xxxxx
Ed stands beside Dirk a few steps from the table back to the door. The captain's cabin is close, stifling, reeking of booze more than usual. All the windows are shut and only a single lantern burns on the table.
Dirk is sweating, big fat drops going down his cheeks and chin, the palm of his hand, pressed like a warning against the back of Ed's neck, is disgustingly damp and he wants to squirm away from it or elbow him in the ribs. But this is the fucking game, isn't it? This is the fucking show.
Not that anyone's buying it.
No one except maybe Bones who looks like he would buy the fucking moon if he could go to sleep. He's sitting in the center as always, cheek on his fist, no bottle in his hand but mostly because it's clunked to the floor at his side. Jack and Davenport are both watching Ed with their eyebrows raised. Sweat is sticking Jack's shirt to him and even making Davenport's mullé limp and unexciting.
The only one who doesn't look fucking miserable is Feliciano who is leaning against the door, arms folded, looking stern. Ed's not sure whether to be impressed or annoyed by his presence, and is not sure why he should be either. There's also something else, that third strange feeling that's been simmering in his gut, but he doesn't really have time to think about any of it.
"So you're gonna tell us your idea," Jack says slowly as he doesn't believe it. Dirk's hand tightens against the back of Ed's neck.
"Yes, it's my idea," says Dirk, giving Ed a short, rough shake. "Teach helped, barely. But this is something that I came up with, which I might have told you punks sooner, but you underestimated me."
Jack lowers his chin a bit, asking Ed just what the fuck is going on. Ed replies in kind, tilting his own chin slightly to the left, telling Jack to just go along with it, something he hopes Feliciano sees as well. A soft huff of breath from the door tells him that Feliciano had, but isn't happy about it, though Ed doesn't get why fucking not.
"I suppose," murmurs Davenport with a frown. Then Jack must have nudged him or something under the table because he raises his head and smiles. "Well, Mr. Dirk?"
Dirk hesitates. "Shouldn't we wait for Mr. Bones to give the order?"
Bones snorts in his sleep, heel of his hand near his cheekbone now and a strand of drool shines yellow in the lamplight as it slips from the corner of his mouth to pool on the table. Ed's not sure now if keeping the man completely pissed all of the time was a good idea, but on the other hand, so far it's better than the fucking alternative.
"We'll wake him up when the time comes," says Davenport and gestures that Dirk should go on.
"We uh…" Dirk clears his throat, shifts foot to foot. "We take half of the men to the island… some of them we paint with the glowing…shit. Lure in the Princess - the men of the Princess and blow them up and then… No wait before that we have to keep some on the ship- this ship- to put the lights on before…or…after..."
Ed sighs. Three times he'd told him the plan. Three fucking times. If Dirk had wanted to take credit for the damned plan so much, the least he could do was fucking remember it.
"Yeah, it sounds like a plan of yours," Jack says, folding his arms and giving Ed a look asking him: what the fuck?
"It was the island first," Ed says, not adding dumbass but the words are there behind his teeth— which soon click together as Dirk smacks the back of his head hard and he nearly bites his tongue.
"You speak when you're spoken to, chickadee," Dirk snarls. "I'm not afraid of you."
Ed can distantly feel his nails cut against the palms of his hands. He wants to make Dirk afraid of him. He wants to make Dirk fucking terrified. He wants Dirk to piss himself at the sight of him or hide under the blankets. But he can't. Not here. Not now. Not with everything so close to breaking when they needed every hand they had just to get out of this fucking place.
Ed takes a breath, then another and realizes with a kind of ugly start how quiet the room has gotten- the only sound being Bones' snores, and the shuffle of Dirk's shoes against the floor as he takes a step away. Jack and Davenport are watching Dirk, Jack's brows lowered, a sneer around his nose, Davenport's chin lifted and his blue eyes cold enough to chill the sweat at the back of Ed's neck.
"So…I get it," Jack says after a moment, carefully, as if holding something fragile. "Your idea, Dirk, fine. I'll stand by it, Don'll stand by it, you'll get the crew that believes it to suck your tiny ass dick and everyone gets off happy. But let's just have this understandin'." Jack braces his hands against the table and rises, looking suddenly taller, the shadows on his face deeper as if he's grown up in the space of seconds. "You ain't shit . You ain't a captain or a mate. You ain't even Silver. So you keep your fuckin' hands off my crew, we clear?"
Fuck. Ed feels his face sting, though he's not sure why, and strange feelings crash and snag inside him like overlapping waves. He doesn't get it. He doesn't have time to get it. He almost wished Jack hadn't said it but if he doesn't have to worry about Dirk the dickhead getting in his way, then he'll take it.
"You're not my captain," says Dirk, but less fucking certain than before.
"Your captain isn't here," says Davenport. "But I am. So accept your boon and stand down."
"Yeah, I'll stand down." Dirk is smirking now with a hard twisted gleam of teeth. "But if you're not careful, you might not find much of a crew to stand with you."
"And so if we fall, you will fall first," says Feliciano by the door. His voice is soft like the slide of a cutlass from a sheathe and the complicated currents in Ed's chest turn and snag and he can feel something like an undertow trying to suck his ribs down making it oddly hard to fill his lungs in the sweat damp room.
It's even worse when Dirk's grin falls and cold anger replaces it. Ed instead tries to focus on Dirk's anger, on that blade sharp knowledge that the man is going to get his own, that he is going to bide his time and find a way to stab them in the back. It makes things settle anyway. It clears his head.
"Fuckin' politics," Jack mutters, flumping back in the chair so the legs scrape against the floor. Bones jerks awake then, eyes bloodshot and bleary, then yawns and crosses his arms on the table to pillow his cheek on them and starts snoring once more. Davenport regards the man a moment like he's maggoty bread, then flicks a strand of dark damp hair over his shoulder.
"What exactly is Mr. Dirk's idea, Ed?"
"We blow up the Princess," Ed says. "And that will help. Look…" And he gestures out the window where he can just see the gleam of the glowing things on the water, washing up the base of the Monkey Finger rocks. Jack snorts but doesn't interrupt which is a fucking surprise in itself, so Ed goes on.
"We need the Princess distracted, so we send half the crew to the Mermaid Rock. We can get there without being seen so long as we move in the next couple hours. The crew makes a big scene, firing off pistols and shit, to get the Princess' attention. Then we put up lanterns on the Dorter to get the Princess' attention here too- she won't be able to get into cannon range without scuttling herself and won't want to. And while she's distracted in two spots, I'll cover myself in the glowing shit and swim over to torch their gunpowder. She goes up. We go free. Easy."
"No," says Feliciano and Ed is annoyed all over again.
"The fuck do you mean 'no'?" He thought this was done. Isn't it done? Whatever bullshit Feliciano is playing at Ed has no idea what he's thinking but now is not the time. He half wants to strangle him, but the thought of touching the smooth skin of his throat makes everything else go weird so he tries not to think of anything but how annoyed he is.
"I mean, no. That will not happen. I will go with you. We will row."
"It's fine," Ed says. "I can swim that easy. I don't need help."
"But you have it." Feliciano shrugs. "And it is so." As if he's saying it's going to happen whether Ed likes it or not.
"Ain't a bad idea," says Jack. Ed glares at him. Of course he'd agree with Feliciano now .
"Well it ain't!" Jack says. "You can paint the glowin' shit on the dinghy too. Anyway, how are you plannin' to light anythin' when you're soaked to the bone?"
Well that's true. He'd need something to keep matches or the flint dry, but-
"You'll need someone to watch your back anyway," says Davenport.
"Yeah, but…"
"And you might as well take gunpowder from the Dorter rather than searching for the Princess' magazines. We're on a bit of a time crunch."
And it makes sense. It does. But Ed feels unsettled somehow. He doesn't like it. Not one fucking bit.
"You should take Mr. Tadpoole with you too, he's a strong rower," says Davenport.
"But it's going to be dangerous…" Ed mutters. Which is super fucking important somehow. He doesn't want to put Feliciano in that position. What if something happens.
"Uh, yeah? No shit? This whole thing is kinda fuckin' dangerous, if you haven't noticed," Jack says. Then snaps his fingers. "Oh shit. Don, hey, what do you think of this. What if we lure those fuckers to Mermaid Rock rather than just gettin' their attention. We can dress up one of ours like one of theirs and pretend threaten to kill him or some shit."
"That's a good idea," Davenport says. And it was. Goddamnit. But…
"What if I just take the Toad?" Ed says.
"No," says Feliciano and now he really wants to… to kick him in the shin or something.
"It's done, Ed. Focus," says Jack.
No. He doesn't want to fucking focus. He's sick of fucking focusing. All he's been doing is fucking focusing and he still has to focus after this because of the fucking bird he put in his fucking cabin so he could figure out what the fuck Silver is up to or has been up to.
And all of that is beside the single fucking point that …that it's fucking dangerous blowing up the Princess Anne. Too fucking dangerous for more than one person except maybe the Toad.
He wants to tell Jack and Davenport this. He wants to shake them until they understand. Instead he has to listen to them develop the idea that he'd made. Of maybe darkening the crew on the island up and hiding them behind the rocks so that when the Navy Men come over they'll get a surprise of a lifetime, or putting on all the lamps on the Dorter and having the remaining crew sing to let the Navy Men know they don't care.
Now they're full of fucking ideas, but not about what's important.
But it's fine.
It's fucking fine.
He'll take care of it on his own.
And, he thinks as he stares into the shadows behind Jack and Davenport's head. He knows just how to do it.
xxxxx
But Silver has to be taken care of first.
And time is wearing thin.
Outside the window of the cabin he can see the moon on the horizon, barely risen and almost full, casting pale ripples on the water and brushing white across the tops of the fluffy clouds that lay low beside it. The undersides of the cloud are dark, and not just because of shadow, but the waiting solemn gray that meant a storm wasn't far. The wind is starting to ripple the freckled surface of the water and it wouldn't be too long before he felt the prickle of it over his skin. Maybe an hour, maybe two, they needed to get this shit over with.
But, as fucking always, he had to go five fucking steps out before he could even start heading in.
Ed sighs, knotting his hair behind his head and not in the cool way Feliciano showed him before. Then rolls his neck from side to side, suddenly tired. The bird coos from its little nest of soft linen Ed had made for it before he'd gone to talk to Dirk.
At least that pain in the ass thing was fucking done. Jack and Davenport had told the crew the plan while supporting the slopping Bones between them, giving Dirk most of the credit. And even though Dirk in the cabin had taken on the expression of a trapped rat, in front of the crew he had been proud, chest thrown out, head high, as if pleased.
And maybe he is. Not that he won't be a fucking problem later on, but for now, at least, Ed didn't have to worry about him.
He had had to worry about the Walrus crew practically jumping at the chance to go to help on the island, as well as van Morgenstern, but Long Bob had agreed to go watch Jack's back.
So that only leaves Feliciano and Toad to worry about..
…and John fucking Silver.
And that's his tread on the deck now, also thanks to Long Bob who agreed to tell Silver to meet him without telling anyone else or telling Silver why. Long Bob will probably tell Feliciano though later on and Feliciano will be pissed off, but that's later's problem.
For now, Ed moves to stand in front of the bed to block sight of the bird, arms folded, chin up, and starts out of his skin at the knock. He'd forgotten John Silver knocked. By why is he knocking? He has to know there's no one else in the room but Ed. Everyone else is out on fucking deck, preparing.
"Um…" Ed says into the silence. "Come…in?" and then adds. "Alone."
The door opens letting in a spill of moonlight and Silver not soon after, shutting the door behind him. The cabin is dim but even then Ed can see the man is angry, his own arms folded, a smile cutting across his face. It sends a prickle up Ed's spine, as much a warning as a storm, and he fights the grin that's just going to send the wrong signal, instead focusing on how annoyed he is at this jackass.
Did someone tell Silver about the bird, he wonders and how van Morgenstern had it?
Did someone lie about the bird and say Ed stole it? That would be the smart thing to do. And depending on what was said and how, Silver might even believe it.
"Care to tell me what's going on?" Silver says.
"Do you care to tell me what's going on?" The words aren't as strong in his voice as they are in Silver's. It's just as bad as calling Davenport by his first name. Silver takes a breath and Ed decides he doesn't really have time to fucking dance in the way Silver does either. "Did you give the bird to van Morgenstern or did he steal it himself?"
Silver's breath leaves him in a gust and his expression…changes. He looks older now as he runs a hand over the side of his face before folding his arms again.
"So you were there, were you. Of course you bloody were."
"Uh, yeah? Of course I fucking was." And then because everything is starting to fall in place. Son of a bitch . "Van Morgenstern has been yours since…Paradise?"
"A bit before… but Aye…"
That's concerning, but he'll think about that later.
"Anyone else?"
"Happenstance Conner for a time, but you saw what happened there, and well deserved too I'll admit. But it's nothing personal, lad," Silver holds up his hands. "It's just the way of the buccaneer, you understand. You get what you can and you take all you can for the benefit of those who rely on you. After all I've men in my keep. Something I'd hoped you'd come to recognize." Silver's voice is soft now, gentle, catching just a little.
"You're a good lad, and a smart one, brilliant even. You've got us out of this mess, I'd wager, and many will thank you for it if I've a voice to speak." He sighs "But you don't understand the way of the sea. That you hold close to what is yours and protect it at all costs, and when it is gone- well-sometimes there is only one end. There are some things that can't be forgiven." And Ed realizes as Silver's talking he's reaching for something at his side. Probably not a pistol because he's not fucking stupid, but a knife maybe, which Ed does not have time for either.
Why is he even—?
Oh. Right.
Fucking hell.
"Oh take your fucking bird, it's still alive," Ed mutters. As if to answer, the bird gives a questioning little chirp.
"Blood and saints." Silver's voice does break now and he hurries toward the bed. Ed gives him space because he doesn't want to deal with salt water in a knife wound and grabs the boot black to start getting ready. The moon is above the horizon now, not by much, but enough to piss him off.
"There you are, sweetheart," Silver murmurs, cradling the bird between his palms. "It's alright now, so it is. I've got you. And we won't do that again with you, says I. You'll stay by my side, hm?"
Which just annoys Ed more for some reason. He shifts into the moonlight himself so he can make sure the black is covering his skin without leaving any patches, though the sight of it getting darker and darker twists the strange tangling feelings even more.
"It was…" Silver swallows. "It was Thomas that told me you had… that you had found out about his and I's little deal, and so out of revenge you…." He trails off as if he can't finish it, but he shouldn't have put the stupid fucking bird at risk to begin with.
And anyway:
"I'm not that fucking stupid."
Because Silver's a good ally and a devious as fuck enemy and things would only go to shit for him if he killed it.
"No." Silver sighs. "So you aren't."
"Though I really fucking should do it anyway, because this? All of this bullshit we're in right now? Is all your fault." Because it is. And because he gets it. And it's really fucking irritating. "And don't give me that shit about the way of the buccaneer. I don't care about Happy or van Morgenstern. That's fine. Whatever. They've fucked around and they've found out. But now we have to fucking deal with Dirk ." He gestures at the door, sending a splattering of boot black with it. Poisoning the room, he thinks with a queasy stir in his gut. Dirtying it. "And the Walrus crew because you had to come after me . Because everyone thinks I'm some poor stupid kid. Well I'm not." Fuck. How is he going to…? "And grab that mirror over there."
To his surprise, Silver does, without speaking, without arguing. For a second Ed is afraid the man is coming close to stab him, but Silver just comes to a stop in front of him, holding the mirror up with both hands, the bird preening itself on his shoulder.
Ed stares at his black face and dark eyes and the shudder goes through him again but he swallows it back. Instead he picks up the bucket of the shining sea water and begins to spread the glowing shit across his forehead, hoping the boot black will make it stick.
He feels something shift at the sight of the shining stuff against the black. Something move and turn in him. A becoming of something like a cresting wave. He lets it wash over him, the ideas coming with it, the words, even as the blue half skull forms on his face. He looks different. He feels different. Like he can do anything or be anything.
"You can work with me, or not, John Silver." Even his voice sounds different, lower and soft, as much a blade as anything. "But stay the fuck out of my way."
"Aye, aye, cap'n," says Silver as if it's both a joke and not and Ed swallows the laugh because it'll be too fucking loud. "Here…" He sets the mirror aside. "I was going to put these on your corpse." And he gives Ed a small wooden watertight box that a peek shows it's full of matches, and a rope with a grappling hook on the end. "The Princess is listing slightly to starboard, so I'd take that side if I were you, and their cannon ports should be open if they're smart enough to expect trouble."
"Uh…yeah, okay…" Ed says, trying to juggle the sudden influx of shit. The matches he tucks deep in his belt, the rope he wraps securely around his shoulder, but keeping it loose so he can swim.
"You'd best get a move on before your mate finds out…and try to keep him from stabbing me later, thank you kindly," Silver says. Ed nods and heads toward the open window, setting himself on the sill. The drop isn't a bad one, but he'll have to be careful to make as little sound as possible.
"One last thing, Edward," Silver says, the name alone catching his attention. The man smiles a little, looking tired as he brushes the bird's chest with a finger. "Be careful."
Ed grins, salutes, and jumps as straight as he can into the deep cold water.
xxxxx
The Princess Anne sits low in the water, the weird light shining around her keel. Ed watches her from where he is crouched on a shelf of rock not far below the water's surface, rowing his arms a bit to keep the soft current from pushing him closer. He finds himself lookin up, up, up at her hull, washed, glowing at the waterline and then disappearing revealing the night black wood, the dripping line of the heavy anchor, the railing, the tall masts, sails tightly curled and if he shifts to float on his back, he could see the blaze of stars above them.
He wants to float on his back, swimming his hands through the glowing water and stare at the stars- It's a feeling that seeps in his bones, pulling at them and his muscles and his chest which is sore from where it had been bashed against a rock earlier.
Though the Princess Anne is much closer than the Ranger had been to Paradise, or even the Dorter to the black jetty, the swim itself had been tedious. The currents are strange, the waters are strange, more than once he was sucked into an undertow that had scraped him against the bottom. Once he nearly drowned when the stupid pendant he wore got tangled in something that he'd only just managed to snap free. That it had been a finger bone had been super fucking cool at least.
It didn't help either that the weight of the grappling hook made swimming harder and the more exhausting when the current pushed against him- but now he is here at last, or almost, kneeling on the small shelf of rock that the Princess was damned lucky to have missed—or maybe just barely he thinks, noticing a faint scrape of white at her keel, hard to see with all the glowing shit.
The moon is high now, though not at its peak and it probably won't even get there with the wind skirting as it is and the clouds scudding across the sky. The storm will come soon. Big or small he can't tell yet but he almost welcomes it. The Princess Anne sits low in the water, the weird light shining around her keel. Ed wades where he is, looking up, up, up at her hull, washed, glowing at the waterline and then disappearing revealing the night black wood, the dripping line of the heavy anchor, the railing, the tall masts, sails tightly curled and if he shifted to float on his back, he could see the blaze of stars above them. He wants to float on his back, swimming his hands through the glowing water and stare at the stars- It's a feeling that seeps in his bones, pulling at them and his muscles and his chest which is sore from where it had been bashed against a rock earlier.
Though the Princess Anne is much closer than the Ranger had been to Paradise, or even the Dorter to the black jetty, the swim itself had been tedious. The currents were strange, the waters were strange, more than once he was sucked into an undertow that had scraped him against the bottom and nearly drowned when the stupid pendant he wore got tangled in something that he'd only just managed to snap free. That it had been a finger bone had been super fucking cool at least.
It didn't help either that the weight of the grappling hook made swimming harder and the more exhausting when the current pushed against him- but now he is here at last, or almost, kneeling on a small shelf of rock that the Princess was damned lucky to have missed—or maybe just barely he thinks, noticing a faint scrape of white at her keel, hard to see with all the glowing shit.
The moon is high now, though not at its peak and it probably won't even get there with the wind skirting as it is and the clouds scudding across the sky. The storm will come soon. Big or small he can't tell yet but he almost welcomes it.
Ed takes a moment to take a breath and close his eyes, the wind whipping his wet hair across his forehead and neck. From the rocky shores of Mermaid Island, he can hear the hoots and screams of the crew there, distant though carried by that wind. There had been a few cracking sounds of a flintlock, but not a fight, not yet- and he wonders if the Princess had set out a dinghy to investigate or rescue their 'mate'. Ed kind of wishes he were there with them to enjoy the show.
The Dorter is pretty cool too, though, Ed thinks as he opens his eyes, blinking away the stinging salt. He can just see her through the Monkey Fingers, and Silver or Davenport or both had the crew paint her to with the glowing stuff in patches, some on her keel, some on her mast, some glimmering on the sails. Witchfire danced at the very top of the masts, too, probably because of the storm, flickering and sparking, making the whole fucking thing seem haunted.
He wishes he could be there instead.
No, he wishes he could be on the Ranger. Screaming into the wind. Before all this shit happened. Back where everything was light and fun and danger didn't matter because they could live through anything.
And they'll fucking live through this too.
He just has to do it. Finish it.
All he needs to do is just go a little further.
Ed takes a deep breath and unhooks the grappling hook from the line, letting out a sigh of relief as it had been digging against his back ever since he'd found the finger bone. He slips off the shelf instead of stepping down, feeling only a little curtain of sand to push off of before the water drops away and cold wraps around his ankles. Something brushes his leg and though he'd really like to stick his face in the water and see it, there are other things to do.
Like not getting sucked under the keel for one.
Silver was right at least that the gunports on this side are open. Now he just has to figure out how to throw the grappling hook high enough with nothing to push against.
The first attempt doesn't nearly get high enough and he has to avoid getting brained by it as the grappling hook comes back down. The second strikes against the hull with a clang, making him wince and duck lower in the water. When no alarmed voices or pale faces peer over the side, he makes a third attempt.
This hooks, sinking over the lip of the gunport which Ed has to now haul himself up to. After a moment to breathe, he does so, pulling himself up hand over hand, feet braced against the slippery hull. His foot skids when he's halfway up and Ed bites back a curse as the sharp edge of a barnacle slices across his shin, followed by the burn of salt and the trickle of blood.
He keeps going though, climbing and climbing until at last he's able to lift himself onto the ledge of the window, legs braced on either side of the cannon. He remains there a moment, covering his mouth with both hands to soften his ragged breathing, pressing his legs tight against the wood as the ship begins to rock and buck in the swells.
Thunder rumbles nearby, seeming to growl an echo in his bones, telling him to get a move on. Soon the crew of the Princess will have to deal with the storm too, to decide what to do, to remain here or risk the sea, to pull back their dinghy if they sent it. And the Dorter will have to move from the Monkey Fingers if she hasn't already to avoid smashing herself against them, leaving Ed stranded which is fine, but maybe Jack too.
He has to go faster than this.
With a quiet curse Ed worms his way around the cannon to land on the floor, legs wobbling dangerously underneath him. With lead lined arms he hauls up the grappling line, just so no one will see it by chance and come looking for whoever it belonged too.
The end of the rope is gleaming with light, and peering out and down the hull Ed sees that there is a line of light coming up to the gunport. And a puddle full of glinting light at his feet. Oh…
Well…fuck him…
And his face too…he touches it absently. It's dark as tits in the gunwale and hopefully dark as tits beyond it, but his face is going to shine like a fucking torch.
Fucking shit this might have been a really bad idea.
Thunder grumbles again, lightning flickering now.
"Alright, I'm going," Ed whispers under his breath. He takes a moment to ruffle his hair around his face which might cover some the glow and then another precious moment to orient himself. He doesn't know where the gunpowder room is exactly; but it can't be far and perhaps it's aft like it is on the Dorter.
He creeps to the door, seeing nothing but shadows in the slim gap underneath, with only the faintest light. He pushes open the door softly. Nothing, except the faint piping of a whistle in a pattern on the far away deck. The pattern means something, Ed knows, and maybe he can find out one day. For right now he creeps out of the gunwale as quietly as he can, spotting a lantern at the head of the stairwell and leaning up to blow it out, plunging everything into darkness except for the glimmer of light on the lower floor.
A quick glance behind him tells him the glowing shit really was a bad idea as he can see the ghostly imprints of his feet, though they're dimmer further from the door at least and will maybe completely disappear so noe will know where he's going.
Not that it will fucking matter by the time this ship is reduced to splinters, he tells himself. Down the stairs then carefully, hand on the wall. The rise and fall of the swells make it a little difficult and he has to go slowly so he doesn't fall and bust his face open.
There are more lanterns down here, too, though not many and their flames are lowered. One door near the middle has two lanterns on either side and Ed figures this must be the gunpowder. Lanterns or any kind of light inside the gunpowder room would be absolutely insane. The slightest spark could set the whole thing off. So the light outside the door is the only light you have. Ed wipes his damp palm on his trousers, toes off his shoes to set them to the side and carefully opens the door.
The smell tells him he's right even before his eyes adjust to the dimness. The room is packed to the fucking brim with gunpowder it seems. Some of them have the same markings as the ones on the Dorter, and others are different, making him wonder if the Princess managed to take some supplies from the beach. What does that mean, he wonders, with a kind of sick shiver. Was the raiding crew beaten back? Killed?
It could be but he doesn't want to think about it and there's no time to think about it since now he has a second problem. How is he going to blow the ass out of the room without blowing the ass out of himself as well? Maybe bringing the barrels from the Dorter would have been a better idea, but he still wouldn't have.
The answer is simple. Dangerous as fuck. But simple.
First, he blows out all the lanterns but one, then grabs one of the lighter barrels and takes it from the room, staggering a little at the roll of the swell even more violent than before. The rain will start soon and then they're all fucked.
He twists out the cork in the center of the barrel with a jerk and then, crouching, carefully spreads a line of gunpowder close to the floor along the wall. Then holding his breath, spreads a parallel line beside it. It's maybe too much, but he's only going to have one shot at this so better get it fucking done right. Soon the barrel is empty but before he can grab another a door closes above, and there are footsteps.
Cursing, Ed ducks into the shadows. The gunpowder room is on the other side of the stairs, the door twitching back and forth with the rise and fall of the ship and Ed curses himself again for not shutting the fucking thing.
"Oh, God what time is it? Why is it so dark? How could you just fall asleep?" a man says. The whistle pipes again and he curses. "That's all hands. You don't think it's those bloody pirates do you?" His voice is pinched and frantic.
"You fell asleep first!" says the other voice. "And it's probably the storm. We haven't seen hide or hair of the Dorter and I'll bet my boots they're de-"
"Oh Christ, what's that!" says the first voice. "It's glowing!"
Ah, fuck.
"We're cursed!" the first voice moans. "I knew it! We're cursed. Turn three times and spit. Come on!"
"We're not- Tch. We're not cursed!" Though Ed hears the tap of their feet as they turn and the sound of the spit hitting wetly. "It's just a phenomianal. You remember. God's hand touching the world. Like Whelan said."
"Aye…maybe… but… he's not exactly what I'd call a learne'd man."
"Well he survived the raid, so that should mean he has some dealings with the Almighty."
The ship rocks and Ed pressed back against the wall, clenching to his balls at the sudden scrape of the grappling hook against the wood, letting out a fine small shower of sparks. Somehow nothing catches and he has to hold his breath to stop the sigh of relief.
"What was that?" says the first man.
"A rat."
"The Devil!" says the first man. "We're cursed!"
"It's not the devil! The devil would have cackled or the like."
Cackle? It sounds like a bad idea… but Ed sort of wonders if he should risk it.
"Come on," says the second man. "I'll show you." And they creak closer to the head of the stairs.
Oh fuck no. They can't come down. But how to keep them from doing it? He has only one idea that's stupid as fuck, and he has to hope they don't have flintlocks out and ready or they'll all meet the devil- But there's no help for it.
Ed takes a deep breath and then peers around the corner, hissing between his teeth, hoping to fuck his face is still glowing. The men scream bloody terror and Ed has to remember to duck out of sight again, clamping both hands over his mouth to keep from laughing. Already he can hear them pelting away and then stuttering to a stop.
Goddamnit.
"Where the hell have you two been? Don't be sneakin' off buggerin' when we're up to our tits out here!" a man says and Ed blinks. Hey! He knows that voice!
So the swabbie guy did survive…
Ed is both relieved to hear him and annoyed at the same time. This guy is really starting to get up his ass. Anyway, even if he did survive the raid, he's not going to survive for much longer, Ed thinks, looking at the lines of shifting gunpowder.
"The devil is here!" cries the first man.
"It's no touch of God, Mr. Whelan!"
"Ye'll get a touch o' the cat if Mr. Bannerton gets on ya!"
The footsteps move away. The door closes. Ed thinks he hears more but then the gunpowder room door shuts with a bang, nearly sending him out of his own skin. He breathes as quietly as he can and waits.
Nothing happens.. and he can't wait for much longer.
He hurries back to get rid of the first barrel and prop open the fucking door with a full barrel or two before grabbing a third and pulling out the cork. He lets the line of gunpowder scatter in the room before moving out of it and back up the stairs, one at a time, into the darkness, once more trying to keep his balance to as not to bust his face open in the dark.
Somehow he manages to reach the top of the stairs and pours some of the powder into his hand so he can leave a smaller trail behind him. Enough to catch, but not enough to trap him in the room with a sudden fucking fire. When the barrel is empty he sets it aside, and hand still clenched around powder, pushes into the gunwale.
The cannons seem somber against the thrashing waves outside and the moon is still able to shine through scudding cloud and flickering on the shining barrel of a flintlock that the swabbie is pointing at him.
Fair is fair, Ed thinks, but they're both going to be fucked if he pulls the trigger.
"So, the devil is here," says the swabbie. "I'm not afraid of ya, foul creature, whatever form ya take. By the name of the cross, ye'll step forward. Slowly."
Ed does, letting his hair hang down over his face, shuffling and swaying a bit with the ship, wondering how much he can freak the swabbie out to at least get the guy to not shoot him.
The moonlight flicks across him through the open gunport and the swabbie flinches, face draining of color, flintlock jerking upward and nearly taking Ed's heart with it.
But there is no booming roar of pistol fire, no instant death. Ed can't really be that terrifying, can he?
"B…Beatrice?" says the swabbie, voice harsh in his throat as if on the verge of crying out, which yes is fucking fine but.
"What the fuck, mate? What kind of name is Beatrice for the devil?"
The swabbie stares at him before saying:
"You-" He shakes the flintlock at him like a finger. "…pirate…mermaid boy!"
"Yeah, still not a mermaid. But, yo. How's it going. Can you stop fucking shaking that thing at me?"
The swabbie approaches, dark and light spilling across his face with the racing clouds. He looks more of the devil than Ed does which is something he can't help but appreciate.
"That's me family ya have there, ya little thief! And ye'll return them."
Uh. "What?"
"There!" he points to his own neck with his finger, thank fuck, instead of the gun. Ed touches his neck and feels the smooth surface of the pendant. He could bargain with it, he guesses. He could hold it hostage or throw it out the window. He could even… and the idea flicks like a dangerous spark in his mind, see what the swabbie will do for it. Like if he would give Ed the pistol or a light or help blow up his own ship.
Ed could do it.
He could try it.
But one look at the pinched look in the swabbie's face and Ed knows he can't. He grips the pendant instead with his clean hand and rips it off. The thin chain breaks a little painfully against his neck and the swabbie tenses like he's afraid Ed's going to throw it overboard.
Not that different from Silver, really.
Like everyone expects him to be an asshole.
Which, yeah, he guesses he could have been. And hey actually, he has an idea.
"Think fast," Ed says, tossing the pendant at him. As expected the swabbie flails for it with his dominant hand, nearly dropping the pistol and Ed makes a dive for it- but in a sudden move the swabbie gains control of it and Ed sees what's going to happen and manages to twist himself to the side so the butt of the pistol smacks him in the cheek rather than the top of the head. He still sprawls across the deck though, landing on his back and breathing hard.
The swabbie comes to stand over him pressing a boot in the center of his chest to keep him down, right on the fucking bruise, and still Ed can't really want him to blow up, even as the swabbie says:
"I'm left handed, ya little prick."
It's just…there's something annoyingly soft about the swabbie's face as he looks at the pendant in his palm. Ed watches him arrange it delicately in his palm so he can press his thumbnail against the side of it, wiggling back and forth until it opens. A soft curl of black hair falls against his skin which he strokes with his thumb, looking sad and far away.
"Your family?" Ed says, curious despite himself and the storm and the time that he's seriously fucking running out of.
"Me daughter Anna-Marie," says the swabbie, tapping the hair. "And Beatrice, me wife of nine months, seven days, six hours afore the lord took her home."
"I'm sorry, mate," Ed says, and he is, feeling a strange pull like a tide in his chest.
"As am I," says the swabbie. "She didn't want me to go to sea, but I did, for- any chance of a life, even if it would take a miracle for me to get much further than where I am- it was better than starvin' to death- though she didn't see it that way. Family came first for her and maybe she had the right of it and maybe no... But we had harsh words before she was laid up and last ones too." He sighs.
Ed wonders suddenly if the swabbie was the one to lay her up, if he'd shouted to buzz the broken windows or left dark purpling bruises on her face or on her arms or if he'd taken his daughter and shaken her until her teeth rattled.
But as the swabbie smooths the hair back into the pendant and clicks it closed, Ed doubts it. His daughter is probably not a monster after all.
"Thank ya," says the swabbie, softly. Then blinks and his face screws up again. "The feck am I sayin', thank ya? Your the one that stole it in the first place! Ya killed me crew! Stole me ship! Made everything an absolute bloody misery for me!"
Well yeah okay that's true. Ed shrugs.
"Part of being a pirate, mate."
"Well part of being in the King's Navy, may he shite out a red hot poker, is that I'm ta make certain vermin like you have what's comin' to them!" The boot rises from his chest and Ed is expecting the kick to the ribs, rolling away and to his feet so it just glances off.
The swabbie is leveling the flintlock at him.
"But since ya did hand it over, even if for your own ends, I will grant ya one last request before I put ya out of my misery."
Ed thinks. Then knows. And kind of hates it, but at the same time it's going to be really fucking funny.
"Well…got a light?"
"Wh…" the swabbie blinks. "Aye, I do. But don't move! Any sudden movements and I'll blow yer head out yer arse."
Ed watches on bated breath as the swabbie digs around in his short blue coat and brings out a box of matches and even lights one for him, just like that, the smell of burning sulfur like the smile of god.
Some god anyway.
"Thanks." Ed takes the match and flicks it into the trail of gunpowder. Fire blazes up bright and fast, racing toward the door. A lot fucking faster than he'd expected really which… is lightly fucking concerning.
"The feck was that?!" The swabbie yelps. "What did ya do, ya fecking monster?" And he starts to run toward the gunpowder as if he's going to stop it but he can't. Ed scrambles toward the gunport, squirming around the cannon and watches with a wince as the swabbie flings open the door and stares:
"Jesus." It comes out as a harsh whisper and Ed feels bad suddenly and more like a monster than ever before. But he also doesn't have a whole lot of fucking time to feel bad about it.
"Better run," Ed says, then as the swabbie turns to face him, shoves himself out the gunport. He sees a glimpse of the rising waves and snapping lighting of a swirling storm before he drops like a stone into the churning water-
And is sucked right under the fucking keel.
Ed fights the pull for a moment, then lets the swirling twisting current carry him out and away. Only when when he can barely stand it anymore does he kick for all he's worth toward what he hopes is the surface, already thrashing and churning and so fucking far away.
His lungs are screaming, his chest aching for air, wanting to breathe. Dark dances in front of his eyes and it's only a fucking miracle that he breaks through the skin of the water before instead of passing out.
Ed sucks in a deep breath, sees he's in the trough of a wave and holds it again as it crashes down on him, sending him back into the deep- and somehow churns up again, coughing and hacking. The Princess Anne is a dark bleak shape. He's been tossed toward her prow, though further out. She is between him and Monkey Fingers now and if he's not careful he'll be swept out to sea with the storm.
Lightning flashes and thunder cracks.
And as if in answer, there's another shuddering boom and blast of heat as the air is filled with flying wood, splinters raining down everywhere, picked up and carried by the wind, sent hurtling through the sky.
The shock of it carries him rolling and tumbling and helpless in the surging sea.
Just when he's pretty sure he's fucked, he spots a rock in a flash of lighting, the craggy tip of it just sticking out of the waves He strikes out for it, pushed back again and again but reaches it only when a wave smashes him up against it, knocking the air from his lungs. Somehow he manages to hold on, and then when he has his breath, remembers what he still has and slams the grappling hook into the rock as hard as he can, getting as good a grip as he can manage before wrapping the rope around himself and lashing himself to it.
Above him and around the storm screams and the winds howl and the Princess Anne begins to sink, fire still gouting within her despite the thrashing rain. He coughs as he's slapped in the face with another wave and clings to the rock. He probably won't survive this, he thinks, and as he watches the fire and thinks of the pendant and the soft lock of hair, he doesn't think he deserves to.
xxxxx
He is dreaming of other things, faint scudding dreams like clouds before the moon, but most of them are soft. He is sitting with Mother, on her lap, smoothing his hands over her apron and she is resting her chin on his hair, her arms looped around his belly.
'One day you will do great things,' she says, which is how he knows it's a dream, because she never believed that for either of them. He wants to believe it though and wants her to mean it. Even when she reaches for the pendant hanging low against his belly and opens it. There's a curl of hair and a glowing skull looking back.
Edward!
Ed jerks awake, snorting seawater and choking it back out again. Fuck. The night is calm all around him, the sea is almost flat, mirroring the star choked sky overhead, the trail of the white road smudged with pink and blue. The moon is in the West, distant, a hard eye peering down
The Princess is a black shape in the water, far away, and he has to blink a few times to figure out what the hell he's looking at before he realizes it's her masts. She's listed almost completely over onto her side and is slowly sinking into the brine.
Ed sneezes and rests his cheek against the cold wet rock. He hopes the swabbie made it out okay. At least there are plenty of islands around for the Navy Men to shelter at. There's no sign of the Dorter and he wonders if she left without him. Probably. Hornigold would. But it's no problem so long as she's safe.
"EDWARD!"
Ed jerks his head up at the sound of Long Bob's voice booming over the water. Are they here? Are… are they actually looking for him?
But…why?
It seems stupid and he wonders if he somehow imagined it…
Except to his left and a little behind he hears Jack yell:
"Where are ya, you little fucker?!"
Oh shit. They are looking for him. Ed turns to look over his shoulder and spots Jack and the Toad in the distance, in the very fucking distance.
"Hey!" he calls out. Or croaks out, a bare whisper since his lungs feel like they've been shot through. Fuck. How the hell is he going to-?
And then an idea. He gropes around in his belt until he finds the little wooden box that Silver had given him. The box is soaked as shit but when he manages to open the damn thing with shaking hands, the matches at least are dry.
He breaks the first one on the tip of the rock, the second one doesn't fare much better, but the third flares high and bright and he holds it as high as he can with his elbow propped on the rock. It burns to his fingers and he winces, letting it drop in the sea with a hiss and a sizzle and he strikes another one.
Three matches in and he starts to worry. Five matches in he realizes it's pretty hopeless. There are two left in the little box. He should probably save them just in case he has to sneakily blow anything up around the Navy Men- but now that his crew are here…
He strikes one last match, holding it as high as he can, bracing his tired arm with his other hand, the flame sweeps down, down, down until finally:
"That better be you, shithead!" Jack calls, though his voice is even more distant than before. Ed's not sure if the dumbass is even looking at him, but strikes the last match just to be sure. It burns down to his fingers and he drops it. The water splashes against the rock and his thoughts fuzz and fade. It's fucking cold and he's fighting sleep again.
It won't be so bad if he goes in to the deep. Into the dark. That's where he belongs anyway.
And then hands grabbing his shoulders. Toad asking:
"Is he dead?"
"No," Ed murmurs, surprised he can, surprised he has even a grain of energy left to give.
"No, but you should fuckin' be, you son of a bitch," Jack grumbles. "I'm gonna cut you free so don't freak out and bite me, okay?"
Ed can barely lift his head though clicks his teeth as Jack's knife slips through the rope of the grappling hook, letting him float free.
"Real funny," Jack mutters. "Fuckin' hilarious. Ha ha."
And then Ed is being hauled in by two sets of hands. It's cold as balls here now up out of the water and his teeth click on their own.
"P-put me b-back i-in."
"Shut up, fuckstick," Jack says. Then to Toad. "Thanks." To Ed: "Sit up, shithead." While pushing at his shoulder. Ed manages somehow and a blanket is wrapped snug around him and a bottle is pressed in his hands before he's laid back against the seat again near Jack's thigh.
"Drink," Jack says and grabs the oars. Then: "Let 'em know."
The Toad whistles loud and shrill into the cold night hair.
"GOT HIM!" Long Bob calls distantly. Fuck, how many people are out on the water anyway?
"The fuck you guys come out here for?"
"Drink your fuckin' booze before I dump your ass back in the water," Jack mutters and Ed does, carefully, since he doesn't want to choke again. It's rum. Good rum. The best. It runs down his throat and through his veins. He sighs.
"Everyone's pissed at you, you know," Jack says. "Well. Everyone that matters anyway. You gotta stop just goin' off on your own and doin' whatever the fuck it is you want."
"It fuckin' worked, didn't it?" Ed replies, too tired to even be much annoyed.
"Well, yeah but- Yeah it did, but… maybe next time it fuckin' won't."
"Fuckin' will," Ed says and takes another sip. "They nearly pissed themselves."
"That ain't the point! None of it is the fuckin' point! Like, you ditched Felix first of all."
"I didn't ditch him!"
"We were supposed to leave together, kid," says Toad from the back.
Ok… Well yeah he kinda did ditch him but…
"Yeah, and he's spittin' nails about it. Which, I don't blame him cuz he keeps pullin' your ass from the fire and you keep puttin' it back in."
"Mm." Annoyance is warm at least and coupled with the rum makes it even warmer.
Yeah, Feliciano saved his ass but Ed's never asked him too. He just does it. And it's fine when Feliciano's threatening to stab people or pulling Ed away for a moment of quiet when he feels like he's drowning, but Feliciano keeps doing more and more and one day something bad is going to happen.
"And Hornigold practically ordered him to look after you cuz you won't stop causin' shit," Jack is saying. "What do you think he's gonna do if Felix shows up empty handed?"
Not a goddamned thing, Ed thinks, drinking deeper. And he doesn't expect or want Hornigold to do anything anyway. Hornigold would be happier to have a competent swordsman and if Ed had gotten himself killed, then Hornigold would know it was Ed's stupid fault.
Though he doesn't want to say so. He likes Jack's thought more than his own. He wants Jack's thought to be real more than his own. He wants Hornigold to be worried about him or even miss him or- or think of him more than some dog to call and use.
But he's nothing like that to Hornigold or anyone except maybe Feliciano who is just being weird about it. And he doesn't want to be because it's too much of ap pain in the ass to have people concerned about him.
"Plus, we don't have time to be lookin' for your stupid drowned ass in the middle of the night," Jack continues. "We coulda sailed without you, and shoulda, maybe- but, we need all hands and we'll definitely need all hands when the Leviathan comes knocking and…I mean…" he sniffs and shifts in the seat, looking away. "Who am I gonna stir shit with when this is all over." He clears his throat. "You're gonna be my quartermaster after all."
Ed is too bone tired to laugh and it's good because maybe something in Jack would have become unmoored if he had. It's…weirdly funny and warming that Jack will sort of miss him. And Ed would miss him too. He doesn't have the heart or strength to tell him he won't be quarter master so instead he just says:
"Yes, boss." And bumps his forehead against Jack's thigh. Jack straightens, proud, and because Ed knows the other boy is going to get really annoying about it really quick adds: "Did you catch anyone on Mermaid Rock?"
"Only two whole fuckin' tenders," Jack says.
"He's been wanting to tell people all night," Toad puts in behind him.
"You shut up. Course I have. It was fuckin' amazin' and for once I didn't have anyone butting in. So we went over…."
Ed listens to Jack go on about his adventure on Mermaid's Rock. About the waterfalls and using the glowing shit on the men and on the shadows of rocks by the waterfalls to make it look like more of them. Of Long Bob scaring the piss out of the Navy Men by bellowing his lungs out so it echoed everywhere.
It sounds like fun and Ed wishes he'd been there. Jack can be pretty clever on his own without any help.
He doesn't need Ed as quartermaster. He just needs to trust his own guts and not care what anyone thinks. Ed will tell him that eventually but right now they come past a hedge of stone and he can see the Dorter. Her lights are on, the glowing shit faded to almost nothing. She's not too far from the Monkey Fingers, but far enough not to have to worry them. Another tender is pulling toward her too and in it are Long Bob and Feliciano.
Ed tries not to sigh, warm limbs feeling as weary as the sea. He'll have to talk to Feliciano too and that he doesn't want to do. But that, at least, will have to wait. He sighs against Jack's leg, closing his eyes.
"Hey," Jack says. "Are you listenin'?" And then. "You're not dyin' are ya?"
"I'm tired, dumbass," Ed says. "But I'm listening. Go on."
And after a moment, Jack does, his voice soothing like water lapping against the hull. It's nice. It reminds him a little that as long as Jack is here, he's never very far from home.
xxxxx
The next morning is a bright one, the air washed clean by the storm, the sea a jewel and the sky like blue silk. Ed can see it from where he's laying in the cabin, slowly and deliciously waking up. The door is propped open to let in the breeze and Long Bob is sitting just outside of it, repairing some rope.
It's a little weird not to be up at sunrise, scrambling up and down the masts. Or even tumbling out of the cabin to get breakfast, fighting with Jack along the way, though that hasn't happened in fucking ages it feels like. He'll take it though. Just this once.
Ed stretches and yawns, cracking his back, and then making a face. His hands are still stained a bit by the boot black that the sea water hasn't managed to scour off, and it's probably all over his fucking face too, but if anyone says anything about it he'll just have Long Bob punch them in the face. The call of the sun and sea is impossible to ignore for long so he slips one foot out of bed then the other, flexing his toes against the sun warmed wood before pushing himself up.
Long Bob turns around as Ed comes to the door, face lighting up, mouth opening. Ed puts a finger to his lips and Long Bob lets out whatever he was going to say in a breath, grinning instead. Ed returns the smile and leans his arm on the man's head as he gets back to work. The crew is cheerful too, it seems. Maybe because they're out of the Devil's Eye and before them there is nothing but the sea and the gleaming horizon.
The Walrus crew is playing cards with the Siren crew, including Dirk and van Morgenstern who Ed only has a faint itch to punch in the teeth. Griff is at the helm, as usual, but seems less like he's going to wrench the wheel off with the tension in his shoulders, instead he's even smoking the pipe smoke traveling back toward the cabin and making Ed want one of his own.
Jack and Davenport are by the prow, Jack saying something excitedly to Davenport who is laughing. Bones is there too, dozing nearby and Silver is ahead of the galley, talking to Feliciano who is holding a tray.
The tray turns Ed's fucking stomach. He hates the sight of it. Hate how it brings the memory of soaking booze to his nose or Flint's happy voice telling him to sit.
"Is he serving now?" Ed says, hearing the blade in his own voice. "Are they making him because I'm…"
"No, no, no." Long Bob reaches around and pats his back. "It's okay. He's too pretty. Shhh."
Ed presses his lips together and doesn't say anything or go over and take the tray from Feliciano's hands to break it over Bones' head. He just has to hope Long Bob is right because Feliciano doesn't look as happy as the rest of them, instead he looks thinner and worried. Silver glances over at them and gestures and then Feliciano looks too, catching Ed's gaze.
Ed's face flushes without his say so and he scrubs at his cheek with the heel of his hand, muttering: "Shit."
Long Bob chuckles and Ed scowls.
"Shut it!" he grumbles, whapping him softly on the head. Then Feliciano is coming toward the aft cabins and Ed wants to go up the rigging or pretend he didn't see and go join Jack and Davenport or even the fucking card game. But he needs to talk to Feliciano anyway, so turns back in and sits at the small table, tucking his hands behind his head as he stares out the porthole.
Though he can watch Feliciano out of the corner of his eye as the swordsman comes up the stairs and pats Long Bob's head for luck. Ed takes a breath to pluck up his courage and looks at Feliciano directly as he enters. He looks too fucking serious and Ed feels a squirm of guilt knowing that's his fault too.
"Venha," Ed says and pats the chair beside him to try and get Feliciano to smile. The man does but it's a ghost of a thing and melts away in a moment. He sets the tray in front of Ed. There is water and an orange and coffee and the mealy mushy thing that Silver likes to call a johnnycake but he's never had a single fucking bite of Greg's food and it shows.
"You could have died," says Feliciano into the silence.
"Yeah."
"And our captain would not even lose an hour of sleep." Feliciano lifts his chin, brows set as if he's angry, but mostly he just seems tired.
"No." Ed shrugs and digs his fingernails into the skin of the orange for something to do and the sudden fresh smell makes his stomach gurgle so he peels it the rest of the way. "That's pirates."
Feliciano leans back, rubbing a hand over his face, then folding his arms and sighing. Ed feels like he's disappointed him somehow, but what the fuck else is he supposed to say? It's true. It's life. The peel gone he splits the orange in half and hands over the other part to the man, wishing it wasn't so small.
"Ay, Ed." Feliciano takes it, holding it on his fingertips, the sun from the porthole hitting it and making it shine like a small jewel. "It does not have to be pirates. You could work with Kupe." Dark eyes meet his own and he finds it hard to swallow even though hasn't eaten anything yet. "He has offered his hand to Fadel and Aconi, and they may take it. They have been talking long and deep about it."
That surprises him back into his skin, but the surprise only lasts a second, a sharp quick shock like stepping on a jelly- and like the jelly the shock turns to a kind of burning sensation, a wire in the cage of his chest that not even someone pissing on it would make it feel better.
Fadel and Aconi leaving. He sets his orange segments down one by one in the light so the soft ends touch. The hunger has gone back into its cave for now, but he likes the look of them. The Ranger would be empty without them, like a hole carved in the hull, or an empty hold. He will miss Aconi's huge presence like a thundercloud or sitting with Fadel in the mast and talking of weather and fairytales or seeing him get annoyed by Jack.
At least they'd be together, that feels right. And they'd be with someone that gave a damn about them too, which feels better. So he will keep this secret to himself, as it has to be a secret since Hornigold wouldn't let them go just like that. Should have made Aconi a fucking captain then, Ed thinks, nudging an orange slice with a fingertip.
"Good," he says, tells himself.
"And Kupe has held me his hand as well."
"Oh…" That's fine, he thinks. It's good. . "Fine.. Yeah, I mean that's cool or whatever. I mean, who wouldn't? Go do it."
He presses his finger against the tender skin of the orange slice until it spurts sticky juice all over his palm and the table and the gross johnnycakes which don't even have honey or cinnamon which is the best thing Ed's ever tasted but Greg keeps it stored in his ass cheeks for all Ed knows because he's never found it.
The point is, it's good for Feliciano to work with Kupe and at least Kupe had never shot him or anything and they could be cool together and have …well kind of boring adventures really and smuggling and shit and Feliciano would piss off every tavern from here to Paradise, but it's fine. It's cool. It's safe . Which is important.
"And he would hold his hand to you," Feliciano says. Ed shrugs a shoulder.
"Yeah, I know." Which is nice and all but… Feliciano leans forward then, gaze intense and Ed straightens, surprised and a little something else, suddenly self-conscious of his boot black fingers and tangled hair and orange juice all over his hand. He wonders if Feliciano would notice if he licked it off.
"So go." Feliciano's voice is low and urgent. "We can work together." Ed blinks.
"No." What a weird thing to suggest. Kupe's great and all of that but—
Feliciano slaps the table hard, making him jump.
"Caralho! Você é tão teimoso. Why?"
"Why would I?"
"Tell me! Give me the words to understand. It is more than you will get here."
Maybe… but it's like wanting rum and getting whiskey. They're two great things but one isn't the other.
It's not even that true he'll get more with Kupe than with Hornigold. Actually things will be pretty much fucking the same really. He'll have to start all over again convincing people he knows shit. He'll do stupid shit and get in trouble and everyone will be mad at him. Kupe will probably even hate him after a while because of that but…
"I mean…it's boring, isn't it?" He licks the orange's juice from his palm and then pops the slice into his mouth. "It's just smuggling and island hopping and shit. And pretending you're nobody."
That's part of how Kupe gets away with it… and that's… that's also why he doesn't want to do it. Can't do it. That it'd be even worse than now because…
"I don't want to always live in someone else's shadow." Because he would. Even if he eventually got to where Kupe was, as good as Kupe is, he still needs Francis. He wants people to see him. Not Jack or Hornigold or Davenport or whoever else, but himself. He wants to stand in front for once.
"Ay." Feliciano leans back, rubbing his forehead though he seems to be smiling and trying not to which, Ed doesn't get at all.
"You should go though. It'd be less dangerous," Ed says and shoves a johnnycake in his mouth before he takes it back.
"Hm…Well that's pirates."
"But it fouldn't be for fou," Ed says around the johnnycake. What if fomefing happenf and fou die to fome fhit?" He shakes his head. "I can do thif on my own. Fou fhould go with Kupe."
Feliciano's look is so warm then that Ed has to look away, unsure of what it means or even what to do about it.
"Ah, but waters such as those could never contain Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Ranger. I am too beautiful." He flicks his fingers in a cool gesture and leans the chair back on two legs, bracing his boot against the table which is so fucking cool. Cool and…that weird something else that is soft and fuzzed around the edges.
Ed tries not to think about that, instead distracting himself by trying to copy it, foot on the table, chair leaned back. Ed chokes as it keeps leaning and only Feliciano's hand on his ankle yanking him forward keeps him from cracking his head against the floor. Then it's his hand whacking between Ed's shoulder blades that stops him from dying on the johnnycake which is now all over the table.
To his surprise, though, Feliciano laughs, a soft sound bright and rich.
"Amaldiçoado por deus ou pelo diabo, meu pobre demônio," he says, then kneels down to look up at him, wincing only a little. Ed would feel bad for that only Feliciano's hand is on his leg which is a really bad place for it to be so he holds his breath and hopes nothing happens.
"I understand," Feliciano says. "So you must understand. I must be a star, like you, I must sail and fight and take risks, hm? My heart must fly! My mind must soar! I will not be buried in those waters so do not leave me to them."
Well, that does make sense, Ed doesn't want Feliciano to die of boredom, but he can't help but worry about it.
"If I am to be a star, and you are to be a star, we will only shine brightly if we do so together, hm? So when you have set your mind to a course, tell me first before you do, if there is time- so that I can prepare, or help, or get men or…" He waves a hand. "Keep snow from my hair."
Well, he won't mind shining brightly with Feliciano. Actually the idea is really fucking brilliant and glows in his chest like an orange slice in the sun, but…
"How is that going to help you?" Ed asks, the choking making his voice sound as rough as Toad's.
"Because twin stars shine brighter than one. For now I stand behind, but when you are a man, we stand together." Feliciano smiles and pats his cheek. "Do you promise?"
"I promise…."
"And so you must," says Feliciano, face serious now. "For we will soon face the Leviatã, and I will not lose you to that because I cannot shine alone. Sim?"
"Sim," Ed says though he's sure Feliciano can outshine anyone.
"Bem." Feliciano pats his cheek, then stands with a grunt, rubbing at his bad leg. " Ay there are things I can no longer do."
"I'm sorry…" Ed says because suddenly he is, but there's nothing he can do to take it back or make it better. Feliciano shrugs.
"It is so. Now,venha. Let us go into the sun and you can tell me what happened."
It is not so, Ed wants to say, but stands and venhas anyway, feeling a little better and a little worse as Feliciano's arm slips around his shoulders. It's nice outside anyway, and warm and he can't help but lift his head to the sun as they pass by Long Bob and go out onto the deck.
The Walrus crew have huddled together, their heads bent, van Morgenstern with them. The sight of it knots tension up Ed's spine. They probably won't do anything now, because even they know everyone is needed but when they all face the Leviathan things are going to be a problem. And that van Morgenstern is still with them pisses him off too.
And speaking of that fucker…
"Hey," Ed murmurs to Feliciano after they pass. "I need to tell you something about…" and he gestures toward the huddle trying not to seem too obvious about it.
"A shipmate's friends?" Feliciano shakes his head and flicks his fingers as if it's nothing to worry about. "Silver has told us much."
"What has he told you?" Ed grumbles. He wants to trust Silver fully, he really does, but he knows he can't.
"We will speak of it later. For now we have discussed and will watch and see, Jack has decided."
"Fuck off! Jack made a plan? On his own?"
"He has," Feliciano says with a laugh.
"Holy shit, I'm so proud!" He doesn't think he's ever been proud before! Not like this! But there it is in the center of his chest, warm and shocking.
"He is more than able," says Feliciao, though doesn't sound as proud. "But they are not your worry and there are more eyes than ours."
"But-!"
"No." Feliciano drops his hand lightly on Ed's head and ruffles his hair. "For now this is not on your neck. Enjoy the sun! Enjoy the sea!" He sighs. "The burden will come soon enough."
Ed stares out of the horizon, the rocks of the Devil's Eye only a smudge in the distance, if it's even there at all. He knows Feliciano is right. Soon they'll be against the Leviathan, but sooner than that, he'll be back in the churning waters that's the dick battle between Hornigold and Flint; not to mention whatever the fuck Dirk is plotting- which Silver may well get in on or be in on.
It's going to be a fucking mess. And maybe one he deserves, he thinks, remembering the swabbie and his family. But deserved or not, Feliciano is also right that there's fuck all he can do about it at the moment and it'll be fun to see what Jack comes up with. And maybe…it'll be nice not to worry…just for a little while.
"Oh!" Feliciano says, patting his shoulder. "There were golfinhos dancing along the prow before you woke. Shall we see if they remain?"
"Yeah." Ed grins. "Let's go."