Chapter Text
They’re going to be okay. They’re going to make it.
He believes it now, he finally lets himself believe it. He’s carried the hard pit of doubt and fear for so long in his chest that it feels like part of him, a growth that has become an organ has become a heart.
But it’s a shaky plan, it’s a lacking plan, it’s not one of his best plans. And he knows it, but he stuffs it down deep in his stomach, won’t taste it, won’t feel it. Because Stede said yes. They’re running together. They can do anything together.
Sitting in a rowboat, taking turns pulling the oars in the oarlocks, Ed stares at his beautiful, gentle face and can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he’s here, with him, really here and now but their knees are touching, and Stede’s hand is on Ed’s thigh. They’re pressed together in a small boat, and the sun is coming up, crimson staining the sky.
It’s an omen. He knows it’s an omen. He refuses to acknowledge it. He won’t give it any power. He won’t. He can’t.
100 miles to St. Vincent. Okay. That’s okay. It’s the closest. It’s a straight shot north.
But that's 20 days at sea. Too long.
So not north. Around, work around. Row down the coast, keep the beaches on his right, away from Bridgetown, towards Christ Church. They can lay low in Oistins for a few days. Find a ship. Begin again. And then: St. Vincent, St. Lucia, the world beyond. China.
That’s better. That’s easier. It’s only a few hours under the strength of their arms; it will be easy to slip away.
The day is beautiful. The wind is soft. It's the middle of October and everything is calm, the ocean is placid, the water glitters pink as a hibiscus flower in the dawning light.
They’re so close, when the wind picks up. They’re so close when the sky draws down, dark, gray-black like the beard he left behind.
Stede is worried, lines creasing his gentle face. He doesn’t say anything.
So Ed doesn’t either.
The dark doesn’t creep up slowly. It’s on them at once, like plunging into a dark cabin from the brilliant light of the deck.
“How long?” Stede asks.
“Not long,” Ed replies. “Not long now, love.”
The endearment is clumsy in his mouth, unfamiliar, almost too sweet. But Stede smiles when he says it. He’ll say it every day until it feels like his own, a word Ed might know, a word Ed can use.
The waves rise, slapping against the hull of the little boat, cold and green. The water soaks their feet, their stockings, their breeches. Stede’s mouth is a tight thin line.
The rain begins. Lightning crackles overhead.
“Ed,” he says.
“I see it,” Ed replies tersely.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
The ship lurches in the waves. Maybe there is a light on the island. It’s hard to tell. The soupy inky darkness of the storm envelops them, pressing down on them, a hand on the back of their necks. He’s not making progress, each stroke gaining no ground, the dinghy pushed back by indifferent waves. Don’t you know how hard I’ve worked? Can’t I have just this one thing, this one precious thing?
The rain whips against their faces, almost sideways now, stinging against his freshly-shaved cheeks. Stede’s blonde curls are dark, muted, plastered to his face.
“Take the oars”, Ed barks. He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, so dominant. It’s a hard habit to break.
Stede takes them, their fingers brushing.
“Ed -”
“Keep her steady,” he orders.
“What are you -”
“You’ll keep her steady?”
“Yes,” Stede nods. “Yes. Of course.”
Ed finds a rope. He ties it around his waist, fingers slipping on the wet rough fibers. He secures the other end through one of the oarlocks. Yes, there’s a light on the coast. They can do this. He can do this.
He stands. Stede’s features are wet and bleary, but his eyes catch the flash of the lightning.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to bring us in.”
“Ed, no - wait, please -”
“Keep her steady, mate.”
Ed dives into the sea. He pulls against the waves, up and up, grabs hold of the nose of the dinghy. Spitting water and hair out of his mouth, he’s dragging the boat by sheer force of will, because the light on the island is getting brighter.
They’re so close. They’re going to make it.
He should know better than to trust a lighthouse.
A wave smashes Ed sideways into a rock just below the surface. The rope is sheared from around his waist against the knife-sharp face. His knee, his thigh, his ribs explode with pain, the water warming around him alarmingly. He splutters, trying to keep his head above the surface, as another wave drags him down again. He loses his grip on the lip of the dinghy and he’s pushed under, fighting against an enemy with no feelings and no mercy. The metallic tastes of his own blood and the briny salt of the sea fill his mouth. He kicks out, pushes off the jagged rock, breaks the surface in time to see the storm wash over the rowboat, submerging it for an instant.
“Stede!” he screams into the storm. The dinghy bobs above the waves. It is empty. “STEDE!”
The wind howls in reply.
Frantic, he propels himself sideways against the current, towards the little boat that was meant to take them to freedom. He’s close, and now the glare of the lighthouse is blinding, beyond it he can see the lights from the little town shining through the storm, and he lunges out to catch the lip of the dingy -
Another wave knocks him back, throws him under the surface. Another rock waits. He feels, more than hears, a sickening crack inside his skull and then everything goes dark.
***
When he comes to, he doesn’t know where he is. A clutch of worried townspeople are staring down at him.
“Oh, my blessed lord,” an older man says. “He’s alive.”
Ed responds by rolling over and vomiting a copious amount of seawater.
“You poor man,” a fishmonger replies, twisting her hands in her apron. Another woman offers him a ragged but plain handkerchief. “How on earth did you come to be out in that storm? Did you get blown overboard? What’s your ship?”
“It’s a miracle he’s alive,” the first man says. The others nod gravely. And in a flash, it comes back to Ed. The storm. The rocks. The dinghy, empty.
“Stede,” Ed rasps. His eyes dart from face to face.
“Steve?” The fishmonger asks. “Is that your name? Steve?”
“He’s hit his head,” one of them says. “Lookie. Right above his eye.”
“We’ve got to get him back to town,” the older man takes charge. “Come on, man. Up you go. Can you stand?”
Two sets of arms pull him bodily from the wet sand, and set him on his feet. He wobbles dangerously but discovers that, in fact, his legs will hold him. His side is screaming from the impact against the rock.
“C’mon, Steve,” the man says kindly. “I’ll get you home to my missus. We’ll get you a hot meal. We’ll sort you out.”
“No - no, I - there was a man -”
Their faces all blur together. He can’t stand to see the pity there.
“Well, maybe he’s gone on before you into town,” the old fisherman says kindly. “Now you come along. We’ll get you some dry clothes and a good meal and we’ll sort out finding your friend.”
No one responds to that. No one says, I’m sure he’s fine.
Meekly, Ed allows himself to be half-dragged, half-carried, towards the edge of Bridgetown. Fuck, Ed thinks. The storm pushed them all the way back. They deposit him in the fisherman’s house - little better than a shack, it reminds him of his own home growing up - and his wife takes one look at Ed’s pale face, his tattered clothing, and starts barking orders at her gawky, teenaged sons. And soon Ed’s wrapped in a scratchy woolen blanket, wearing pants too short for him, with a bowl of pottage in front of him as the floor lurches below his feet.
“Now, Steve,” the man says. “What is your ship? How’d you get all the way out here?”
“Uh,” Ed replies helpfully.
“Go on, lad,” the man encourages.
“Don’t push him so,” the wife scolds, pressing a hot cup of weak tea into Ed’s other hand. “Poor thing, he’s been through the ringer. Tossed out in the waves like that. No wonder he’s shaken up.” She smiles kindly at Ed. How long has it been since anyone looked at him like this? Almost…motherly. Ed shifts awkwardly in his seat.
“Uh,” he says again. “I…I was on a merchant vessel. The…uh…the…” he thinks frantically, trying to remember one of the ships he’s seen around Bridgetown before. “The Santa Ana,” he says wildly, hoping to get lucky. “We were to get back to her in a dinghy when the storm hit. My friend…I was with my friend.” He swallows. “I’ve got to find my friend.”
Thankfully the couple is nodding as if they’ve heard all about the fictional Santa Ana. “Oh, yes, right. My goodness. What a fright you’ve had. What did you say your friend’s name is?”
“Bonnet,” Ed says softly.
“Bonnet! That’s quite the name around these parts,” the man exclaims. “Well, there’s the Widow Bonnet, up the hill in the posh neighborhood. Any relation?”
“No,” Ed says hastily. “No, I don’t think so. He’s not from around here. Neither of us are.”
“Of course,” the wife says hastily. “Now, Hector, stop badgering the poor dear. Let him eat his supper and get some sleep here by the fire. In the morning,” she turns to Ed, “you can drive into Town and see about your Mr Bonnet.”
“Thank you,” Ed says quietly. He eats in silence, letting their conversation wash over him. The food and tea has no taste at all.
Later, when the fisherman has banked the fire and Ed’s curled up on the floor before the hearth, wrapped in the itchy blanket. There’s no question of sleeping.
He should stay, probably. But instead he waits until the noises from the bed cease, and then he stands up in the dark, moving quietly, and slips out the door into the night.
The storm has swept the sky clear of clouds and the stars burn down like thousands of glowworms. They would light up all the gum trees, in the summers. Ed shuts the cottage door behind him and breathes in the night air shakily.
“Think, dickfuck,” he mutters to himself. “Think, think.” He pushes off the cottage, thrusting his hands deep into his borrowed pockets, and walks towards the dark town.
Bonnet. The old couple - they mentioned the Bonnets. Here, in Bridgetown. Widow Bonnet, up the hill.
Stede was married. Before he left.
There are some lamps still lit in Bridgetown proper - mostly from the few noisy taverns that he passes. Fuck, he could really use a drink. Pushing his tangled hair back from his face, he continues walking up the hill.
There’s a fuckton of fancy houses up here, Christ. He knew Stede had money, but this…it’s completely foreign to Ed. It reminds him a little of the Carmody estate, where his mum used to work. A huge fuck-off gate, glass in all the windows - stained glass, Jesus fuck, all kinds of flowers in reds and oranges and yellows. Lush green gardens, steaming in the heat from the storm.
And a plaque that, he hopes, reads BONNET on the wall. The first letter is a B, but that’s as far as he can get.
Ed tries the gate. Locked, of course. And too high to scale, and too many pointy bits on the top.
“Fuck,” he hisses. Probably got servants or big fuck-off dogs waiting to rip his balls off (if the fence didn’t quite do the job).
There’s nothing for it. He’s going to have to wait.
He slumps down by the gate, in the shadow of the big house, and curls himself tightly beneath the stolen blanket, his mind reeling.
Should he go back to the docks? Should he try and steal a boat, look for Stede’s body washed up on the beach?
Bile rises in his throat at the thought.
No, he can’t bring himself to leave this place where Stede was once: alive and whole and, if not happy, at least safe. Being here is as close to Stede as he can be right now. And maybe in the morning, the gate will open, and those soft hazel eyes will light him up.
All he can do is wait.
***
He’s awoken by a bucket of cold water being thrown over his head.
“Fuck!” He splutters, wiping his face angrily. He looks up at his assailant.
A pretty woman, maybe ten years younger than he is, is glaring down at him, holding up the bucket like a shield in front of her. She’s dark haired, dark eyed, with a little low nose, a little pointed chin, a face shaped like a heart. She reminds him of a fox; cautious, narrow-boned, enchanting. She’s wearing black and white but the wind blows her skirts and she’s got a red petticoat underneath her widow’s weeds. She’s gripping a dripping bucket in her white knuckles.
“I’ve got no money for you,” She hisses. “Get lost. Stop loitering around my gate. You’re scaring my children.”
And Ed can’t think of anything in this moment except the certainty that this vixen in her dusty black gown has to be Mary fucking Bonnet.
Stede’s fucking wife.
“Mary?” He croaks, pushing his wet hair back from his face. She freezes, large brown eyes glittering in the early-morning light.
“It’s Widow Bonnet to you,” She says, hands on her hips, the bucket looped through the soft crease of her elbow. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m a - a friend of Stede’s.” Ed closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath. “Is he - is he here?”
She stares at him, mouth slack, and then jerks her head towards the house.
“You’d better come inside,” she says, voice low in her throat.
Ed follows her up the fancy gravel path, conscious of his heavy tread on the stones. Mary opens the door and ushers Ed inside. Then she turns, blocking his way.
“Can I ask: are you - are you, well, a pirate?”
Ed swallows, thrown a little by her question. His voice is rough when he answers. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m a pirate.”
“Thank God,” Mary says with a relieved sigh. “I didn’t know if you’d know where to look for him.”
“Uh -”
“You’ve got to take him back with you, wherever it is you came from,” she says in a low-pitched voice. “He’s been up all night, crying and calling out, and he couldn’t tell me where he’s been or why he showed up here soaked to the bone and shivering, and barefoot, and his feet all cut up like he’s walked for miles.” She swallows. “And a great big gash on the back of his head. Had to hold him down to stitch it up.”
“What -”
“The last time I heard from Stede, he’d left me a letter telling me he’d run off to sea, was going to become a pirate. Well, I don’t know where I’m supposed to track down a pirate to come retrieve him. So I’m glad you’re here.”
“Retrieve him?”
“He doesn’t belong here,” Mary says firmly. “I have a life, a new life, and Stede - he’s the past. He’s not meant to be here. He belongs out there. With you. With - with other people like you.”
“Is he - where is he?” Ed can’t decide if he’s relieved that Stede’s alive, or terrified at what shape he’s in, or totally confused over the anger Mary’s simmering with. How could Stede leave without talking to her? All he ever wants to do is talk things through.
“In our bedroom,” Mary says crisply. “Where I never expected him to be again. But here we are.”
“Here we are,” Ed says helplessly, spreading out his arms. As if he could hold all of this, somehow.
“He’s - he’s confused,” she says, turning on her heel to lead him towards the stairs. Ed hesitates for a moment but gamely follows the hem of Mary’s black skirt up the fine Turkish carpet. “Maybe seeing you will help.”
Ed tries to think of something to say. But he’s overwhelmed: he’s here, in Stede’s big fuck-off house, with Stede’s little wife swaying down the hallway before him, a foot shorter than he is but tough as nails, he can tell just looking at her. So he just dutifully trails behind her, hoping he’s not leaving too much dirt on the carpet.
She opens the door and holds out her arm, gesturing him through.
The room is insane. Giant bed, headboard as tall as he is, all padded with velvet and piled with sumptuous quilts. It’s a massive bed, bigger than any bed that Ed has ever slept in, and Stede looks small in it.
He’s asleep, dark circles under his eyes, looking a bit battered and worse for wear but alive, blessedly alive.
Ed sinks down at the foot of the bed, not even noticing when Mary leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.
Tentatively, Ed reaches out and rests his hand on top of Stede’s. He’s so terribly still.
“Stede, love,” he whispers.
Stede’s eyes flutter open.
“Hello,” he says, and for one lovely moment everything is fine. Everything will be perfect. Stede’s here, he’s safe, he’s alive. They’re together.
“Stede, thank God you’re alright,” he whispers. “Thank God I found you.”
And then Stede’s brow creases, and he gently pulls his hand away from Ed’s.
“I’m so sorry,” Stede says, looking a little embarrassed, “but we - have we met before?”