follow along with that childlike curiosity he had, as Stede pointed out different words, explaining what they meant and how they sounded.

“Not really necessary for the job,” Fang adds, almost apologetically at Stede’s expression.

“Let’s go, before we’re missed,” Izzy tells Fang, taking a bowl from him. “The fuck is this?”

“Er, porridge?” says Fang with a shrug.

“We can’t be seen cleaning this shit,” Izzy says. “It’s like fucking cement when it dries. Broth and tack - quick to clean.” He thrusts the bowl back into Fang’s hands, and Fang ducks down to set it on the floor.

“Eat it all,” Izzy tells Stede, and Stede decides that means he’s not dying today or tomorrow, at least. Silver linings.

Fang gives Stede an uncertain look as he pulls the lever that triggers the exit. Izzy doesn’t look back at all as they leave, the picture frame clicking shut behind them.

Stede sighs. He’d thought external locks on the passages were a good idea at the time - the perfect ambush! How was he supposed to know he might end up being the one locked in here?

The first thing he does once they’re gone is hop over to one of the hidden peepholes with his newly accessible, if still uncomfortably bound, hands. He picks one that gives him the widest view of the cabin.

The walls between the passage and the bookcase are thick and the hole narrow - polished copper mirrors widen the view, quite a fantastic piece of engineering really. But it still only gives him a small tunnel of vision; he can see a window and the map table, and the edge of what was once a very lovely settee, now with its stuffing peeking out.

The room is empty, as far as he can tell. It might be daylight, but the storm is keeping out most of the light, casting the room in grey. With the grate open he can hear a little more, the rain on the windows, the creak of furniture moving in the sway of the ship. No Ed. But he doesn’t close it, he just waits. Ed has to come in eventually.

It’s been hours but Stede can’t pull himself away. He’s hungry and his porridge is probably, as Izzy put it, a block of cement by now. He’s almost swaying on his feet - it takes effort to stand with your feet bound.

He wonders a lot about what will happen to him. Will they sneak him out in the dead of the night when they make port, like they had with Lucius? What about Frenchie - was he even still on the ship?

He wonders if he’ll go quietly, without talking to Ed first. Probably not. But Izzy isn’t stupid, and he knows Stede’s stubbornness; he’ll probably drug his food or knock him out, or just kill him if he’s too much trouble.

At that delightful thought, Stede pulls his eyes away from the peephole to look around the room for a potential weapon. It’s not really a room - at least, it was never meant to be. It’s a narrow, curved passage that leads from the cabin corridor to the bathroom. There’s a trap door under the bath that leads to the crew’s quarters.

He shuffles over to the door that leads to the bathroom. It’s locked - of course it is, because no one’s ever used it. And the keys are stashed in a carved out copy of Troilius and Cressida. Which, apparently, Ed hasn’t kept.

A weapon, Stede reminds himself. There’s the cot, which is four wooden fruit crates bound together and a makeshift mattress. There’s the lantern. And there’s the bowl of hard porridge. And that’s it.

He’ll have to brainstorm that one.

A sound pulls his attention back to the peephole. He presses his eye to it so hard that it hurts. A turn of a handle, and someone’s walking into the room. He shuffles to the next peephole, for a better angle.

He sees him. His heart flutters.

Ed’s hair is loose, hiding his face from Stede. It’s all tangles - almost matted, like he hasn’t brushed it in weeks. He stashes a bottle on the coffee table, and Stede catches a glimpse of his face then - his eyes are smeared in black, and there’s a stub of a grey beard growing back. His expression is empty; but somehow it still breaks Stede’s heart.

Stede half expects him to kick a chair or break something - to do something angry and prove the stories right. But he just sinks into the cut-up settee, his back to Stede, and rolls his neck back to look up at the ceiling, like he’s just had a long, hard day of captaining in a storm.

Stede almost calls out to him then. He wants to, so badly. He thinks Ed might even hear him, with the grate open. But he’s stopped by a distant knock at a door.

“The fuck you want,” says Ed, his voice low and rough and echoey through the passage. Stede almost cries to hear it.

The door opens, but Stede can’t see who comes in.

“Izzy said you wanted me, sir,” comes Frenchie’s voice. Alive, Stede realises with relief, and it’s the first time he catches himself acknowledging that Frenchie might not have survived his time under Ed’s leadership.

“Play something,” Ed says. “Sick of this fucking rain.”

“A shanty again, sir? Or perhaps a ballad?”

“Whatever the fuck you want,” Ed says.

So Frenchie plays, and sings, and Stede realises how much he has missed Frenchie’s voice too. It’s a song about Helen of Troy, not Frenchie’s usual upbeat jingles. It’s sad and slow and long.

Ed barely moves an inch as Frenchie plays for him, except to wave a hand when the song ends, to tell him to keep going. He plays Bramble Briar next. Stede hasn’t heard it in years. Ed seems to like it more than the last, nodding along as Frenchie sings.

At the end of Bramble Briar, Ed moves to the bed. Frenchie keeps playing, keeps singing, picking up a new song as soon as one ends. For an hour or more, he sings, until he fades out of a somber ballad, and waits. Stede moves to a new peephole, to better look at Frenchie. He looks well - tired, gaunt, but well.

Frenchie watches Ed, his eyes boring into him, still and silent, fingers perched on his lute strings. When he seems to decide Ed is asleep, he gets up quietly and sneaks out of the room, silent as a mouse.

Stede watches Ed sleep for a while, before finding his own cot. He eats the porridge, having to cut away at it with the spoon. There’s still some left, stuck to the bowl; Izzy won’t be happy, but that’s a tomorrow problem. His whole body hurts, both from his stint in the water and from being tied up.

With a sinking disappointment, he realises his ring is gone. He must have lost it in his swim from the Royal James. He curls up and tries not to think about it. It’s just a thing; things are replaceable.

He’s out like a light almost as soon as he hits the literal hay.

The next couple of days progress repetitively. Izzy comes in at random hours with food and water, and brushes off Stede’s questions. Just tells him to be fucking quiet and eat his fucking food and be grateful he’s still fucking alive.

Ed is almost never in his room, and when he is, he goes straight to bed.

But it’s the third night that puts everything into perspective.

Izzy comes in, looking angry, which isn’t unusual. But this time he doesn’t come with food or water, just ducks in and sits down on the floor and leans back against the wall.

“Er,” says Stede. “You okay?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Izzy says, closing his eyes.

“It’s not that I mind the company - not at all! Quite the contrary, in fact. But-“

“I told you to shut up,” says Izzy, but he sounds tired.

Stede looks at him then - really looks at him. He has a bloodied lip, and circles under his eyes the size of Barbados. His usually carefully presented vest and necktie are gone, replaced with a plain black shirt, loose around the neck and untucked. There are bruises along his collarbone, sharp and purple.

“What happened?” Stede asks gently.

“None of your fucking business,” Izzy says, and Stede doesn’t press it, just sits there quietly with him. He wants to talk - god, does he want to talk. He misses conversation. But he’s sure if he pushes too hard, it’ll scare Izzy away, and Izzy is the only company he has right now.

Perhaps, Stede wonders wryly, he has a bit of the old Stockholm syndrome.

“I need a fucking holiday,” Izzy says after a while.

“You could leave,” Stede suggests quietly. He hopes it doesn’t come off as callous, he doesn’t mean it to.

Izzy sniffs a humourless laugh and rises to stand.

“I didn’t mean - I didn’t mean here and now,” says Stede quickly.

“I know what you meant,” says Izzy. “Night, Bonnet.”

Stede isn’t sure what makes him check in on the cabin after Izzy leaves. He isn’t expecting Ed to be in. And he’s not, but Izzy walks in as Stede watches, lighting the candles around the room in a slow, methodical way.

When the room is lit, he walks to the window and just looks out at the dark ocean. It's a royal blue dusk, late evening, and no longer raining; they must have made it through the storm, Stede realises with some surprise.

It’s a while before Ed comes in. He looks angry - angrier than Stede has ever seen him before. To Stede’s shock, he walks right up to Izzy and backhands him. Izzy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even step back. He takes the blow and slowly, slowly brings his eyes back to Ed’s.

“You’re a fucking embarrassment,” Ed says through his teeth.

“Yes,” says Izzy quietly.

“Should make Ivan my First Mate, at least he can throw a fucking punch.”

Izzy says nothing, just keeps looking ahead, like he’s focusing on something over Ed’s shoulder.

“Well? What the fuck happened?”

“I lost,” says Izzy.

“Fucking aye, you fucking lost,” says Ed. “Why the fuck did you lose?”

Izzy shrugs, and Ed hits him again, this time a hard punch the gut. Izzy doubles over, gasping, but doesn’t retaliate.

“I said,” says Ed, grabbing Izzy by the hair and pulling him back up. “Why, the fuck, did you lose?”

“Ivan’s bigger,” Izzy croaked. “And I’m fucking tired.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” Ed snarls, shoving him towards the door.

Izzy picks himself up and stumbles to the door.

“Send Frenchie in,” Ed says, collapsing on the settee.

“Yes, Captain.”

Stede pulls himself away, falling back on his pallet. He has seen Ed fight, seen him hurt people, but never with such careless cruelty. He curls himself up, as far as his restraints will let him. This is his fault, he realises. He did this.

And he has to make it right.

Chapter Text

Izzy doesn’t come in the next morning. Stede watches the cabin, watches as Ed gets up, stumbling to the liquor cart and drinking straight from a bottle. He looks away as Ed gets dressed; even here, now, it feels invasive.

When Stede looks back Ed is sitting on the bed, decked in his leathers, knees pulled up to his chest. He just sits, curled up like that, looking out the window with the bottle loosely between his fingers.

Stede wishes he could reach out and ask him what he’s thinking, if he has regrets. Does he regret hitting Izzy, or keeping Frenchie? Or does he wall himself off from feeling anything at all?

Do you ever think of me?

He hates himself for still wanting him, after knowing what he has become. But he looks at Ed now, head resting against the window pane in his quiet solitude, and Stede knows his Ed is still in there, somewhere. How can he not be?

It’s Fang who comes in next, after what feels like a whole day has passed. Stede wants to crawl to the bucket of water in his hands, but he lets Fang fill a tumbler and pass it to him. Stede drinks it all before speaking, as Fang hovers uncertainly at the foot of the cot.

“Izzy?” Stede asks.

Fang looks down, not meeting Stede’s eyes. “Not feelin’ well. Just me today.”

“And Ivan?” Stede hopes it sounds like a casual question.

“Sick too.”

“Must be a nasty bug,” says Stede, filling the cup again; the water is unsatisfyingly warm. God, who he would kill for a cup of tea instead. “Should I be worried?” he adds.

Fang shrugs dismissively. “Probably not. Got you an orange,” he says. “And some tack.”

Stede takes them gratefully. “How’s -“ Stede stops himself, starting again. “Is Frenchie still here, on the Revenge?”

“Yeah,” says Fang. “Still alive and kicking. Boss likes him playing music sometimes. He’s doin’ ok, I reckon. Izzy’s in Jim’s room now, so Frenchie has Izzy’s old room, and doesn’t gotta figh-” Fangs stops there, looking uncomfortable.

“Fight?” Stede presses.

Fang shifts his feet. “Yeah, it’s to keep us all in shape, I guess,” he says, taking in a deep, resigned breath. “To nurture camaraderie,” he adds. “Well, tha’s what boss says, but I think he might’ve been meaning that sarcastically. Boss fights too, sometimes.”

“Like a fight ring?” Stede asks, a shiver going down his spine.

“Yeah, I ‘spose. Down in the brig. Place bets, like rations or money sometimes too.”

Stede swallows. “Is it… voluntary?”

Fang laughs at that. “Is anything?” he says, whatever that means.

Stede picks up the orange, biting in to peel it. So Izzy and Ivan - not sick, just participants of some sort of fight club. It doesn’t seem too far-fetched. And from what he understands of Ed’s personality shift, there are worse things that could be happening, but it still gives a bitter taste to the fruit in his hands.

Stede hopes Frenchie won’t get dragged into it. Frenchie is a good pirate - one of the more capable of Stede’s original crew - but he’s not a fighter.

“Why don’t you let Frenchie go,” he asks suddenly. “Like you did Lucius?”

“It’s different with him, ain’t it?” says Fang with an exasperated expression. “Boss didn’t know about Lucius. Doesn’t know about you. Only he and Izzy have the key to Frenchie’s room.”

“And Izzy, he can’t?”

Fang just looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Boss’d kill him,” he says, as though it’s an absolute.

“Ed would kill a lot of people for a lot of things, apparently,” Stede says under his breath, peeling the last of the orange peel away with his teeth.

Stede sleeps badly that night, or morning, or whenever it is. When he wakes up the cabin is empty, Ed’s bed a mess of sheets and blankets.

He tries to gnaw at the ropes on his wrist, more out of boredom than anything, but they’re thick, built to hold canons and rig sails, and well secured with a sailor’s knot Stede doesn’t recognise.

So he spends an hour trying to pick rope fibres from his teeth, then loses himself in daydreams of his crew, whether they’re looking for him or the Revenge. But his thoughts always come back to him meeting with Ed - all the different things he might say when he sees him, and how Ed might take them.

None of his imaginings end well.

He thinks of Izzy, sometimes, too, wondering why he doesn’t leave, and whether Fang and Ivan only stay out of loyalty to him.

“Are these really necessary?” Stede asks Izzy the next time he visits. He holds up his wrists, with no energy left to put any humour into his voice. He’s not used to such meagre rations, and so few and inconsistent meal times - even when his crew had returned from the marooning, desperate and penniless, they had always prioritised food and water.

Izzy looks at him blankly for a moment, then pulls out his knife. But he doesn’t cut the rope at his wrists. Instead he digs the top of it into the knot around his ankles, and wriggles it loose, making it look effortless.

The rope falls away and Stede immediately flexes his legs with a groan. “God, that feels good,” he says. His shins are red and raw, chaffed from all his shuffling to and from the peepholes.

Izzy still doesn’t remove the ropes at his wrist, and Stede isn’t going to push his luck.

“How’re you feeling?” Stede asks instead, taking the dried chunk of tack. There’s a mug of soup too, warm in his hands.

Izzy shoots him a suspicious look as Stede bites into the biscuit, chewing quickly.

“Fang said you were - ah. Well, sick,” Stede says, grimacing at his mistake. Izzy’s lip is still red and wet, as though he’s been picking at the scab, but otherwise he looks okay, less tired and less angry. Maybe Ed really did give him the day off to recuperate.

“Fucking Fang,” Izzy says gruffly, but doesn’t answer the question. He watches as Stede eats, but Stede’s too hungry to be self-conscious.

“We’ll drop you in San Juan in a week,” he says as Stede moves onto the soup.

“San Juan?” Stede asks, stopping the cup before his mouth. “What am I going to do there?”

“Bottom of the fucking sea is still an option.”

“San Juan sounds fine, actually. Great, even.”

Stede thinks Izzy almost smiles. But now Stede’s thinking about San Juan, and how his crew never docks there. He’s probably going to have to find a legitimate ship to take him on as a hand, just so he can get back to an island where he has even a chance of finding his men. He wonders what he’ll put on his resume - do sailors have resumes? He’s never applied for a job before.

And this is all assuming he gets out of here alive, or doesn’t find a way to convince Ed to let him stay. Getting off in San Juan without him just feels so counter-productive, and borderline embarrassing. At least fighting with Ed would give meaning to his misadventure.

And if Ed kills him? He doesn’t want to die. But what if he never gets another chance to see Ed again? Or one of them dies before they meet again?

“If you throw up I’m not fucking cleaning it up,” Izzy says.

Stede takes a quick gulp of soup and swallows. “Fair,” he says. “Just not exactly what I expected when I boarded - a holiday in San Juan.”

“And you expected what? Blackbeard to fall to fucking pieces at the sight of you, invite you to a fucking sleepover? When will you people realises he’s no longer Edward Teach.”

At Stede’s confused look, Izzy adds, “took your musician a week in solitary to stop trying to convert him.”

“Poor Frenchie,” Stede says softly, but it touches his heart that he tried. “If I’m going to San Juan, I’d really like Frenchie to come with me.”

Izzy snorts. “Yeah, that’s definitely not happening.”

“You could come too,” Stede adds, stopping Izzy in his tracks as he turns towards the picture-frame door.

Izzy looks at him, eyes hard and cold. “I don’t abandon my captain,” he says meanly before he leaves.

Izzy is clearly but surprisingly drunk the next time he visits, almost tripping through the hole in the wall.

“Fuck you,” Izzy tells the frame. “You know he’s gonna remove this painting one day.”

Stede shakes his head. “It’s pretty much glued to the wall, unless you know which part to press”

He’d never seen Izzy - always predictably composed, if not borderline feral in his anger - drunk before. Izzy drops himself to the floor beside Stede’s bed, almost spilling the broth he’s holding. He’s flushed and shoots the tumbler a thoroughly annoyed, but not angry, look. He takes a sip before passing it to Stede.

“How’d you find the entrance, anyway?” Stede asks, trying to hide his amusement.

“Ivan and Fang had a fight,” says Izzy. He reeks of ale - the cheap stuff they sometimes add to the water when it starts to taste like mildew, not the usual wine or brandy Ed used to share with the crew. “Never fucking fight, them. Never ever. But Ivan wanted to talk to Blackbeard, and Fang couldn’t exactly let him, could he?”

“Well, why not?”

“Cause Ivan wanted to leave.”

“Ah,” says Stede. “Of course. And ah, this lead to you finding the painting door how?”

Izzy picks at the corner of Stede’s bed, where some hay is poking through the linen. “Scuffle in the hallway,” he says. “Ivan hit the frame with his elbow, and it just - ” To Stede’s amusement, Izzy makes an elbow stabbing, opening door motion with his hands and arms. “We’d been keeping the boy in a dinghy, moved him here to stop him whinging ‘bout the cold. Fucking brat.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” says Stede teasingly.

“Fuck off,” says Izzy. “Just think discipline should have a fucking reason, shouldn’t it? Go killing people left and right and half your crew fucking leaves and I’m the only one left on the sails.”

The only one left with Ed, Stede thinks, but knows better than to say it.

“Lucius is fine,” Stede assures him instead. “You didn’t ask but… in case you wanted to know. We found him a few weeks after. He - “ Stede hesitates. “He didn’t mention you.”

“Told him not to,” says Izzy with a shrug of a shoulder. “And I’ll expect the same from you. Got a fucking reputation to maintain, don’t I.”

”Of course. If anyone asks, you were absolutely ruthless,” says Stede, offering him a smile.

“Whatever, Bonnet,” says Izzy, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the wall. “Tell Fang, if you see him. He’s been worried about him.”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

“Cause I don’t give a fuck, obviously,” Izzy says.

“Obviously,” Stede echoes. “So, erm. Why - why am I still alive, anyway?”

Izzy stays quiet for a really long time, until Stede starts to wonder if he’s forgotten the question, or fallen asleep.

“If you’re dead,” Izzy says eventually, not opening his eyes, “then that’s it. No bloody goin’ back then, is there? Anyway, don’t like seeing Fang upset. He likes you too, for some fucking reason. He’s a useless fucking pirate sometimes.”

“You said no going back,” Stede presses. “Do you mean, Ed? You think - you think there’s still a chance? For him to be himself again?”

“Maybe? Not now, not today. Look, I don’t fucking know, alright? I’m leaving now.”

“No, Izzy-“ Stede starts, but Izzy’s already getting up, snatching up Stede’s bowl from yesterday on the way. Stede jumps up, almost tripping over himself, and reaches out his bound hands to grab at Izzy’s wrist.

“You want him back,” Stede says pointedly, not letting go of his arm.

“‘course I bloody well do,” says Izzy incredulously. “He’s lost his absolute fucking mind. Was always half cracked, and now he’s gone full fucking crazy. Half is fine - good even, peak Blackbeard - but this? He’s going to get us all killed, if he doesn’t kill us first.”

“What can we do?”

“You can’t do anything,” Izzy says vehemently, “except make things worse. Now get your fucking hands off me.”

Stede lets go and watches as Izzy pulls himself through the hole. “Be careful,” he adds as the picture snaps closed, but he’s not sure if Izzy hears him.

He wonders if one day Izzy will miscalculate the timing, and find himself in the hallway with Ed, and what Ed - what Blackbeard - would do to someone who had kept a hidden passage from him a secret - had kept Stede from him a secret.

It’s not a comforting thought.

Ed stays in the cabin most of the next day, to Stede’s delight and surprise.

Stede watches him mull over maps, make little castles from decks of cards - then get irrationally angry when they fall down, opening the window and tossing the decks out to the wind. Then watches as he gets needlessly drunk and slurs his way through the first verse of Bramble Briar, which Stede finds heart-wrenchingly endearing.

When Ed realises he can’t remember the rest of the song, he swears a bit, then goes and finds Frenchie, and makes him sing it to him, over and over, while Ed waves a finger in the air like a conductor’s baton and tries to memorise the lines.

Bits of Stede’s Ed shine through, in wistful looks out the window and small amused smiles when he gets lines right.

But then something changes. Maybe it’s a line in the song, or maybe it’s the way Frenchie corrects a word Ed mis-sings. But Ed snaps, snarling at Frenchie to get the fuck out and bring Izzy, and Frenchie all but runs from the room. And the hope swelling in Stede’s chest leaks away like water in a child’s hands.

When Izzy enters the room, Ed steps forward and grabs hold of his face in a violent grip, his thumb and index finger digging into Izzy’s cheeks. Izzy doesn’t move an inch, just gives Ed a blank, empty look.

“How’re you feeling,” Ed says, but there’s no kindness to it - it almost doesn’t even sound like a question.

“Fine,” says Izzy through his teeth.

“Good. We’re fighting tonight,” Ed says, completely devoid of emotion. He lets go of him and turns his back. “Get the crew ready.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And Izzy,” Ed says over his shoulder as Izzy turns to go. “Don’t fucking lose this time.”

Stede almost gasps at the sight of Izzy that night, stumbling through the passage door. His shirt is ripped from the collar, down to his ribs, revealing blooming bruises that travel up his chest - the old and the new. His beard is matted with dark blood, and there’s a long but shallow cut from his cheek to his jaw. He all but falls onto the mattress next to Stede, handing him a bottle with a grunt.

Drunk again, Stede decides. He looks at the bottle - it’s a fine, branded Irish whiskey - one he recognises as being from a cask he had brought with him from Barbados, when he first left Mary and the children.

“Stole it,” Izzy is saying, kicking off his boots and pulling his knees up onto the cot. “Need someone to drink with,” he says, “someone I don’t give two shits about seeing me like this. Sick of the fucking crew and their fucking side eyes.”

“Ivan again?” Stede asks quietly. If Izzy realises or cares that Stede knows about the fight ring, he doesn’t show it.

“Nah,” says Izzy. “Blackbeard.”

“Ed?”

“Who the fuck else goes by that name? Give me that.” Izzy takes the bottle and takes a long swig from it. “Is’not fucking poison,” he says, handing it back.

Stede wipes the lip on his sleeve before taking a sip, holding the bottle in his bound hands. It’s so fucking good, he thinks as he sighs; His favourite Irish whisky, with hints of oak and elderflower, bottled in 1693.

“Come ‘ere,” Izzy says, but doesn’t wait for Stede to move. He grabs Stede’s arm, pulling it towards him, and takes the bottle from his hands to set on the floor. He sets Stede’s wrists on his knees. Stede only has a second to be confused before Izzy clumsily tugs his knife from his belt and begins sawing at the rope.

“You’ll blunt it doing that,” says Stede, because in his surprise it’s the only thing he can think to say. Izzy doesn’t reply, and Stede just watches as the rope fibres split and spring away, until finally the binds are loose enough for him to pull his arms free.

“Thank you,” he says, sitting back and massaging his arms.

“Don’t want you dropping the bottle,” Izzy says dismissively. “Now are you gonna get drunk with me or should I fuck off?”

It’s then, for whatever reason, that Stede realises he’s beginning to feel something for Izzy, although he can’t quite place a finger on what. There’s a sort of pity for the man’s loneliness and, well, a sadness for his brokenness too, Stede supposes. But maybe, also, an unlikely companionship, in their shared love and fear and anxiety for Ed. This isn’t the same proud, angry Izzy he knew before - this is an Izzy who has lost his only friend, his only confidant. An Izzy who has no idea who he is anymore, but can’t bring himself to admit it.

An Izzy who drinks now, apparently.

“Tell me about the fight,” Stede suggests, taking a sip.

“Nothin’ to tell,” Izzy says stiffly. “I lost.”

“The cut, on your face - are knives allowed? Seems awfully hazardous.”

Izzy snorts and takes the whisky back. “Fuck no, can’t have people actually dying. Crew’s sparse enough as it is. But rings can be fucking nasty. If you use ‘em right.”

Stede grimaces at that. “Do you do this, the fighting thing, a lot?”

Izzy shrugs, resting his chin on his knees. “Depends how angry Blackbeard is.”

“Is he, er, angry often?”

“Once or twice a week,” says Izzy with a twitch of a shoulder. “Not everyone gets to fight. I’m just lucky.”

“I wouldn’t call it luck.”

“Yeah well, you’re a fucking ponce. Wouldn’t last a fucking minute.”

“Can’t argue with that. I’ve been wondering,” Stede hesitates, then decides to hell with it. “Why are you so loyal to Ed, if he treats you like this?” Perhaps it’s the burn of the whisky that makes Stede ask, that makes it seem like a safe question, or maybe he just genuinely does believe Izzy is past the idea of killing him now.

Izzy looks at him suspiciously, as though he thinks Stede is trying to catch him out on something, or test his loyalty to Ed. He licks his lips before replying. “Grew up together,” he says gruffly. “He’s family.”

“That long?” Stede asks, surprised. “Wasn’t he a servant, before this? Did you work in the same house?”

“After that.” Izzy’s face moves into a strange, wistful expression. “He had to leave Bristol, leave his family; did something that pissed off a lot of people and made a run for it. We ended up ship’s boys together, headed to the Caribbean. Talked me into leaving with him when we got to Port Royal.”

Stede leans forward. “Then what?” he asks. “You became pirates?”

“Nah, joined the navy.”

It takes Stede a moment to realise he isn’t being sarcastic. “The - the navy?”

“The fucking British Royal Navy. Ten long fucking years.”

“And you what? Killed a captain and took their ship? Deserted together in the dead of the night?”

Izzy snorts. “Not every story is fucking romantic, Bonnet. Just met an asshole in Nassau who was recruiting. He’d bought some land, wanted to start a pirate capital. Edward was really into that idea, he hated the navy - the fucking rules and the whipping and the discipline.” Izzy takes a long, deep drink from the bottle before passing it back to Stede.

“And you?” Stede asks him. “Did you hate it?”

“Not the worst job I’ve had,” he says with a shrug. “So we joined up with Hornigold, helped him with Nassau, then sailed with him on the Ranger. He took Ed in as his first mate.”

“Hornigold! Ed told me about him. He’s quite famously horrible,” says Stede. “Then what?” He tries to curb his excitement. But how can he? He loves a good story, and Izzy has never been this open before.

“Pirated for him for a while,” says Izzy, almost reluctantly. “A few years. More long fucking years. But Ed loved it, the whole pirating thing. Picked up Ivan along the way, can’t remember when or how, he must’a been about thirteen, a scrap of a boy.

“So Fang took Ivan under his wing. Like a replacement for his dog, really. Ed made Fang shoot the pup. Hornigold’s orders, but Ed’s command. Fang and Ivan been inseparable ever since.”

Izzy stretches his legs out and yawns, but Stede motions for him to keep going.

“Ed, he started training the younger boys to fight,” Izzy says, sounding tired. “He was always coming up with these insanely brilliant and usually fucking stupid plans. But people loved him. Hornigold got jealous of his popularity among the crew - always been popular, Ed. Then Hornigold started taking his anger out on Ivan, and the crew were pretty fucking pissed, so we voted him out.”

“Pirates do that? Like a - a democracy?”

“It’s an euphemism for ‘marooned the bastard in the Bahamas’.”

“Ah,” says Stede.

“So we took his ship, burned it, found another one. Stole a shit tonne of money, wasted it. Rinse and repeat. And, well. Here we are. Story of my fucking life.”

“Quite an adventure,” Stede agrees.

“And you? How the hell did someone like you end up a pirate?”

“Oh, you know,” says Stede, curling his toes around the corner of the crate. “Not as exciting, me. I was just bored, I suppose. Felt like I was doing nothing with my life.”

“So,” says Izzy slowly, “Instead of going on a three month bender with your rich fuck friends in, I don’t know, fucking Venice, you decided to becoming a fucking criminal? For fun?” Izzy is looking at him now and he looks almost disgusted, which gives Stede an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I like pirates,” he says lamely.

“Pirates fucking die,” says Izzy. “We do this because we don’t have rich fucking parents or social security. This job ends in a fucking noose. For me, for Ed, and you too, one day.”

Stede looks away with a horrible sense of shame. “It wasn’t just that,” he says softly. “It was… constraining. A bit like Ed and the navy, I suppose. Too many rules, too little personality. Everything you do is scrutinised, scripted, almost. Like you’re performing the same play, all day, every day for the same crowd.”

“The fuck?”

“For 20 years,” Stede emphases, waving a hand. “I had the same cup of tea every morning, read the same paper, ate the same breakfast, did the same paperwork. Day in, day out. It was driving me crazy.” He pauses. “I don’t regret it,” he adds with a small smile.

“Even when you’re caught? Even if he kills you?”

Stede laughs weakly. “Maybe I’ll regret it a little bit then, if or when.”

“Stupid crazy fucker,” Izzy says, yawning again.

“Let me clean your cut,” Stede says, more to change the subject than anything. “Fang left a bucket of water, but if you can bring more later, well - we’d need to find a relatively clean cloth, could use the sleeve of your shirt seeing as it’s pretty messed up anyway.”

“No, stay away from my face,” Izzy says, closing his eyes and resting his head back on his knees. “Tell me about your stupid fancy estate.”

So Stede gets comfortable and talks about the plantation, the sugar he grew, the children. Izzy grunts sleepily sometimes, laughs softly but not quite meanly as Stede describes his many failures as a husband and a land owner. He tells him about his favourite meals, about how the sunlight filtered through the trees in the morning casting paper-cut shadows, about the chickens that used to chase Louis and the little goldfish pond he’d made with Alma.

When Stede realises Izzy is asleep, he keeps talking anyway. It’s been so, so long since he just talked. Until he finds himself drifting off too, and curls up in a ball next to Izzy, half-on, half-off the makeshift bed, and sleeps.

Morning comes uncomfortably, in the form of a crate in his shoulder blades and a thrumming headache at his temples. But the moment Stede notices the feather of soft, even breathing on the back of his neck, and the warmth of the curled up figure behind him, he decides he’s perfectly comfortable after all. How long has it been since he was this close to anyone?

Izzy mutters something and nuzzles closer into his back. He should wake him up, he realises, before he’s missed. He pulls himself up, god his neck hurts. The lantern is out - probably burned the wick out in the night. He reaches through the dark to find Izzy’s shoulder and shake it gently.

“Izzy?”

“Mhm?” Izzy mutters, then, “Fuck!” In seconds, with the reflexes of a cat, he’s pulling himself away from Stede, and Stede can’t see his face but he can hear the horror in his voice. “Fucking shit Jesus fuck! What fucking time is it? You wouldn’t fucking know. Shit.”

“Er,” says Stede uncomfortably. “Actually, come here.”

“What?”

Stede gets up and runs his hand along the wall until he finds one of the lantern hooks, un-clipping the latch and opening it to reveal a tiny slither of light.

“What the actual fuck,” Izzy breathes, coming closer. “Seriously, Bonnet, what the fuck?”

“I thought it would be good for reconnaissance,” Stede says with a small, sly grin, “If we ever got boarded by enemy pirates, we could hide out in the passages and spy on them.”

“You put fucking spy holes in your fucking ship? You dirty fucker,” Izzy whispers, but he almost sounds impressed. “Let me see.”

Stede steps back and Izzy puts his eye to the wall. Stede walks to another and looks too.

“Shit,” says Izzy under his breath. “He’s not there. The fuck was I was thinking?” He steps back, kicking the water bucket over, in what Stede hopes is an accident in the dark.

As Izzy has his meltdown, Stede checks the hallway. Ed’s door is ajar, but the coast is clear.

“Let me see,” Izzy says, all but walking into him. “Okay, okay. This is fine. If he hasn’t checked my room I’m fine. Where are my fucking shoes?”

Stede steps back as Izzy claws at the floor, finds his boots and puts them on in a rush. Izzy takes a deep breath, checks the hallway peephole again, then pushes the frame open slowly, carefully, and steps out into the hall, shutting it quietly behind him, with a click of the lock.

It’s as he leaves Stede realises it wasn’t locked the entire night. He had an opportunity to escape, to see Ed, and instead he spent the night drinking whisky and telling Izzy about sugar and trees.

Well fuck.

He goes to the peephole to watch as Izzy leaves the hallway, his stomach dropping as Ed opens the stained glass door just seconds later. He carefully opens the grate to the hallway to listen, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Izzy?” Ed’s shock dissolves into a cold anger. “The fuck have you been?”

A beat, and then - “I was looking for you,” Izzy says, almost breathless.

“No,” Ed growls. “I mean where the fuck did you sleep? Cause you haven’t been to fucking bed.”

“What do you mean, I-“

“I brought you a fucking - I don’t know, some salve shit, for your face, last night. You weren’t there so I left it on the bed. And guess what was still there this morning?”

Izzy swallows visibly. “I - I slept in the hold,” he says.

“I checked the hold,” says Ed through clenched teeth.

“In the ammunition box.”

“What - what the fuck Izzy?”

Izzy looks away. “I was fucking embarrassed, alright? You fucking humiliated me in front of the whole fucking crew, I just needed,” he stops, as though searching for the right word. “Some time alone. I didn’t want anyone’s fucking sympathy.”

Something breaks in Ed then, the anger draining out of him. “I thought you fell overboard, Iz,” he says softly.

“Not that stupid,” Izzy says quietly.

“No,” Ed agrees. “You’re not.”

Izzy moves to walk past Ed, but Ed puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Izzy,” Ed says.

“Captain?”

“You wasted everyone’s time today, looking for you.” Ed pauses. “Go the post and wait for me there.”

Izzy nods stiffly and leaves. Ed stays in the hallway for a while, putting Stede into a bit of a panic, but then he walks past and into his room, closing the door behind him.

“Should’ve woken me up,” Izzy says, lighting the lantern from a candle. He’s carrying a fresh bucket of water and strips of clean linen.

“I know,” says Stede quickly, “I just-“

“Jesus, Bonnet,” says Izzy. “You’re not supposed to agree with me. Grow a fucking backbone.”

There’s an instant relief to having light again, illuminating the little cell. Izzy looks somehow worse today than he had yesterday. His jaw is swollen, and the purple bruises are now black and mottled. But he’s washed his face and he looks a little less tired, his hair combed back and his vest and necktie covering the worst of the bruising.

Stede had wondered if Izzy would come back at all, or if he’d been scared off by his close encounter with Ed. He spent a significant portion of the day imagining himself slowly starving to death in his self-made coffin.

“My fault,” Stede admits awkwardly. “Although Ed didn’t seem all that angry - more concerned, really?”

Izzy shrugs. “He has his moments,” he says. “Never lasts very long though. Sometimes I - ” he stops himself.

Stede fills his tumbler from the bucket. “What were you going to say?”

“He’s still in there,” Izzy says, only sounding half convinced. “Somewhere, under all that stupid paint and brandy.”

Stede nods encouragingly. “I’m sure he is,” he says.

“You don’t understand how fucked up he is,” Izzy says bitterly. “And this is me - if I’m saying Blackbeard is fucked up, he’s really fucking fucked up.”

“I think I do. Peepholes, remember?”

Izzy snorts. “Still can’t fucking believe that. Wish I knew about those months ago.”

Stede raises his eyebrows.

“You sick fuck,” Izzy says with disgust. “So I can predict his next freak out, not - not whatever the fuck you’re thinking. Fucking hell, do you…?”

“No!” says Stede, scandalised. “I would never!”

“‘course you fucking wouldn’t, fucking gentleman. Can you sew?”

“What?”

“I said, can you fucking sew?”

“Um,” says Stede. “Not very well, if I’m honest. I’ve learned to darn socks over the past few months, but that’s about it.”

“Good enough,” says Izzy, and starts to unbutton his vest. “Need you to stitch up my back. Can’t deal with Frenchie’s never ending questions.”

“What happened to your back - oh.”

Izzy’s shucking off his shirt to reveal a back clumsily bandaged with linen, with streaks of red breaking through the fabric. Almost like Mary’s watercolours, Stede realises in morbid fascination. He steps forward and traces a finger across the edge of the bandage, staying clear of the wounds themselves.

“What happened?” he repeats, his words scraping from his throat like sandpaper.

“Discipline,” Izzy says matter-of-factly.

Stede knows all about the flogging in the navy; it’s common practice, even for minor crimes. But pirates generally avoided it - it was one of the things that drew sailors into pirating, the lack of corporeal punishment. It was one of the things that had driven Stede towards pirating - the unlikely ethics of it all.

“How many?” he asks.

“Eight,” says Izzy. “Two need stitches.”

“May I?

Izzy grunts, and Stede takes that as a yes, and begins to carefully peel the - quite frankly useless - bandages back, untucking them from where they were secured at Izzy’s waist. Izzy hisses as he pulls them from the dried blood. There’s a series of long, angry welts, and two deep, vicious looking gashes from the bottom of the shoulder to the crook of the back.

“They’ll scar,” he says absently, “and even worse if I sew them.”

“I’m a pirate, Bonnet. Used to scars.”

“Do you have thread?”

Izzy picks up his discarded vest, pulling a hooked needle, a small pair of scissors, and a reel of thread from the pocket.

“Be fast, not gentle,” he says.

“Sit down,” Stede says, sitting on the bed, taking a deep breath. He appreciates the specific instructions, but he’s not sure he has the confidence to go quickly.

“I think you really should be asking someone else,” he says.

“If I wanted someone else to do it I wouldn’t fucking be here,” Izzy snaps.

This was not going to be fun for either of them.

Stede splashes some leftover whisky on the needle, wets one of the fresh bandages with some of the remaining water from yesterday’s bucket, then coats them with whisky too for good measure. He’s never stitched up a wound before, but he’s seen Roach do it often enough that he thinks he has a good - or at least rough - idea of how it goes.

He sits behind Izzy, then pushes gently on the nape of his neck to get him to bend forward slightly, tightening the skin just enough so that he won’t accidentally stitch it too tightly and leave a ridge. He hears Izzy’s sharp intake of breath as the skin stretches around the wounds and Stede wipes away the dried blood.

“Move back a little bit, actually,” Stede says. “Sorry, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I did warn you.”

He holds the needle a few inches from the skin. He feels a little sick. He really doesn’t want to do this.

“Just fucking do it already,” Izzy says.

Stede swallows loudly, then reaches out and pinches the skin of the larger slash together. To his credit, Izzy flinches but stays absolutely silent.

There’s little resistance from the needle, but the feel of it going through flesh makes Stede’s stomach churn. He tries to ignore it, tries to move quickly, tries to think of it as sewing a flag of particularly dense velvet, not a person. This helps. He continues methodically, moving his thumb and index finger down over the tears in the skin, in and out with the needle. When he gets to the end, he isn’t sure what to do, so ties it off with a loop in the same way he stitches up his socks.

“First one’s done,” Stede says, feeling a little lightheaded, but surprisingly accomplished. It doesn’t look too bad, really. “That wasn’t so awful.”

Izzy laughs humourlessly. “Maybe a few less stitches on the next one,” he says through his teeth. “I’m not a fucking sock.”

“You should have said! I told you I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Two per inch,” he says, then ducks his neck again.

The next row goes a lot faster. “All done,” Stede says gently, snipping off the thread. Izzy breathes out deeply, as though he’d been holding his breath.

“Thanks for not stabbing me to death with the scissors,” Izzy mutters, his voice thick, but he doesn’t move from his hunched over position.

“Well, it did cross my mind,” Stede lies, “But honestly, I don’t think they would have done much good, they’re practically falling apart. You okay? Want to lie down?” He touches Izzy shoulder, but Izzy flinches away from it.

“No, don’t want to fucking lie down. Can handle a few fucking stitches.”

“Oh,” says Stede. “Well, that’s good.”

He gets up and gets more water, offering the cup to Izzy first. Izzy just shakes his head, and Stede catches a look of his face; his eyes are wet and angry.

“Hey, hey,” says Stede gently, “None of that.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy says, hiding his face with the back of his arm.

Stede, who has never been very good at fucking off when he’s asked, crouches down in front of him and holds him by the shoulders. This time Izzy doesn’t flinch away, just curls up tighter into himself, almost definitely pulling at the new stitches.

“You’ll hurt yourself more doing that,“ Stede says.

“Don’t give a fuck,” Izzy snaps out, muffled by his arm.

Stede knows Izzy will hate him for it, knows he’ll be angry, but he can’t help it. He wraps his arms around Izzy’s shoulders, pulling Izzy into his chest. Izzy doesn’t pull away, doesn’t thrash out, doesn’t shout or swear or stab him. Instead, a sob escapes him, and he buries his face further into Stede. And Stede’s heart fucking breaks.

“My daughter, Alma,” he says softly, tentatively raising a hand to Izzy’s hair, then deciding fuck it and lacing it through the fine strands. “She gets angry when she’s hurting too.”

“’m not a fucking child. And I told you, pain doesn’t fucking-“

“I don’t mean your back.” Stede strokes his fingers through Izzy’s hair, wondering if anyone has ever been tender with him, if he’d ever allowed himself to be treated gently.

He can’t tell Izzy it will be okay. He can’t promise him anything. So he doesn’t say anything, just holds Izzy as he shakes, as he tries to contain his emotions, giving him a safe space to feel them. He feels so small in his arms. His hair smells of salt and oil.

When he feels Izzy start to relax, the tension from his shoulder’s draining, Stede just holds him tighter, but gently, mindful of his back and the bruising.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks into Izzy’s hair, but he realises it’s the wrong thing to say when Izzy tries to pull away.

“I don’t need-“

“I know you don’t,” Stede says gently, pulling him back into him. “It’s okay.”

“I’m so fucking tired,” Izzy mutters.

“Sleep,” says Stede. “I’ll wake you before morning.”

Stede’s comfortable, perched on the end of the cot with Izzy curled up against him. He slept for most of the day. It’s almost nice to have something to do while Ed sleeps next door, even if that something is just tracing his fingers through Izzy’s hair, separating the strands from his pomade of oil.

“Why don’t you hate me,” Izzy asks so quietly Stede barely hears it.

“Not very good at hating people,” Stede admits.

“Tha’s a shit disposition for a pirate.”

“‘spose,” Stede agrees.

It’s when Izzy shuffles closer that Stede’s heart starts to race. It’s not that he’s attracted to Izzy - he barely even likes him, barely knows him outside of his toxic bravado and anger management issues. But he’s suddenly and very acutely aware of the intimacy of the situation, of Izzy’s shoulder pressed against his collarbone, of Izzy’s legs pressed against his thighs. That Izzy is shirtless and all but sitting on his lap.

Then Izzy’s breath catches, as though he’s realising it too, and his hand tightens around the fabric of Stede’s shirt, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he pulls Stede into him, and when he kisses Stede it’s like a fire engulfing his whole body.

“’m not - I don’t fucking like you,” he says into Stede’s mouth. “I just need…”

“I know.”

“Hurt me,” Izzy whispers.

“No,” Stede says, but he tightens his grip in Izzy’s hair and Izzy whimpers softly, biting Stede’s lip.

Stede had always thought his next kiss would be with Ed - never doubted it, really. If not with Ed, then he would be dead. Or Ed would be dead. At the very least, there would be much more than a wall and a bookcase separating them.

There was both shame and adrenaline that came with pulling Izzy’s hair back and kissing the bruised little bird tattoo on his neck, guilt at the desperate satisfaction he felt at Izzy’s soft noises, and then an immediate horror at his aching desire to be in control of another person.

“I can’t do this,” he says, breaking away, forcing his hands to unclench from Izzy’s hair.

“Fuck him,” Izzy says coldly, only understanding half of Stede’s dilemma. He has one knee on the floor, one hand on Stede’s leg. His face is tracked with tears, his jaw set, and that only furthers the disgust Stede feels at taking advantage of him.

“It’s not Ed, well not entirely. I -“ Stede flounders. God, he wishes Izzy would move his hand.

“It’s me,” Izzy spits out, and as he stands up Stede wishes that no, actually, the hand should definitely still be on his leg.

“No, Izzy,” says Stede. “It’s not-“

“Fuck you,” says Izzy, picking up his shirt and vest.

“Izzy,” Stede says weakly, but he doesn’t know what to say to fix it.

Izzy all but kicks the frame open. He doesn’t even put his shirt back on when he leaves.

Stede falls back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, thinking he might have just signed his own death warrant.

When Stede wakes up there’s food at the door, more than usual; three pieces of tack, two oranges and a mug of cold stew. He paces as he eats, trying to shake the anxious lump in his stomach.

He’d hurt Izzy. He hadn’t meant to. And what about Ed? Where was the guilt he was supposed to be feeling at betraying him? Had he betrayed him? Ed would probably want him dead if he knew he was still alive, so it wasn’t as though they were together, but Stede still loves him and so he should probably see his reaction to Izzy as a betrayal of that love, at the very least.

And Izzy had marooned Stede’s crew. Although, Stede supposes, if he can’t hate Ed for that, he can’t fairly hate Izzy for it either.

Stede isn’t a stranger to kissing someone he doesn’t love; he’d kissed Mary often enough. But he’d never wanted to kiss Mary, there had never been any innate desire it, and there had certainly been some desire to kissing Izzy. Does that make a difference?

And what had happened to his plans to escape? He could easily have overpowered Izzy last night and left. But suddenly, he realises he wants to live - wants to live more than he wants to talk to Ed one last time.

He doesn’t look in on the cabin at all that day.

Chapter Text

It’s day twelve and Stede feels like he’s finally losing his mind. He keeps talking out loud to Lucius, narrating his time in the secret passage as though the boy is there with him, writing it all down. He tries to put his feelings about Izzy and the kiss into words, and instead finds himself explaining why he can’t say them out loud, because he doesn’t even understand them himself, really.

Mirage Lucius just nods wisely at that.

Izzy doesn’t come back the next day - no one does - and then food and water appear while he sleeps. Fang comes in the day after that, tells him they’re not far off from San Juan, and that Izzy has the escape sorted, that Stede shouldn’t worry. That’s comforting, at least, that Izzy hasn’t forsaken him entirely.

When Stede wakes up one morning to find Izzy asleep next to him, he doesn’t really question it, isn’t even entirely sure if he’s real. Just curls up around him and goes back to sleep, as Izzy mutters something about him being a fucking pain in the ass.

When he wakes up again he’s only a little surprised to find Izzy still there, his sleeping face inches from his own. His hair is lacking it’s usual pomade, falling around his cheekbones and over his forehead.

The cut on his face is healing well, Stede thinks. He traces a finger over the tattoo next to it, and realises for the first time what it means; It’s Ed’s signature, a little cross. Izzy twitches slightly at the touch.

This is the only place you feel safe.

He’s known it for a while now, really.

He kisses Izzy, with every intention of being gentle this time. He does it partially because he wants to, but also because he thinks it’s what Izzy wants, or needs. Izzy stirs and mutters something, it might have been a Fuck off, but his mouth reacts to Stede’s gentle presses. His back is to the wall, but not touching it, and Stede is careful not to push him into it. He snakes a hand under Izzy’s waist, under his shirt, and pulls him closer.

Stede’s breath hitches in a soft, ‘oh’, as Izzy slides his leg between Stede’s. Izzy’s lip quirks at that, but his eyes are still closed and that’s a small relief because Stede isn’t really ready to talk yet and there’s something about eye contact that makes not talking a lot harder.

So instead he pulls Izzy even closer, and in the process slides Izzy’s leg further up, and god he didn’t mean it to, but the pressure of it feels so good, and fuck, Izzy’s eyes are open now, dark and grey and amused.

“Good morning,” Stede says weakly.

“Wanker,” Izzy says, and then leans forward into Stede’s neck and Jesus fucking bites him. Stede yelps and twists, pulling Izzy with him, until Izzy is straddling him.

Izzy smirks down at him, then moves closer, almost to a kiss. “‘morning,” he says, his mouth inches from Stede’s. God, how quickly this man can wake himself up. He laces his fingers around Stede’s wrist, pinning it down, deep into the makeshift mattress. Stede is sure Izzy can feel his pulse, thrumming against his palm.

Stede wants to touch his own neck, where it stings, but his free hand is gripped so tightly in Izzy’s shirt that he thinks he’s forgotten how his own fingers work.

He hadn’t expected him to come back, but he hadn’t expected him not to come back either.

“What do you want?” Izzy asks, almost demurely, as though he’s done this a million times before, and Stede is feeling more than a little panicky when he replies.

“I - I don’t know?”

Izzy pulls back slightly at that. “The fuck you mean you don’t know?”

“I - I’ve never…. I’ve never done this,” says Stede, swallowing.

“Seriously?”

Stede gives a small, tight shake of his head.

“He lost his fucking mind and you’re ready to fucking die for him, and you never…?”

Izzy looks genuinely perplexed, letting go of Stede to push his hair back from his face. “I should go,” he says, but doesn’t show any intention of moving. “Didn’t even mean to fall asleep. Fuck.”

In the space of about three seconds, Stede considers three things. Does he want Izzy to leave? No. Is he ready for what Izzy wants? Probably not.

Does he want to do it anyway?

“Well,” says Stede, slowly, evenly, consideringly. “What do you want?”

Izzy’s eyes flicker over Stede’s face, as though he might find a secret hidden in the question. There’s confusion, and hesitation, and concern too. And the way Stede’s heart flutters to see it, in a giddiness that will absolutely send him in a spiral of overthinking tomorrow.

For clarities sake, Stede pulls Izzy back down by his shirt and wraps his hand around the back of his neck.

“What do you want?” Stede repeats, his voice small but firm. He tries not to let the anxiety or adrenaline show. “Tell me.”

“What I want.” Izzy almost laughs, his voice rough and low. He snakes his hand up to Stede’s waistband, deftly snapping the buttons undone. He moves slowly, as though he’s waiting for Stede to pull away; instead, Stede pulls him closer.

“I want your hand in my fucking hair,” Izzy says, comparatively too gently for the words. “I want you to bite me until I fucking bleed.” He slides his hand below the leather and Stede forgets how to breathe. “And I want you so far down my fucking throat I forget who the fuck I am.”

Stede breaks his composure, whimpering as Izzy presses his mouth to his, flicking his tongue towards the roof of Stede’s mouth.

“Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes,” Stede breathes at last.

“Good,” says Izzy quietly. “Now let’s try this again.”

Izzy’s asleep again, curled up and very, very naked, draped over him and breathing gently. And Stede is tracing circles in his hair like this isn’t the weirdest situation he’s ever found himself in.

He should wake him up. He really doesn’t want to, but he should. He can’t bear Izzy’s punishment a second time, especially considering this time it really would be his fault. So he disentangles himself gently, and goes to check on the cabin.

Ed is asleep, one arm dropping over the edge of the bed, fingers inches from a bottle of brandy. Something simultaneously dances in Stede's heart and sinks in his stomach at the sight of him, but he pushes it away. The moon through the window is low on the horizon; it’s almost dawn.

Stede looks down at Izzy. He doesn’t look all that angry when he’s sleeping.

He pulls on his clothes and then, in a spur of the moment decision, he checks the passageway door, flicking the latch with his finger. It lifts and the picture frame swings out.

His chest is hammering and he pokes his head out. It’s dark except for the light of the deck lanterns through the stained glass door. He moves back into the secret passage and drapes Izzy’s clothes over his shoulder, then slides his arms under Izzy’s sleeping body.

“Mhm,” Izzy mutters, but curls himself into the embrace. He weighs more than he looks, Stede decides as he lifts him carefully. Or, just as likely, Stede has lost some of his hard-earned pirate physique from being locked in a tiny passage for almost two weeks.

Somehow Izzy doesn’t wake up as Stede carries him out the picture doorway. He nudges the frame shut with his hip, and suddenly feels very exposed in the hallway. Well, there’s no going back now, not without waking Izzy up, and “I’m just carrying you to bed,” feels like a thoroughly awkward conversation Stede doesn’t really want to have. So he slinks up to the door to the deck, miraculously managing to open it without moving much at all, and waits with baited breath for any sign of life.

There’s only the lapping of the waves against the ship, and the wind tugging gently at a loose flap of sail. There’s no one at the stern and the sails are reefed; anchored for the night. No one sleeping on deck either, thank god; Stede has no idea what the crew’s reaction to finding a stranger carrying a naked Israel Hands across deck would be, but he imagines it would be quick and lethal.

It’s a short but awkward trip to the stairs and then down to Jim’s old room. Izzy keeps a sparse and tidy quarters. There’s a pot of honey-based ointment on the bedside drawer, and a candle. A box at the foot of the bed for clothes. It’s otherwise empty; no trinkets or pictures or books, or any personality at all. Stede is almost disappointed.

He folds Izzy’s clothes after tucking Izzy in. Izzy mutters repeatedly and indiscernibly in his sleep, curling his face into the blanket.

Stede wants more than anything to curl up with him, in a real bed, under a blanket, but he forces himself back out and onto the deck. He enjoys the wind on his face, the familiarity of the salty sea air, as long as he dares.

Then he sneaks back down the hallways, presses the top right corner ornate leaf of the frame. It swings open and he steps inside, shutting it behind himself and returning to bed in his dark little cell of a room, alone.

There’s been a fight. Stede wasn’t able to hear anything, but he saw Ed prepare in his room, test the weight of his sword as though he hasn’t used it in a while. And then, a few hours later, Ed had returned with a bullet in his arm, making a very nervous Frenchie pick it out while he snapped incessantly at him.

Stede assumes it went well, but he has no way to tell from Ed’s demeanour. Are Izzy, Ivan and Fang still alive? What happens to Stede if they die? Well, he supposes, the door is still unlocked, so he could just escape himself when they get to San Juan.

Stede doesn’t want them to be dead - or more than that, really, if he’s being honest with himself. He hopes they’re alive, and unhurt, and on the ship, not being ported off to some jail cell somewhere. Stede wants to think Ed would go after them if they’ve been captured.

He hates seeing Ed hurt, hates to think of the damage a bullet can do to muscle and ligaments, hates that it’s Ed’s dominant, sword fighting arm.

He hates to wonder what might have kept Izzy from protecting him.

Relief floods Stede when Ivan enters the secret passage, hair pulled back uncharacteristically from his face.

“What happened?” Stede asks immediately, getting to his feet.

Ivan raises an eyebrow at him as he closes the frame behind him. He has something in a sack tucked under his arm, and he’s still wearing his pistol at his hip, but he looks unharmed.

“How’d you know something happened?” Ivan asks.

“We’ve been anchored for hours,” Stede says, improvising, “and, well, we’re not exactly becalmed.”

“You can tell that, from the rock of the boat?” Ivan looks impressed - if Izzy hasn’t told him about the peepholes, Stede isn’t about to. “Just a raid, the usze’. British ship, barely even manned. Easy as nothin’,” he says with a grin. “A pleasure cruise, so mostly women and children and fancy old men in fancy clothes. Best haul in ages - a couple of people got shot by some crazy lady with an eyepatch, but nothing lethal. Here,” Ivan digs into the sack, “got you some books.”

“Who got shot?”

“Boss, in the arm. Got it shoving Fang outta the line of fire, that was unexpected. And our navigator, you dunno him, but he’ll survive. Fang’s on the wheel at the moment.”

Ivan hands him the small stack of tomes. “I dunno what you like, so I picked the ones with nice covers. How come your wrists are free?” he asks, but more with curiosity than suspicion.

“Izzy untied them,” says Stede with a shrug. “Decided I’m not stupid enough to try and escape, I ‘spose.”

Ivan grins. “Really?” he says. “You’re not?”

“Guess I’ve decided to live after all.” Stede offers him a small, tight smile. “He said we’ll be in San Juan in a couple of days? Honestly, I’m not sure if I can get through all these by then.”

“Well better late than never, right?” Ivan says. “I dunno how long books take to read. You can take ‘em with you - probs should, actually. We won’t need ‘em and they’re, uh - dangerous cargo at the moment. Had to sneak them off the ship with the onions, so if they’re a bit smelly…”

“This one -“ Stede pauses as he realises, his fingers hovering over then cover, then looks up at Ivan accusingly. “This is one of my old books - you said they’d all been gotten rid of.”

“Huh? Oh yeah,” says Ivan, surprised. “You sure it’s not a different copy?”

“Positive,” says Stede quietly, toying with the latch over the cover of Troilius and Cressida.

“We threw most of them overboard, and sold the few that were left when Blackbeard calmed down a bit. Guess we stole back one of the ones we sold. Good book then?”

“Absolutely excellent,” says Stede, trying for a more convincing smile this time. “Thank you, Ivan.”

Stede waits patiently but anxiously for Ivan to leave before twisting the latch on the book - three notches to the left, and one more at a right angle. It clicks open, just as he expects. And there, inside the carved little hollow of pages and stuck with pine gum to the back cover, are the keys to the rest of the passageways.

Stede swallows, pulling them away from the gum. It rips the paper a little, so he spends some time peeling the paper way, rubbing off the gum with his thumb and forefinger. They’re still tacky in his hands, but a comforting weight. A power he didn’t have before.

A power they didn’t have before.

“Bonnet, how the fuck did I get to bed?”

“Well, I didn’t want to wake you, and-“

“The fuck you mean you didn’t want to wake me?”

Izzy is angry, and well, Stede should have expected that, but it still hurts.

“You haven’t slept properly for days, Izzy, maybe weeks. I can tell. You needed the sleep, and I just didn’t want to wake you.”

Izzy stares at him, his anger dissolving into frustration.

“Months,” he says, sitting down with an almost petulant expression as Stede shuffles over for him. “Haven’t slept for fucking months. This fucking ship is driving me fucking crazy.”

“Do you know why you can’t sleep? The cause?”

“The fucking cause?” Izzy laughs drily. “Blackbeard is the fucking cause.”

“Ah,” says Stede. “Is it the toe thing, or just Blackbeard being Blackbeard in general?”

“‘Course it’s the fucking toe thing, or part of it. You try and sleep after having someone come into your fucking private space and cut off your fucking toe in your fucking sleep.”

“It was a bit extreme,” Stede agrees. He’s not sure how critical he’s allowed to be of Ed, around Izzy.

“A bit? And yeah, well.” Izzy shrugs. “Alcohol helps. And the fighting. But it’s my own fault, I fucking dug the grave myself, didn’t I.”

“What do you mean?”

Izzy looks away, a flicker of something - perhaps resignation - in his expression, before replying. “It’s my fault he’s like this,” he says. “When you left him, I called him out. Told him to get his shit together. Made him feel pathetic. And don’t misunderstand - I wanted him fucking back, still do. My Blackbeard. A real fucking pirate, not someone writing poetry and holding bloody talent shows for your kindergarten crew.”

“Kindergarten crew? That’s just mean.”

Izzy ignores him. “So he changed, didn’t he? Became the Blackbeard he thought I wanted.” He pauses. “And then add some. Then add a fucking lot, actually.”

Stede swallows this. “He made the choice,” he says. “Not you.”

“Didn’t think it would be like this,” Izzy says, shrinking into himself, the way he does when he feels vulnerable, Stede has noticed. “This is worse than how he was before. He’s borderline suicidal - and absolutely fucking homicidal - and taking us all down with him.”

“You’re not responsible for him,” Stede finds himself saying, but something gnaws at his stomach. He should feel relief, really, that this isn’t all his fault, and angry too. But he just feels… cold. Not angry, or relieved - just a shiver of anxiety - another uncomfortable layer of something that needs to be peeled away before Ed can be his - or theirs - again.

“I am,” Izzy is saying. “Always have been, always will be.”

Stede is quiet for a moment, and then, “Come with me, to San Juan,” he says firmly, and this time, for the first time, he finds he really means it. “Sleep deprivation can kill a man too, you know,” he adds, trying to lighten the mood a little.

“Already told you,” Izzy says, emotionless and not taking the bait. “This is my life. I’ll deal with it.”

“Deal with it how?”

“My way.”

“Is your way keeping your head down, getting lashed and beaten whenever he’s in a bad mood, and waiting for the nightmares to go away?” Stede says, trying to keep the frustration from his voice.

“Fuck off,” Izzy mutters.

Stede sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “What about putting a lock on your door?”

“Yes, I’m sure Blackbeard would love that,” says Izzy with a curl of his lip, “being locked out on his own ship.”

“You have a right to privacy.”

“Do I?”

“Of course.”

“This is Blackbeards ship. I’m Blackbeard’s man. Can do whatever the fuck he wants with me. ‘belong to him, don’t I?”

“Oh, Izzy.”

“Don’t fucking look at me like that” Izzy all but snaps. “We’ll be in San Juan soon. Got you a dinghy with some supplies.”

“I have something for you, actually,” Stede says, making a decision in the moment. He fishes his hand under the mattress until he finds the stashed keys. “If you need somewhere to escape to,” he says, holding them out.

“The fuck is this?”

“They’re keys to the secret passages.”

Izzy looks at him stupidly. “There are more of these fucking rooms?” he asks after a beat.

Stede grins at that. “Yep!” he says. “Although even Lucius doesn’t know the extent of them.”

“No wonder the ship feels so fucking small. You had these the whole fucking time?”

“No, no! Absolutely not, I would have used them a lot sooner if I had. Ivan gave them to me, unwittingly of course - he had no idea. Still doesn’t. They were in a book.” He hesitates before dropping them into Izzy’s hand. “Keep them secret.”

Izzy holds them in his palm, looking down at them with a conflicted expression.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly.

“Of course.”

Stede feels nervous when the day comes. Not just for himself, but for Fang, Izzy and Ivan too. He spends most of the day pacing the room, after Fang ducks his head in to say they’ll be docking in a few hours.

The plan isn’t much of a plan; they’ll wait until nightfall, and then for Ed to leave the ship or sleep, whichever comes first. Fang has left Stede’s boots and a pile of old clothes for him to change into - not that his current outfit is particularly conspicuous, but a few more layers to help disguise him, just in case.

Izzy will be the one to take him to the dinghy, while Ivan keeps watch. Fang will row him to shore, then row the dinghy back to the ship.

There’s so much that might go wrong. Ed’s crew might stay on deck to drink and talk and sleep - The weather isn’t very predictable this time of year, but only one man needs to catch them out and it’s over. For them all, probably.

And what if that one man is Ed?

He looks in on Ed, who’s laying on the window bed in the red robe he’s surprisingly kept. He looks so sad and small, balancing a bottle of brandy on his chest and picking at the label, muttering something inaudible to himself.

It’s a hard decision to make, to not see him, to not speak to him. But Stede has made his mind up.

He’s dressed in a heavy hooded cloak when Izzy steps in.

“Look like a fucking beggar,” Izzy comments with a sniff, “but it’ll do. Here.” He holds out something small and shiny in his palm.

“My ring!” Stede exclaims. “I thought I lost it.”

“Would Blackbeard recognise it?”

Stede blinks. “Yes,” he says, confused. “I think he would.”

“Good. You’ll pawn it off in the morning. There’s a shop opposite the hospital, three streets over from the bank. Don’t know the name, can’t read, doesn’t matter. Green paint, you can’t miss it. Make up some bullshit about getting it from the Gentleman Pirate. Make it sound recent. Make it convincing.”

“I don’t understand,” is all Stede can say.

“You need to do it before noon,” Izzy says.

“Okay,” says Stede. “But why. I quite like this ring, you know.”

“Tomorrow Ed and I will go there. He’ll see the ring. Ask about it.”

“Oh,” says Stede, but he’s still confused.

“He’ll know you’re alive.”

“Oh,” says Stede with more understanding now, but then he stops to consider it. “Wait, no, I’m still not quite sure I follow.”

Izzy sighs in exasperation. “Just trust me,” he says. “In a month, we’ll be in Oranjestad.”

“Okay?”

“You’ll meet us there, with your crew.”

Stede is trying to piece it all together. “Then what?”

“Blackbeard will… he’ll know you’re alive. He’ll have had some time to sit on it, process it, to decide what to do.” Izzy is pacing now. “If we have two flags raised, it will mean we’ve decided it’s worthwhile for you to try and board us. He won’t expect it - we barely have any crew left, and no one fucks with him anyway so he won’t take on any new men. It’ll be easy picking, even for your lot. You can take the ship, and decide what to do with him then.”

“Thats… mutiny?”

“Yes.”

“And if you raise one flag?”

“Then get the fuck out of out of the Caribbean and never come back.”

“Oh,” is all Stede says. His heart and mind are racing. “What if you forget to raise the second flag? What if he stops you?”

“I won’t,” says Izzy. “And he won’t.” Izzy steps forward, towards Stede, and pulls the hood further over Stede’s head. He ties the dirty, frayed ribbon under Stede’s chin, not meeting Stede’s eyes and looking almost scared.

“Izzy,” Stede says softly, cupping his chin and tilting his face up, forcing him to look at Stede. “Thank you.”

Izzy scowls. “Whatever,” he says gruffly, stepping back and out of Stede’s reach. “Let’s go.”

Ivan is crouched in the hallway, one finger to his lips. He nods at the cabin door - Ed must be asleep. Ivan passes Stede his sword silently as Izzy guides him past him to the door. Stede doesn’t say anything, but hopes his look of appreciation is enough.

Izzy steps out onto deck first, then motions for Stede to follow him. The city is all around them, twinkling windows scaling up hills. Voices travel from the docks; drunks and sailors and shrill working women. It’s almost a shock to be so close to civilisation.

The dinghy lines are half lowered. Izzy nods towards it. “They’re already waiting,” he says quietly.

Stede swallows. “Izzy,” he says, then not sure what else to do, he hugs him tightly, pressing their cheeks together. “You still won’t come with me?”

Izzy shakes his head, but Stede feels his hand tentatively reaching up to sit on the small of Stede’s back.

“Look after yourself,” Stede says.

“Before noon,” Izzy reminds him. “Don’t forget.”

“Noon,” says Stede, nodding. He’s not sure what possess him, but he kisses Izzy gently on the cheek, and when he pulls back Izzy’s ears are tipped in pink. Stede grins at him.

When he looks over at the dinghy, he catches Fang and Frenchie’s wide-eyed faces staring back at him, where they’re now standing up in the little boat, their heads peeking above the deck.

Frenchie. Izzy was letting Frenchie go.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, looking back.

“Just fuck off already,” Izzy tells him, looking away. “I’ll deal with it.”

Stede sidles himself over the side of the ship, with Fang and Frenchie’s help, and into the dinghy. Frenchie hugs him so hard he can barely breathe.

“Missed you, Captain,” Frenchie says.

When Stede looks back, as Fang quietly lowers them into the water, Izzy is no longer on deck. But as they row away and towards the city port, Stede thinks he catches sight of him pulling himself up into the crows nest. Stede raises one hand in a small farewell.