When the great Blackbeard was a younger man, a fresh, beardless face in the world of piracy, someone gave him a wise piece of advice.

'When the seas bein' a bitch, and you feel like you're gonna puke up your guts, look to the horizon, kid.'

Now, at the time, that had been very helpful. And it would be very helpful presently, especially considering the current predicament he found himself in. The one problem: he couldn't find the fucking horizon!

His hands were cemented on the helm of his ship, holding on for dear life. He wasn't holding on to steer, he wasn't in control anymore. He held on to not go flying off along with everything else on the ship. The sea was ruthless when she was angry, and he was at her mercy. Waves relentlessly bashed the ship in all directions. Strong winds and stinging rain blinded him, and the crying creaks of the ship grew louder as each wave passed over.

By now he would have yelled for Izzy, told him to man the wheel as he plotted the next course of action, one that best-case scenario wouldn't end in them all dead. He would have called for Izzy, if the man hadn't been thrown overboard by a dick in a powder wig, only about thirty minutes prior.

The fearsome Blackbeard grit his teeth, another wave crashing over the edge of the weary ship. This time, it tipped and nearly capsized, sending a body - dead most likely - to slide along and off the deck, a stupid wig following him into the water.

The Brits had been tailing them for weeks before they finally shook them off, or thought they had anyway. None of them realised until it was too late what was really happening. So when the navy ship had them cornered, and there was no way out but to fight their way out, it didn't seem like that much of a problem. It would be just another Tuesday for them. No biggie.

Yes biggie, actually. Because what they hadn't expected, when they were so close to winning and being done with the whole damn thing, was that the brothers Zeus and fucking Poseidon had other plans. Blackbeard was sure it wouldn't be long now before he would be meeting Hades. He would have laughed, if any of this was actually funny.

Surprise to contrary belief, duelling on a boat that is moving like a bull after seeing red, trying to buck you off at every turn, is much more of a challenge than one might think. When Izzy went, everything else sort of followed suit and went to shit too. That was how Blackbeard got where he was, Izzy-less, crewless, covered in slices and full of holes, mainly on the left side thankfully. If he weren't so hopped up on adrenaline and being an inch away from death by angry ocean lady, he might actually be feeling a few more of those holes.

As yet another wave sliced through the air and his ship, he wondered how much more either of them could take. Not much more, he would reckon, if he were making an educated guess.

Being bounced around like a paper boat, it was difficult to pinpoint exactly where you were. Blackbeard was sure he'd seen that stretch of ocean before, and that wave seemed oddly familiar, but that wasn't possible. It was too incredibly chaotic to even possibly guess where he was. Besides, where he thought he was, there should also be a lighthouse, and he saw no—

A light flicked on in the distance.

Except it wasn't in the distance, really, it was right fucking in front of him, and Blackbeard, along with his ship, was heading straight towards it.

Now he saw the rocks, jagged and dark like the teeth of a jaguar. It was too late to change course now, even if he was able to. All he could do was now brace for impact and hope to fuck it ended quick.

The ship quaked as its sides were scraped and impaled by the rocks below, wood flying in every direction. Then it struck a large rock and Blackbeard was thrown off and into the air like a ragdoll.

His back hit something, maybe a rock, maybe part of the ship. Then, everything went dark.

"Hello! Hello! Is anyone there!"

When Blackbeard regained consciousness, he was met with the beating down of rain on his face and body. His eyes stung, and when he tried to open them, he couldn't see shit through the constant downpour. Everything hurt, a lot. He was sure he was bleeding, a lot. If he didn't…

Hold on. That was a voice. There was someone there. At least he thought there was. It was very possible his, most likely concussed, brain was playing tricks on him.

Blackbeard used what energy he had left to shift his head towards the sound. He squinted open an eye, and lo and behold, there was a foot. Two, actually. They were dressed in black shoes with shiny gold buckles, and the left one was just in arm's reach. With his remaining strength, he grabbed it. Immediately, there was a high-pitched shriek, and a thump, as if the person had fallen. It might have been smart to have said hello first.

He kept his grip tight, refusing to let whoever this was to run off. He wasn't holding on as tight as he meant to apparently, because when he felt warm, shaking hands remove his hold, he was too weak to do much else but let them. That was that then. Whoever that had been, they would immediately go, 'ohmygod it's Blackbeard' and runoff. He'd lie there until he eventually bled out or a particularly hungry seagull found him.

Then it stopped raining.

Well, not exactly. It was still raining on his torso and his legs, and basically everywhere, but he could feel nothing on his face. Then he sensed it. There was a presence, someone leaning over him, looking at him. Then he felt them moving, and he reached out blindly and caught the person by their wrist. It was soft.

He opened his eyes, as much as he was able to, which was only halfway. A face, pale and creased, crowned with messed golden hair, and surrounded by a glowing white halo of light was the only thing he could see. The person was frozen, leaning over him, a mixture of shock and worry painted on their face.

"Shit." He said, his voice coming out a rasped whisper. His throat hurt too. "I'm fuckin' dead aren't I."

That made no sense though. If he were dead, he definitely wouldn't have gone upwards. Heaven had no use for the dastardly Blackbeard.

The person's mouth was moving, but he didn't hear whatever they said. He was distracted by the gentle laugh lines creased by their eyes as they smiled, slightly awkwardly. In his awe and confusion, he went to speak again, but instead of words, water came up from the depths of his lungs.

Then everything went dark. Again.

Waking up the second time was a lot different from the first.

A gentle stream of light from a nearby window was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. Dust particles floated elegantly in and out of the light stream, through the stale air. He was still lying on his back, but now he was looking up at an old-looking ceiling. There was no rain, no wind, no cold. Still pain, though.

If it weren't for the unmovingness of the ground, no swaying or creaking of an old ship, he may have assumed he was back on the Queen Anne's Revenge, woken from a bad dream and back in his own captain's quarters. He wasn't, and the first plan of business, he decided, was figuring out where the fuck he actually was.

The unfamiliar bed creaked as he sat up on his elbows. His bones creaked along with it, and there was a sharp pain in his left side. It was then that he looked down to realise he was shirtless. Not entirely shirtless. There was a large bandage draped around his shoulder and torso, and he could see faintly the dried blood underneath. Oh yeah, he'd been run through by the sword of some British prick. Almost forgot about that.

Nothing entirely alarming stood out as he looked around. It was kind of the exact opposite of what you might think the word 'alarming' might entail. A small kitchen was on the wall opposite him, with an empty vase sitting on its counter. There was a table against the wall with a wooden chair, and in the centre of the room was a soft-looking rug. There were other things like a pile of books in one corner and a little fireplace near the rug, with a mantle decorated with interesting little knick-knacks. To his direct left was a night table, with another, smaller, vase. Unlike the other, this one was full of delicate white flowers. There was a glass of the best-looking water he'd seen in years and a piece of paper under the glass.

Blackbeard moved so his feet were flat against the surprisingly warm panelled floor. Despite his desperate thirst, he picked up the note first. Written on thin paper was fancy, squiggly writing he could just barely decipher.

'Gone fishing.

…Not really! I do not know how to fish.'

Blackbeard raised an amused eyebrow. He continued reading.

'I've stepped out for a moment. If you've awoken to read this before my return, please make yourself at home.

Feel free to borrow a book.'

The note was signed S.B.

Blackbeard racked his brain for any memory of who this S.B might be. An old asshole he'd screwed over years ago? Someone looking to take revenge on him for one reason or another? He had a number of enemies, but none that fit these particular initials, none that he could remember anyway. Most of the people he knew couldn't write, either.

Whoever it was, they had an advantage over him now, seeing as he was, almost, half-naked and had absolutely no idea where he was. Not to mention he was unarmed, his knife and gun missing from his person. That was pretty fucking alarming. Though, he found it pretty hard to feel any sense of distress about a person with two flower vases and a fluffy rug.

He drank the entire glass of water in one go, and stood, before instantly grunting in pain and sitting back on the bed with a fwump . It was then he noticed his right foot wrapped in a bandage. Damn. Well, if shit hit the fan, he guessed running would be out of the question.

Standing again, he took care to put as little pressure on the busted foot as he could. Walking, or limping, he went around the room touching and inspecting things closer. Whoever S.B was, they certainly had interesting shit. Like, look at that, a tiny ship, masts and sails and everything! Fuckin' mental, man.

He inspected the other things situated on the fireplace mantel. Some more books, cool shiny rocks, seashells of different sizes, and a picture of two men. That piqued his interest. He moved to get a better look—

"Oh good, You're up!"

Blackbeard screamed and chucked the closest thing he could grab at the abrupt voice behind him, which also happened to be a very small seashell.

"Hey! Ouch!" A man stood in the open doorway, rubbing the spot where a shell had hit his shoulder with a soft pat .

The two men stared at each other for a moment, seemingly neither wanting to be the first one to speak. The stranger gave in quickly.

"I do ask that you refrain from throwing my belongings at me, please and thank you." The man said, not unpleasantly. He bent down, picking up the shell, along with the assortment of flowers he'd dropped during the shell-throwing kerfuffle.

"Uh," Blackbeard blinked. "Yeah, sorry, mate." He didn't know why he was apologising, that wasn't exactly something Blackbeard did, normally.

The man stood, one hand holding a bouquet of flowers, the other holding the shell. "No worries my good man! If anything I should be the one apologising to–," he hesitated. "Ah…well, that can wait." He gave a strained smile.

That's where Blackbeard recognized him from! It was the man from…whenever it was when he crashed. He recognized his cramped, politely-awkward expression. This must be S.B then.

S.B cleared his throat and walked further in, leaving the door open behind him, letting in the light of the afternoon sun.

"I'm quite relieved you're awake," he said with a more genuine smile. "I hope you slept well."

Blackbeard watched as S.B moved to the counter and un-worryingly turned his back to him, placing down the many flowers. He then absent-mindedly handed him back the shell. "Like a baby, thanks," Blackbeard said, awkwardly holding the shell before placing it back on the mantel with the rest of them.

"Oh good! I'm glad," S.B said, looking over his shoulder to give him another polite smile, before looking back to his assortment of flowers. "To be completely honest, for a moment I was worried you were dead," he said all lackadaisical like.

Blackbeard raised an eyebrow.

" But , then I heard your snoring, so I got the sneaky suspicion you were alright".

"Ah, yeah— what? I don't snore."

S.B looked over his shoulder again, another smile. "I regret having to be the one to break this to you, my dear man, but I have it on very good authority that you, do in fact, snore."

Blackbeard was taken aback by the man's nonchalantness. It was obvious S.B didn't know who he was, if he did , the man would have run and swan-dived into the nearest body of water by now, swimming as fast and as far away as he could. Not many people got to be in the presence of Blackbeard and live to tell others, or, that's what all the rumours said anyway. And the very least of all claim he snored, which was completely false, by the way.

Honestly, he just wasn't used to making conversation with people who weren't under his command, like Izzy or his crew, or people he was threatening with a knife or fire. It was…really weird.

"I very much dislike to…inform others on what they should and should not do," S.B said, and it was then Blackbeard realised he had been staring at the man, and S.B was now fully turned to face him. Blackbeard leaned aloofly against the mantel of the fireplace and looked around to find something to stare at.

"But," he continued. "I would like to suggest you remain in bed - at least for a little while." He motioned to Blackbeard's side and various injuries. "Until you're better on the mend."

Blackbeard scratched at his beard. "Thanks, but, uh, that's not really–,"

Looking back at the man, S.B was looking at him, too. He was making what Blackbeard could only describe to be the most excruciatingly innocent expression he'd ever seen, like some lost mutt begging for a scrap.

So there he was, back on the stranger's bed.

Blackbeard lounged awkwardly on his elbows, watching as the other man putted around on the other side of the room. S.B had placed the assortment of flowers into the empty vase, and was now rummaging through one of the little cabinets in his little kitchen.

"Now, where did I put that— ouch! How did that get there?" S.B muttered and mumbled to himself, seemingly having forgotten Blackbeard's presence entirely. When S.B finally turned back, he had what looked to be medical supplies, cradled in his arms like a baby. Blackbeard, pretending he hadn't been watching the man the entire time, looked around and found a particularly interesting crack in the wall.

He looked away from the incredibly fascinating crack when he felt the bed sink from S.B's weight. He was sitting near Blackbeard's waist. There was a pile of bandages and rags strewn on the bed's blanket and Blackbeard stared only half worried. "So, uh, what's all this then?"

S.B looked up from fiddling with the cap of something in his hand. "Hm? Oh, just a few things to clean you up. Your bandages need changing."

"Ah, thanks. Not really nece–," S.B gave him another sad, lost dog look. "Yep, right, on you go."

Blackbeard then turned his attention to what exactly S.B was holding in his hands, and his ears and eyebrows perked up when he recognized the bottle. "Awh nice, man! Needed a fuckin' drink."

S.B only responded with an amused laugh and a, "you're very humorous, good sir!"

When Blackbeard's confused expression remained on his face for a full beat and a half, however, S.B clarified. "It's not… it's for, uh," his eyes motioned to the bandage around Blackbeard's shoulder and torso.

Blackbeard mouthed an understanding 'ohhh'. He nodded, not embarrassed in the slightest. "Yeah, 'course, makes sense. Carry on." His cheeks remained a slightly darker shade for a good moment or two.

Setting down the bottle of, non-drinking , alcohol on the nightstand, S.B began to unwrap Blackbeard. First his shoulder. When his fresh wound was revealed, and the bearded man successfully held back an embarrassing wince, S.B grabbed again for the rubbing alcohol and applied it to the wrinkled and somewhat torn rag. Then he Immediately applied said rag to the gash on Blackbeard's shoulder, making him jerk.

" Fuck — Jesus, give us a warning, mate!"

S.B looked about ready to cry, his face all scrunched up. "My apologies! The last time I did this you were asleep!" The concerned panic on his face was almost enough to make Blackbeard laugh. The stinging in his shoulder was a little too prominent, though.

"Yeah, well," the stinging finally began to subside. "Awake now. So, just, let me know next time you plan to, you know - do that again."

"Yes. Absolutely. Will do."

S.B paused.

"I– I'm going to do that again."

Blackbeard nodded his consent this time and was ready for when the rag met his wounded shoulder again, only twitching moderately. They continued like this for a stretch, then S.B continued unwrapping the large bandage so the stabs and cuts along his chest and stomach were exposed. As the blonde man worked, he was quiet. Weirdly quiet. He was surprised about the lack of questions this man had, especially considering how little either of them knew one another, and the fact that he had about ten cuts on his chest alone. For once, the lack of conversation was making Blackbeard uncomfortable.

He found himself not wanting to stare too much at the busy man, though, so instead, he looked over his arm, where there were numerous scrapes and cuts. "Huh."

S.B looked up. "Something the matter?"

"Don't remember these being there before. I mean, sure, flying off a ship will cut you up a bit. Totally, get that. Just - seems like a lot more than I thought."

The man stopped what he was doing for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed upwards. There was a guilty look behind his eyes, and pretty much all over his face, too. "Yes I…had some trouble…getting you up from the beach. You're much heavier than you look."

Blackbeard snorted, which, told by the look on S.B's face, was not the reaction he expected. Still, the guilt didn't leave his features. He fidgeted with a new bandage, before beginning to apply it around Blackbeard's wounds.

"I…feel I must confess to something else." He avoided Blackbeard's eyes. "I am, what you could say…at fault…for your crash. There was an unavoidable incident, which really could have happened to anyone…but, I am very much the cause of your misfortune. I'm terribly sorry."

A pause.

"Sure, mate. Shit happens."

S.B's eyes darted up in disbelief. When they met Blackbeard, they saw he was smiling indifferently, like he had been told that day's date or the time of day.

If Blackbeard was being truly, and completely honest, sure, it was kind of annoying. The whole crashing thing. Getting all bruised up. Not to mention he hadn't even seen the damage to his ship yet. But, he also really didn't mind what was happening. This whole situation. Talking to someone. Having them not run away in fear, or say yes boss or aye sir. It was like he was getting the weekend off of being Blackbeard. He wasn't about to scare off the very person who had given him that weekend off.

"Ah well," Relief visibly washed right over S.B, the stiffness Blackbeard didn't realise the man had drained away as his shoulders sagged. "That's– that's just wonderful. Very understanding of you."

"Eh. I'm an understanding guy."

They smiled at each other. No longer tense, S.B continued and finished applying the bandage. He clapped his hands together. "That's that." He stopped and thought for a moment. Then he smiled again. "Hey."

Blackbeard looked up from examining the man's handiwork. "Yeh?"

"How about that drink."

The light of a log-fueled fire filled the small room with a warm glow of reds and oranges. Crackles and pops were only somewhat hearable through the sound of talking and laughter. Shadows danced and flickered on the walls and the furniture, moving along with the two men. They sat comfortably in front of the fire on the rug, which was just as fluffy as it looked. A bottle of bronze liquor was set between the two, and as the day grew into night they had each refilled their glasses, multiple times.

S.B held his side and wiped a tear from his eye. "And– and you're serious? You really jumped. Just like that?"

"Yes!" Blackbeard said for the third time. Neither noticed, they were both too many glasses of whiskey in. "Just– main thing. Make sure you're uh," he coughed and took a sip. "Actually gonna clear the ship. Learned that from…personal experience."

A pause, then they both broke into fits of laughter. S.B making the drunken commitment to eventually 'try out this yardies activity'. Blackbeard planned to hold him to it.

Then he remembered something that had been on his mind all day, something he'd been meaning to ask all evening. "Hey– hey," he said, as the both of them began to calm down. S.B hummed around another sip from his glass.

"What does S.B stand for?"

"I— what? What do you mean?" The man set down his drink, his undivided attention, which was growing more drowsy by the minute, on Blackbeard.

"You know— gone fishing. The note. You signed it S.B. That your name?"

The immediate sober look to the man across from Blackbeard was startling. "Oh-oh god! You must think me to be the worst host in history!"

Blackbeard pretended to debate that before he simply shrugged. "No, not really."

"What a gentleman I am!" He cried, ignoring Blackbeard. "Not even introducing myself, let alone making a formal introduction!"

"I dunno, you seem pretty gentlemanly-ish to me ."

S.B ignored this, too, then he sat up straight, with a wobble before he steadied. He stuck out a hand, a determined look on his flushed face.

"Stede Bonnet. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance…"

Stede Bonnet.

Stede wiggled his hand. Oh right, yeah. Blackbeard held out his own. "Uh.."

He wasn't drunk enough to introduce himself as Blackbeard. That would immediately put an end to the nice evening they'd been sharing. There was only one other option.

"Ed."

Ed took and gripped Stede's hand in his own. They grinned goofily at one another as they shook hands, for longer than probably necessary. They let go and simultaneously took a sip from their respective glasses.

Yeah. He could be Ed for a while. Blackbeard needed a vacation anyway.