2nd

by lovinfries4

Figo

Preface

be the wind to blow me home
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/38147446.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV) Relationship: Blackbeard Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Character: Stede Bonnet, Blackbeard Edward Teach, Oluwande Boodhari, Buttons (Our Flag Means Death), The Swede (Our Flag Means Death), Black Pete (Our Flag Means Death), Wee John (Our Flag Means Death), Roach (Our Flag Means Death) Additional Tags: Post 1x10, Post Finale, Breaking Up & Making Up, Angst with a Happy Ending, Found Family, Getting Back Together, Canon-Typical Violence, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, POV Stede Bonnet, Stede Bonnet Loves Blackbeard Edward Teach, Stede Bonnet Is An Idiot Language: English Series: Part 2 of on a homeward path we go Collections: kudossoup, good ones, Blackbonnet Recs, OFMD Reunion Fics Stats: Published: 2022-04-10 Words: 15,856 Chapters: 1/1 be the wind to blow me home

by kirkaut

Summary

Stede stands on the warm sand at the beach, stripped of his luxurious coat and impractical shoes, his hair pushed off his face from where he'd slicked it back while using seawater to clean away the pigs blood. He breathes deeply and takes a moment to grieve the life he's about to leave behind for good.

Just a moment, and a moment only.

He closes his eyes against the warmth of the setting sun, and inhales the salty spray of water as a wave crashes on the shore; the ocean advancing and receding, beckoning him forward.

Calling him home.

Notes

this fic is meant to be a companion piece to 'on the bed of this blue ocean' but can be read as a standalone. some stuff will make more sense if you've read 'otbotbo' but it'll also make total sense if you haven't

this fic is VERY Stede & crew focused, but obviously Ed/Stede is where my heart truly lies

See the end of the work for more notes

be the wind to blow me home

would you be the wind to blow me home?
would you be a dream on the wings of a poem?
and if we were walking through a crowd
well you know i'd be proud if you'd call my name out loud
Out Loud - Dispatch

ooo

He'd never tell her, but the second Stede lays eyes on Mary, teacup and saucer shaking in her grasp, he thinks to himself: I've made a terrible mistake.

He supposes that's the thought he should have had in his mind the day he abandoned their life together in favor of adventure on the high seas, but the only thing he'd felt was stark, honest relief. He'd stood alone on the deck of the ship that would become his home, and all he could feel was that this was where he was meant to be.

Still, after Chauncey hauls him off into the trees and promptly shoots himself in the head, it's a wild and panicky guilt that sees him stumbling in the opposite direction of the docks.

The opposite direction of Ed, whom Stede has ruined with flights of fancy. Chauncey was right - Stede's a blight, a plague; an astringent presence on those he holds dear. For God's sake, Ed was Blackbeard, and now he didn't even have a beard! And Stede had done that to him. Not directly, of course, because it's not as if he shaved Ed himself - and oh, wasn't there a thought - but in spirit.

And, alright, perhaps there was something to be said for being rather in shock after watching another Badminton die right in front of him, but as he'd stood, trembling amongst the trees and the sounds of a gunshot and his own screams still ringing in his ear, he'd turned towards an old comfort.

Home.

Only it wasn't home anymore. That became very clear to him within the first two days in Bridgetown, Mary obviously loath to be near him and his own children distant, confused at his reappearance. No, home was a painted ship with creaking floorboards and secret passages.

Home was Black Pete's stories, Frenchie's singing, and Lucius' cutting remarks that he absolutely thought Stede couldn't hear him muttering under his breath. Home was Buttons' unsettling stare and steadfast loyalty, and Wee John's endless snark. It was Roach's sub-par orange cake, Jim's stony silences, and Oluwande's put-upon practicality.

Home was the stinky smell of Ed's pipe tobacco, the swirl of ink over his arms, the imperceptible scratch of stubble against Stede's face as they'd shared their first and only kiss. Home was Ed stealing Stede's soaps. It was Ed lounging in the bathtub for hours upon hours, flicking water at Stede with his fingers while he perched next to the tub so they could continue to converse, eyes fixed determinedly above the waterline.

Home had become Ed, plain and simple, and Stede was the absolute arsehole who didn't even realize it until he was sitting at a table in a bar, surrounded by old friends who didn't suit him any longer.

Then Mary really hits the point home about him not belonging there any longer when she attempts to murder him with a kebab skewer, but quietly so the children won't hear, and - for the first time in their marriage - they share an honest conversation between them.

She describes love, as she now knows it to be with Doug, and rather than feeling any sort of emotion about becoming a wittol, all Stede can think of is Ed.

Ed, who swept into his life and made Stede into a better pirate, who sacrificed himself to King George's servitude so that Stede could keep his head. Ed, who shaved his beard and asked him to run away, and whom Stede has left behind.

He sniffles into Mary's ear as they embrace, not as husband and wife but as tentative friends, and she draws away with a look of gentle concern. "Oh, Mary," Stede says miserably, pressing the fat of his palms to his eyes. A horrible feeling is twisting at his stomach, deep regret and sickening realization swirling together in a cocktail of terrible certainty.

The next noise out of him is a high pitched whine of despair. "Oooh. I think I may have cocked things up completely."

He drops his hands and peers at her with watery eyes when she huffs a laugh through her nose. She inclines her head towards him, eyebrows halfway up her forehead, looking at him like he's an idiot but managing to do it kindly. "You think?"

"No, not with you," he says, then amends: "Well, not just with you. It's...It's Ed. I think I've done something rather foolish."

"Come on, now," Mary says gently, laying a hand on Stede's shoulder and giving him a small shake. "If he loves you, too, I'm sure he'll forgive you. Whatever you've done can't be that bad."

Stede bites his lip with a wince, and tells her.

Mary stares at him for a solid ten seconds once he's done giving her a very, very abridged and Blackbeard-less version of events, lips pressed together in a thin line of astonishment. "Wow," is all she says.

"I know," Stede moans dismally.

"I mean… wow, Stede."

"I know!"

Mary shakes her head in disbelief. "You might have to let him stab you," she says. "At least a little."

"If that's what it takes for him to forgive me," Stede agrees bravely, but one of his hands presses into his stomach with the memory of the wounds he's collected there. "Then he may stab me to his heart's content."

Mary's hand drops from his shoulder, and she's looking at him with the same incredulous stare she gave him the night he suggested they move onto a boat. It's the same look that's always quelled Stede, made him feel like an idiot, but now he understands that it's simply Mary trying to make sense of a man who was never going to be able to be on her same page.

"Well, Jesus, Stede," she says, and pinches at the bridge of her nose like she has a headache coming on. "Don't really let him stab you. Christ."

"Oh, it's alright," he assures her, not thinking much about the words. "He taught me how to take a good stabbing with no real lasting damage."

Another long moment of silence stretches between them as it occurs to Ed that perhaps that's not exactly a normal thing to say to someone, much less about a potential paramour. Mary looks at him askance, one corner of her mouth lifting up in astonishment as she regards him.

She looks at him as though she's never seen him before, and in a way, Stede supposes that she never has. "And is 'Ed' just as mad as you?" she asks.

Even through the nausea roiling in his gut, the certainty that he may have broken things with Ed beyond repair, Stede can't help but smile at the memories elicited by Mary's question. "Oh, he's quite insane," he says fondly, and smiles down at his lap. He remembers with a strange and aching affection the manic way Ed brutalized the snake on their failed treasure hunt, the explosion of unwarranted violence and the way he'd been damn near bashful afterwards. Can still taste the smoky meat, feel the tender bite of it on his tongue, feel the wiry thrush of Ed's beard beneath his fingertips. "He can be downright deranged, when he wants to be."

Mary jabs him with her elbow softly, playfully. "Perfect for you, then," she teases, not unkindly.

Stede's mouth twitches up on a self-deprecating laugh, conceding to her joke with a tilt of his head. "But he can also be…gentle. Kind. Even silly, sometimes." He plays with the lace at the edge of his sleeve, a small thread coming undone at his ministrations. He sniffles again, another wave of anguish cresting over him. "He's my best friend."

When Stede risks a glance towards Mary, her expression is soft with happiness again, eyes damp. "I think you're right," she whispers, and grabs his fidgeting hands with her own. "I think maybe you found love, after all." She gives his hands an affectionate squeeze. "Now. Stede Bonnet: what are you going to do about your Ed?"

Stede lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, lips pressed thin as he tamps down on the hope that rises in him at Mary's words. "D'you think it'll be that simple?" he asks her quietly, eyes fixed on their clasped hands. It occurs to him suddenly, after nearly a week in the Bonnet estate, that he's never bothered to put his wedding ring back on. He isn't even sure where it is. It all feels so obvious in hindsight - he's a trespasser in this life, not a fixture.

"I dunno," Mary tells him, honest and contemplative. "I suppose that depends."

"On?"

"On whether or not you think he loves you, too."

Stede's eyebrows furrow together while he considers her words. He thinks back on the panic in Ed's voice when he'd shouted for an Act of Grace, the deliberate way he'd held his body between Stede and Chauncey's men. The way Ed's callous roughened fingers had held his jaw so carefully, how Ed had pressed into him when he realized Stede was returning his kiss, the small noise that he'd made right before they'd pulled apart. He can still feel the weight of Ed's fingers against his collarbone, gently tapping into the hollow of it.

Nights spent talking until sunrise. Ed's easy laughter, his genuine delight with Stede's eccentricities. The excitement in his voice as he spoke about running away together.

His wide eyes in the moonlight, soft and scared, Stede pressing a folded square of red silk into his pocket.

God, he's been such an idiot.

"I think so," Stede croaks, casting a fleeting glimpse to Mary, who gives him a small and encouraging nod. "I hope so."

"Well, that's a start," Mary says. "I'd recommend a fair bit of groveling once you find him." She breaks off with a jaw cracking yawn, pulling away from Stede to cover her mouth with the back of her hand. "Sorry," she says sheepishly, and it's the first time Stede notices the tired bruises beneath her eyes. "Didn't get too much sleep last night. Too busy, um." She cuts herself off with a sheepish grin.

Stede lifts his brows, and it's his turn to give her a friendly nudge. "Thinking of ways to kill me?" he finishes for her. It's a bit amazing that he says it like an old joke between friends, considering not even thirty minutes ago she'd been trying to murder him in his sleep.

She laughs, scratching at her forehead in embarrassment. "Yeah, that." She peers at him from beneath the line of her fringe. "D'you mind if I go to sleep? Promise I don't have any more skewers tucked away."

Stede's mind is turning too much for him to rest, but he certainly won't begrudge Mary a decent sleep. It's the least he owes her, after all. "You go ahead," he tells her, and makes to stand from the edge of the bed. "I'm going to make my way into the study."

"You're sure?" Mary asks, even as she's scooting back into the center of the bed, drawing the duvet over her legs as she goes.

"I'm sure," he assures her, and pulls a maroon dressing gown from a hook, slipping it over his shoulders. "After all, I've got some groveling to plan."

Mary hums, eyes already closed, and she's snoring lightly before Stede has even shut the door.

He leans against the wall in the hallway and closes his eyes against the burn of tears that threaten. "Right, Captain Bonnet," he mutters to himself. "Time to un-fuck this mess you've made."

He straightens his dressing gown, draws himself up, striding down the corridor to the study, and doesn't once feel the urge to look back.

ooo

The fuckery, if one were looking for Stede's opinion on the matter, goes off with nary a hitch. He has Doug and Mary to thank for that, as well as their cast of odd friends. He thinks he might actually regret not getting to know Doug better. He'd gotten to like him quite a bit in those few hours they'd spent plotting Stede's own demise together, and Mary and the children clearly adored him.

As the carriage rumbles through the roads of Bridgetown, dust kicked up behind the wheels, Stede thinks of Alma and Louis with a wistful sorrow. Perhaps he'd never been the greatest father - previous abandonment of them aside, he'd been too preoccupied with dreams of another sort of life to be truly present - but he had enjoyed being one. He will miss them terribly and love them always, but in his heart he knows that this is best for all of them, and that Doug and Mary will be better parents to them than he had ever hoped to be himself.

Stede stands on the warm sand at the beach, stripped of his luxurious coat and impractical shoes, his hair pushed off his face from where he'd slicked it back while using seawater to clean away the pigs blood. He breathes deeply and takes a moment to grieve the life he's about to leave behind for good.

Just a moment, and a moment only.

He closes his eyes against the warmth of the setting sun, and inhales the salty spray of water as a wave crashes on the shore; the ocean advancing and receding, beckoning him forward.

Calling him home.

All he has with him are a half dozen skeins of water, rations enough for a week at best if he paces himself well, one spare change of clothes as plain as the ones on his back, a small coin purse filled with silver that Mary or Doug must have slipped into his dinghy without him knowing, and half a petrified orange.

It's the least Stede has ever owned. He's stripped of his fineries, the privileged trappings of the life he's led all but left behind as he rows himself away from shore. He supposes that he should feel scared, removed from the comfort of the wealth and luxury he's had weighted around his shoulders since birth, but he doesn't.

He pauses in his rowing long enough to give one final lingering glance towards the distant shore of Barbados, and says a silent farewell in his mind.

He smiles and picks up the oars, hands already somewhat sore but his strokes steadfast and sure. There's nothing more to fear out on the open sea; the Kraken is a friend of his, after all, and Stede Bonnet is finally free.

ooo

On second thought, Stede may have fucked up more deeply then previously believed.

It goes like this:

He rows through the night, the moon blessedly full and bright above him, allowing him more of an idea as to where he is in the otherwise dark swath of ocean. He moves slowly, fighting against the current and rowing north towards the last place he knows The Revenge to have taken anchor. It's been days, but yet he hopes that maybe the ship is still moored where they left it, that perhaps Ed is waiting for him even now, even though Stede doesn't deserve it.

He strokes his oars against the water through the sunrise and the early morning mist, and keeps going even as the sun burns off the fog and becomes an unpleasant source of heat upon his back.

His shirt is drenched through with ocean spray and sweat, his arms aching and his chest heaving with exertion, but still he forges on.

It isn't until the sun has shifted past its highest point and there's been no sign of his ship that Stede begins to feel a thread of panic. There's a small island in the distance - if one could even call it that for all that it had been comprised of half a dozen boulders and a handful of palm trees - that he's been using as a place marker for The Revenge, and as he draws nearer to it, it becomes achingly clear that his beloved vessel is nowhere to be found.

He wonders how long she's been gone; hours, days? Did Izzy set sail as soon as the British convoy had cleared their line of sight, or had Ed found his way aboard after Stede failed to meet him on the docks, and left without looking back?

That thought is what makes him finally loosen his grip on his oars, fingers stiff and blistered and little more than claws as he presses his face into them, overcome with grief. He's almost too exhausted to weep, but his body gives a few miserable shudders, suddenly cold despite the blazing sun bearing down on his shoulders.

A hoarse, dry sob wrenches its way out of his throat, a sense of hopelessness sinking in as he realizes he has no idea how to proceed. He has no way of knowing where Ed would have gone, if he's even on board The Revenge, or if there's even an inkling of a chance at ever seeing him again.

He fights back the dread as best he can, forcing himself to take deep and steadying breaths in tandem with the rocking of the sea around him. He focuses on the distant caw of birds, the feeling of the breeze rustling his hair, and the faint sound of a commotion in the distance.

…wait. What?

Stede lifts his head out of his hands and squints against the glare of light on the surface of the water, looking towards the tiny speck of land he's been using as a marker. He's been drifting slowly closer, and at this distance he can make out the silhouettes of figures chasing each other around on the sand, shouting unintelligibly.

He closes his hands back around his oars, hissing only slightly at the bite and sting of the wood against his tender palms, and rows himself closer. When he's perhaps a hundred meters from the isle, a familiar bellow carries on the wind. Buttons.

He lets go of his paddles and heaves himself to his feet, stumbling with exhaustion and too much momentum, and thrusts a hand into the air.

There's another ruckus on the shore as he's spotted, the grouping of distant figures piling together at the center of it, all of them shouting and waving their arms.

Stede settles back into the boat with a heavy 'thunk,' relief stealing the strength out of his legs. He finds himself wanting to weep again, but for entirely different reasons. It gives him the motivation to push forward until his dinghy is close enough to the shoreline of the glorified rock for Oluwande and Wee John to help haul it onto the sand.

Stede is standing before the boat has settled, and as such, he falls into Wee John's arms and clutches at him, staring at the lot of them in total disbelief. "What are you doing here?" he asks, and glances from face to face. "Where's Lucius? And Frenchie, and Jim?"

His crew looks more than their usual half-mad: sweat soaked and sunburnt and utterly bedraggled. They all look towards Oluwande, who heaves a sigh, rubs a hand across his brow, and answers Stede's question.

"What do you mean, he left you here?" Stede squawks, voice shrill to even his own ears. The previously settled sense of panic is rearing its ugly head once more. His tummy hurts. He thinks he might be sick.

"S'like I said, man," Oluwande says, crossing to a large rock and sitting down on it with a grunt of exertion. He looks drained, depleted. "I dunno what went on between you two after the British hauled you off and all, but Blackbeard was acting weird. Really weird. Weirder-than-usual weird. Said we were gonna...put on a talent show, and then dumped us off here and just," Oluwande gestures out to the ocean with one hand, whistling through his teeth. "Took off."

Stede's eyelids flicker with incredulity. "A talent show?" he asks, nose scrunching. "Ed said that? Has he heard Black Pete sing?"

"Hey!"

Oluwande levels him with an unimpressed look out of the corner of his eyes. "Really?" he demands as Stede makes a vague gesture of 'no offense' towards a glowering Pete. "He stole your ship, marooned your crew, and you're worried about whether or not one tone deaf bastard might have put him off?"

"I am right here!" Black Pete says hotly, and goes profoundly ignored.

Stede trudges across the sand and seats himself next to Oluwande, hands rubbing nervously over his knees. "It's only been a day," he tries weakly, but he can feel the resigned slump of his own shoulders, not even believing his own words. "Maybe…maybe-" but Oluwande cuts him off with a shake of his head before Stede can give in to false hope.

"Mate, I'm serious," he says wearily, and the gravity that weighs down his body and his words makes Stede's mouth tighten and pull into an unhappy line. "Look, he showed back up on the boat with no beard and in a fucking rotten mood, and wouldn't talk to anyone but Hands and Lucius for days. Whatever it is that happened between you two, it messed him up. And I don't really care if you tell us," he interrupts when Stede opens his mouth. "Honestly, I don't care about much of anything right now except getting off this fucking island. So. Cap." Oluwande spreads his hands. "What's the plan?"

Stede doesn't answer right away, and Oluwande doesn't press, just turns his gaze back out to the vast expanse of sky above them, eyes tracking the few clouds that break up all the blue. Stede heaves a sigh through his nose, lips pressed together, and fixes his eyes on the distant landmass of Barbados' northern shores, little more than a dark line on the horizon.

Behind him, he can hear the crew bickering, all of them sun-sick and hungry and tired. Stede isn't faring much better, and his blistered hands are aching anew at the mere thought of what he's about to suggest, but he knows - even as he winces - that it's the only option. He's got to get the lot of them off of this miserable hunk of rock.

"Well," he begins, and Oluwande's attention finds him again. Stede contemplates the dinghy, obviously too small for the lot of them. "For starters, we're going to need a bigger boat."

ooo

After two more hours of painful negotiation, several loud arguments, and a spirited debate about who should be rescued first, Stede begins the arduous task of transporting his crew back to Barbados in hopes of acquiring a vessel big enough to house them all.

He takes Pete first at Oluwande's urging, the two of them hand feeding him lines about responsibility and leadership until Black Pete is as puffed as a cockatoo and taking himself and his temporary duties very seriously.

The Swede is next, anxious to get away from Roach and Buttons for what Stede understands to be incredibly valid reasons. He thinks if two people tried to take a bite of him, he'd been keen to get away as well.

Roach and Wee John follow, and it's a slower journey with three men, Stede panting and aching at the end of it, but based on what he's heard, he isn't exactly eager to be left alone with Roach, either. Besides, Wee John is exhausted enough that his temper is a formidable deterrent to any attempts at cannibalism.

It's nearing dusk by the time Stede makes it back to the island for Oluwande and Buttons, the early evening air a balm on the screaming muscles of Stede's shoulders and on the deeply painful sunburn on the skin at the back of his neck. Tears of misery and fatigue have been biting at his eyes since he deposited Roach and Wee John on the shore, and each ferry between the coastline of Barbados and the tiny island is slower and more difficult than the last. But he's abandoned this crew once already, left them behind just as much as he left Ed when he made the decision to crawl back to Mary's life, and playing the beleaguered chauffeur seems as good a place to start as any as far as making reparations.

Still, when Oluwande takes pity on him a third of the way back to the coast and offers to take over rowing for a while, Stede nearly weeps in relief. As it were, he simply slumps with gratitude and passes the oars over, and occupies himself with examining the split skin of his palms.

Oluwande's eyes flit towards Buttons, whose unnerving down-nose stare is directed at some indeterminate point in the distance now that his horrible dentures have been confiscated, and then - with the air of a person who's not sure they actually want the answer to a question - asks: "So…what happened?"

Stede doesn't insult him by pretending not to know what Oluwande is referring to. He presses on a particularly sore spot of palm, wincing when a thin trickle of fluid escapes a blister. "I made a mess of things," he says, simplifying the situation egregiously.

Oluwande, unsurprisingly, rolls his eyes. "Well, yeah, I got that one. But are we talking, like, trying to kill him, or something more along the lines of… emotional damage?"

Stede inhales deeply through his nose, posture wilting when he exhales just as gustily. "I suppose you deserve to know the truth," he says gravely, and proceeds to lay out the whole sordid tale.

He's always felt a sense of comradery with Oluwande, and goodness knows the man's familiar enough with Edward and his alter ego that Stede doesn't have to edit the story the way he did with Mary, and so he feels no compulsion to hold back on the details. He talks about it all - the smothering guilt around their surrender, the shock of seeing Ed beardless for the first time, the delicate moment on the beach and Ed's proposal after. He talks about Chauncey's march into the forest, his gun in Stede's back, and the dramatic culmination of his time in Bridgetown.

It's only when he's finished talking, most of the soliloquy delivered to his own knees, that he realizes the only movement of the boat is coming from the lapping waves of the ocean. In fact, Oluwande seems to have completely forgotten about rowing in favor of staring at Stede in total disbelief, mouth slack and open.

Even Buttons is looking at him with a furrowed brow, his face lowered to an angle that's much less disconcerting than the usual.

"Oh, my God," Oluwande mutters, and drops the oars into the center of the boat with a clatter so that he can cover his face with his hands. "Oh, Jesus, Cap." He threads his fingers together and presses the clutch of them into his mouth and nose, staring at Stede over the top. "Christ, it all makes so much sense, now." He says this last part to Buttons, who nods sagely but stays goggling at Stede.

"Aye," his first mate says. "Ye can heal the body from a stabbin', but the heart's canny fickle, and a wound there can last a lifetime."

"That's very reassuring," Stede snaps. "Thank you, Buttons."

"He's got a point," Oluwande insists. Button gives him a single nod of thanks before returning his discomfiting gaze to the horizon. "Look, you didn't see what happened to Blackbeard when he came back to the ship, it was… bad, alright? And just…really sad, man. Barely talked to anyone, hid in your room for literally days - we could all hear him crying at all hours of the night. It was fucking disconcerting, man, and then one day he popped up, said we were having a talent show, then made us chuck all of your books'n'things overboard, and dumped us on an island. And most of that was just the last two days."

"...oh," is all Stede manages to say, voice small.

Oluwande sighs and picks the oars back up with a shake of his head. "You really did a number on him, is all I'm saying. Can't imagine it was easy, doing what he did for you with the British. And then getting left behind like that?" Oluwande shakes his head. "No wonder he wanted to get rid of all your stuff."

"No wonder," Stede echoes, and digs his nails into his tender palms until the sensitive skin screams.

There's a part of him - a fairly large one, if he's being honest with himself - that isn't so far removed from the trappings of his upbringing that he doesn't blanch at the idea of all of those books and antiques wasting away on the ocean floor. He thinks mournfully about his carefully curated library, the silk and linen catalog of clothing years in the making, and then remembers Ed's cautious fascination with it all.

He can still envision the way Ed had brushed that cashmere scarf over the skin of his cheek, reverent and unsure. Recalls the square of red silk he'd found Ed holding on the deck after that disastrous evening with the French, the fabric well cared for but still lightly worn from years and years in Ed's possession.

He wonders, for all the treasures and riches that Ed has accumulated over the years, just how much of it he allowed himself to truly enjoy before Stede came along. He wonders whether or not the trappings of who everyone expected Blackbeard to be - brooding, bloodthirsty, savage - left any room for indulgences, the likes of which Stede had always been surrounded by.

Even when Stede had given up that which he believed to be an inconvenience - namely, his family's legacy, his land, and his wife - he'd still surrounded himself with the comforts of home. In retrospect, it had been incredibly selfish and silly, thinking he could play at being a pirate while holding onto the luxuries to which he'd become accustomed.

But no longer. He's positively skint now, with only the purseful of coins from Mary and Doug to ease the way. And though it may ache, just slightly, to lose countless favored novels, texts, and knick-knacks, the deeper hurt comes from imagining Edward heartbroken enough to order reminders of Stede tossed overboard like garbage.

He has to fix this. He needs to fix this. He needs to find Ed and apologize, willing to beg for forgiveness on hands and knees if that's what it takes to mend this chasm Stede's put between them. He's given up everything he's ever known in order to find happiness, so what's a little dignity?

But, first things first, he thinks as the dinghy threatens to overbalance as it crests a large wave. They really do need a vessel big enough to house them all.

"We need a plan," he tells Oluwande and Buttons, his voice low-pitched and firm. The time for playing pirate is over, and it's time to start acting like the sort of Captain he yearns to be. "We need a ship of our own. Any thoughts on how we might accomplish that?"

Oluwande shakes his head, a look in his eyes that clearly says he wouldn't know where to begin, but Buttons is peering down his nose with the sort of unhinged consideration that usually precedes him saying something entirely strange. Stede can practically see the wheels turning in his head, and for once, he decides to give in to whatever mad scheme his first mate comes up with.

"I'm listening," he says, and leans forward. Buttons' eyebrows lift impossibly even further on his forehead, no doubt used to Stede cutting off his bizarre machinations at the pass.

"Ye may no' like it," Button warns, tone ominous. "It'll be more than a wee bit dangerous."

Stede has no doubts about whether or not he's going to like this plan, but right now, he's just desperate enough that he's willing to do whatever it takes to find a way back where he belongs: on The Revenge, with his crew, and with Ed.

"We're pirates, aren't we?" he asks rhetorically, and steadfastly ignores the way Oluwande's expression contorts and he mutters 'dunno 'bout that' under his breath. "Danger's what we signed up for!"

Buttons bares his teeth in a grin, eyes wide and wild. "Aye, Cap'n," he agrees eagerly, gnarled hands rubbing together in glee. Stede, despite his own misgivings, gives him an encouraging smile.

"Jesus," Oluwande mutters, sounding deeply resigned to his own fate, but his strokes on the water never falter. "We're all gonna fucking die."

ooo

To Black Pete's credit, the entire crew is still sequestered on the rocky patch of beach where Stede had left them, looking no less rough but marginally more relaxed for being off the tiny isle where they'd been marooned. Pete has his head held high, arms folded over his chest and puffed up with self importance, standing on the waterline as Oluwande hops out of the dinghy and drags it up onto the sand. Stede climbs out of the boat with shaking, exhausted legs, barely enough energy within him to stand upright, but still makes sure to clap Pete on the shoulder with thanks. "Excellent job keeping the crew together," he tells him earnestly, and sees Pete's face fold into surprise at the praise.

"Thanks, Cap," the man says, a small and pleased smile pulling at his mouth, and offers Stede an arm to steady himself when he attempts to walk and his knees begin to buckle beneath him.

The lot of them gather near a large fallen log that's sat at the treeline, everyone collapsing on or around in it with the exception of Buttons, whom Stede is honestly not sure he's seen sit down or sleep more than a handful of times in their months together, and Stede himself, who doesn't feel as though he's earned the rest despite being close to tipping over.

He wrings his hands together as he surveys his disheveled and weary crew. "I owe you all an apology," he begins, and all of them look at him with various shades of surprise and interest. "I'm afraid I've been quite the hypocrite. I built this crew on a foundation of communication, and I…well, I failed to live up to my own expectations, and it seems everyone has suffered for it." He swallows, throat dry and pained. "I. I understand if any of you don't want to join us, but Buttons has crafted a rather…" He pauses, considering his words. "...unique plan to get us back on a ship of our own. It could be dangerous, but-"

"We're in."

Stede cuts off mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. Wee John shrugs, squinting up at him from beneath the cap of leaves he still has atop his head. "We talked about it while we was waitin' for you to get here," he says, gesturing loosely between himself, Black Pete, Roach, and the Swede. Stede glances towards Oluwande, who gives him a shrug and looks about as surprised as Stede feels. "Think we'd all like a chance to give Mr. Hands a piece of our minds."

"We won't guarantee we won't try to mutiny again in the future," Black Pete chimes in, aiming for threatening, missing by a mile, and landing somewhere in between 'chiding' and 'cautionary,' like a parent speaking to a unwieldy child. "But. Y'know. There are worse captains out there."

Stede presses his hand to his chest, oddly touched.

"Dizzy Izzy, for one," Roach says, and there's a murmur of agreement amongst the crew. Wee John points at him and nods to Stede with a look of 'See?' on his face.

"Well then," Stede says, and he feels as bright and revitalized as he had the night before, before the day's disappointing revelations had weighed him down. He's no less exhausted or burnt-out, but he feels somehow lighter at his crew's display of loyalty, hopeful in a way he hasn't been since he found them. "Let's go get ourselves a ship!"

He tries not to take the lackluster cheer of agreement personally.

Buttons' plan is, for lack of a better term, mildly insane, and Stede can read in everyone's faces that they agree with his assessment. It's also the only halfway decent idea they've got, though, so despite some misgivings and sideways glances, everyone agrees to their part. Wee John and Roach seem reinvigorated when they realize that they're going to be allowed to use violence and force without recrimination, given that they're bound to meet resistance along the way.

The most surprising thing of all is that it all goes off without a hitch.

There's a small shipyard a mile or so from where Stede brought them all ashore, not anywhere near as large as the port in Bridgetown, but still home to a handful of tall ships looking for a safe place to moor. Nothing quite as opulent or large as The Revenge, but a damn sight more comfortable than if Stede had tried to load seven grown men into a sparsely stocked rowboat for days on end.

A ramshackle pub sits at the end of an untrustworthy looking pier, one that seems filled to bursting with sailors and townsfolk alike, the building fairly groaning from the weight of all its patrons. Stede would be anxious at the sheer number of possible witnesses to their illegal activities if weren't for the fact that the crowd in the pub means that the ships anchored nearby will have been left empty, save for one or two unlucky folk who're meant to be keeping watch.

Stede trails behind the others, flanked by Black Pete, who has apparently taken Stede's appreciation and minor show of trust to heart and declared himself the Captain's bodyguard for the siege. It would be more reassuring had he been armed with something more dangerous than a heavy branch he'd picked up on their trek to the shipyard, but Stede is appreciative of the gesture nonetheless.

Roach and Buttons lead the pack, the former nearly frothing at the mouth in anticipation and the latter rendered nearly mute by the gruesome dentures he wears. Wee John and the Swede keep nudging one another and giggling, making Oluwande shush them every few meters, but there's an unmistakable thrum of excitement and comradery among them all. Stede's dreamed of feeling this sort of one-ness with his crew, but he wishes that it were under very different circumstances.

They creep along the dock, careful not to make any missteps on the rotten boards, and hastily untie a rowboat capable of fitting all of them. Buttons wordlessly points out a ship nearby - the largest of all those anchored around, but still not as grandiose as The Revenge - and they push off towards their target.

Stede wishes he'd known this months ago, but it turns out that with the right motivation (being revenge, hunger, and, for some of them, love), his crew of misfits and rejects could actually be quite effective and ruthless.

Stede stays back in the rowboat with Pete as the others scramble their way up the side of the ship and heave themselves over the railing, and he's forced to sit there with bated breath while his men raid the lower decks for any sailors left behind. He doesn't have to wait long - maybe five minutes pass before a door is thrown open and he hears the thud of boots on the deck, followed by the maniacal caterwauling of Roach and Buttons in pursuit.

On the other end of a ship there's a high pitched yelp, followed by a body hitting the water. Wee John peers over the side and waves to Stede and Black Pete, having obviously just thrown a man overboard, then disappears back over the edge. Above them, there's a loud shout of alarm that's quickly cut off, and then another splash on the far side of the boat.

A beat, and then a ladder unfurls over the railing and clatters to a stop a few scant inches from Stede's head. Roach pops his head over the top of it and gives them a sharp grin and a thumbs up before stepping back.

"After you, Cap'n," Pete says, gesturing upwards.

Stede gathers up his meager belongings and braces his hands on one of the wooden ladder rungs. He takes a deep breath and climbs upward. Oluwande helps him clamber on deck, steadies him with a hand to his back when Stede's legs threaten to give way.

"It's alright, man," Oluwande mutters to him as Stede gazes on the mismatched, absurd group of criminals who've chosen to follow him to sea. "You can rest now. Let's go home."

Stede closes his eyes against the dark of the night and turns his face to the ocean breeze. He listens to the boisterous sounds of the pub in the distance, the sound of water lapping against the hull, and the rustle and clatter of his men preparing the sails and anchor for departure.

If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost hear Ed's laughter in the wind.

"Home," he agrees, and steps towards the helm.

ooo

In spite of Stede's more optimistic thoughts, they don't immediately happen upon The Revenge on the open sea. It takes two weeks for him to stop surveying the skyline with bated breath, Oluwande's scope pressed against one eye until he feels nauseated from the lack of depth perception.

It seems his crew is full of gossip mongers, because it becomes clear after a few days that all of them are aware, in some way or another, of the situation that led to Stede chasing his own ship across the caribbean.

(Oluwande, when Stede asks him about it, shrugs without a hint of apology. "There ain't much to do on a boat that don't know where it's going, man," is all he says as he gestures towards the endless stretch of water on any side of them. Stede concedes the point with a tilt of his head, and resigns his personal woes to the stuff of scrutiny.)

The men do their best to keep his mind off of the heartache of it all, but their methods are…questionable, at best, and downright macabre at their worst. It makes him miss Lucius' presence on the crew more than he already did. He knows that Lucius, with all his experience, impatience, and cutting wit, would have been the most successful at pulling Stede out of the depths of his own misery.

And it's certainly misery, this deep unhappiness that settles within him with every day that passes, no sign of Blackbeard's colors or the gorgeous lines of Stede's stolen ship.

On the forty-seventh day of their journey, Stede ends a miserable three day stint surveilling the horizon from atop the crow's nest when a stormcloud opens itself upon them, and descends, trembling with cold, to his makeshift quarters below decks.

His eyes are bloodshot and aching, his body wracked with shivers and begging for a chance at respite, but he finds it hard to sleep. It's not so much to do with missing the lush mattress of his bed on The Revenge - though his back certainly does - or even that he's done more physical labor in the last few weeks than in the entirety of his life and there are muscles he wasn't aware existed that now ache down to the bone. It's not the old and unfamiliar creak and groans of a ship more travel-worn than the one he'd built, or even the rambunctious nature of his stir-crazy crew.

No, Stede's restlessness comes from the fact that every time he closes his eyes, he sees Ed.

Ed, eyes black and cold, pointing a gun at Stede's face, finger ready on the trigger. Ed, face lost to smoke and voice tipped to a threatening rumble not dissimilar to Chauncey's drunken growl, listing off all the ways Stede ruins whatever he touches.

Ed, as he must have looked the night Stede didn't show up: lit by the glow of the slowly rising sun, face sinking into despair.

It's all he can think about, all he can see. Night or day, day or night, Stede feels haunted by the consequences of the choice he made. How apt, he thinks to himself in his darker moments, for Stede to fall in love for the first time in his life and immediately have it turn to ash within his grasp.

Ed had called himself a monster once, but Stede hadn't thought it true then, and he certainly doesn't think it now. If either of them are a dark shadow of ruin, Stede knows who it would be.

He aches to fix the mess he's made, to restore order to the havoc he's wreaked on both of their lives and the lives of those caught in the wake of Stede's selfish behavior. But it doesn't matter how desperately Stede wants or needs to mend this open wound if Ed doesn't want to hear it.

By the fourth month of their journey, where it seems at every port that they've just missed Blackbeard and his deadly crew by a matter of days, or on one memorable occasion, mere hours, Stede's despair solidifies into something rather different:

Solid, bull-headed, dogged determination.

It begins in a market, the lot of them gathered ashore for rations and some much needed time off the sea. Roach and Wee John have wandered off in the direction of the produce, Oluwande is peering intently at a table of weapons, his eye having been caught by a dagger with a turquoise stone embedded in the handle, and Stede has found himself at a stall filled with fabric wares.

Old habits die hard, after all.

His hands are no longer the soft and unworked things they once were, now covered in rough swaths of calluses and shallow cuts where he's nicked himself training with a dagger. The material of silk and cashmere between his fingers is both familiar and new as a result, catching on hard skin but still luxuriously supple, and well out of his price range. There's a lilac cravat draped tantalizingly over the table, and Stede itches to pick it up. He imagines the delicate purple shade of it against the brown hue of Ed's skin, knotted carefully around his neck.

He forces himself to look away, mouth dry, and his eye snags on a display at the other end of the table. His breath catches.

He certainly doesn't have enough coinage to afford one of the intricately crafted silk flowers perched on the table top, but he hefts one into his palm anyway, fingers trailing across the dyed petals of a poppy. A deep royal purple this time, reminiscent of one of Ed's cotton undershirts, the center black and happy yellow. The artificial blossom is affixed in the style of a boutonniere, built upon a featherbone and the 'stem' wrapped in linen.

Stede thinks about pinning this flower to Ed's chest, the way the purple would look offset against the salt and pepper of his hair and the warm brown of his eyes. He holds it in his palm like something precious and pulls his mouth into a tight line, lest it betray the sad tremble of his lips that wants to make itself known.

The vendor's shadow looms in front of him, disapproving of his handling of the flower, and Stede hastily drops it back to the table, gaze averted and shame a hot flash upon his cheeks. There was a time not so long ago that he would have spent the coin to buy it without hesitation, but these days he has to be more careful, more aware of how little money truly can buy. He has a crew to keep, after all, and silver is better spent on food and drink than silly indulgences like fabric or flowers.

He strides away from the table quickly, and spends his money on a bundle of oranges instead. The Swede really can't afford to lose any more teeth, he reasons with himself, but though he knows he made the right decision, the feeling of the silk petals beneath his fingers follows him all the way around the market.

Wee John finds him perusing a display of dried meats sometime later, and gives him a firm elbow to the ribs in greeting. "Got summat for ya," he says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, and reaches into one baggy pocket.

Wary at first, Stede peers down at the proffered hand with a trepidation that quickly fades when he realizes what, exactly, it is that Wee John has procured.

A length of lilac silk, and a slightly crumpled fabric flower.

He looks up at Wee John's smug expression with no small amount of awe. "How did you get these?" he asks, and lifts them up with a careful touch.

Wee John shrugs. "Saw ya lookin' at them for a while," he says. "It was the least sad I've seen you in a bit. Roach was happy to make a diversion – you know how he is about destroyin' private property - and I'm light handed, me." He waves the hand in question. "Don't need no money if you've got a five-finger discount."

"You stole them?" Stede asks in a whisper, because he fears if he raises his voice at all, the words will crack. Wee John might not think much of it, but it's a kindness he doesn't feel he deserves.

"Course," Wee John says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. And in a way, it is, because the next thing he says is: "We's pirates, ain't we? S'kinda our whole deal."

A thought begins to form in Stede's brain.

"We are pirates, aren't we?" he asks slowly, and then slips the cravat and flower carefully into his pocket. "We love a bit of stealing, hmm?"

He feels stupid, foolish; he's been so caught up in trying to chase down Edward, trying to fix this mess he's made, that he'd almost completely forgotten the reason the two of them had met in the first place. He's been thinking too much like himself, and not nearly enough like Ed.

"Right," he says, and straightens his spine out of the unhappy slouch that's curved it for weeks. "Well done, Wee John!" He pauses. "Though I don't suppose you happened to see what Oluwande-"

"Way ahead of you," Wee John interrupts, and from some other surreptitious pocket, he unearths the very turquoise accented dagger Stede had begun to inquire about. "You ain't the only sad sack on the ship these days."

He isn't wrong. Oluwande, for as much as he claims to want to keep out of the personal lives of the crew, turns maudlin and poetic after a drink, reminiscing balefully about his and Jim's exploits from their time before The Revenge.

Black Pete oscillates frequently between wanting to appear unaffected by the distance between him and Lucius, and fretting to the rest of them about whether or not they think Lucius is doing alright amongst Blackbeard's crew.

Not for the first time, and likely not for the last, Stede is forced to consider the far reaching consequences of his selfishness. If this is the peripheral effect his abandonment of Ed has had, what kind of heartache has it given to the man himself?

Stede pulls the fabric flower out of his pocket, cups it in his palm so that he can trace the delicately crafted petals with shaking fingers.

You wear fine things well, he'd told Ed that moonlit night so long ago, heart pounding in a way he hadn't truly understood until much later, when Ed had pulled him in with careful hands and kissed him.

He leaves the market and meanders slowly back towards the ship, cravat wound around his hand and silk flower twirled between his fingers, and turns his thoughts towards Edward.

Edward and the press of his hand against Stede's jaw, his eyes liquid and warm.

Edward, and a ring of black and gold, hidden away and waiting to be found.

Stede enters the quarters on the ship that he's claimed as his own and reaches for a small wooden chest that's velvet lined and home to, of all things, a rather ornate looking inkwell. He removes the inkwell, sets it on the small desk in the corner, and then gently deposits his new treasures inside.

They're far from the most opulent or fine things he's ever owned - a fortunate life full of land and wealth have seen to that - but simple though they may be, they are infinitely more precious to him than any gem or crystalline bauble.

They're for Ed, and he'll guard them with his life as if they were made of gold.

ooo

Something changes in Stede after that day in the market, a newfound sense of determination straightening his spine and giving him cause to get out of bed in the morning.

The crew exchanges confused glances the first morning he unveils his new attitude, but months in one another's company seems to have exposed them to enough of his odd moods that they aren't much inclined to question it.

That is, until Stede has Buttons steer them towards a small ship in the distance and declares to the lot of them that it's time for a raid.

Oluwande and Black Pete share an uneasy look between them. "Uh, Cap," Oluwande says, scratching at the back of his neck. "You sure this is a good idea?"

"Come on, boys!" Stede says, and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. The day is sunny and warm, and his hair is long enough now that it curls over his ears and over the back of his neck. He keeps a small piece of twine wrapped around his wrist these days as a result, and uses it to pull the sweaty curls off his nape.

He wonders, every now and then, what Mary would say if she could see him now: clad only in a linen undershirt and a pair of shortpants, hair grown positively shaggy in comparison to its lifelong coiffure.

He wonders what Ed would think of this new version of Stede, stripped down and finally cognizant of what it is he truly wants. If he would be pleased, or if he would rather just run Stede through with a sword at the sight of him.

Despite the crew's skepticism, they're upon the other ship within a matter of an hour, and - much to everyone's shock, including Stede's own - it all actually goes very well. The closer they draw towards their target, the more enthusiastic everyone on the crew seems to get, craving an outlet for months of disappointment and restlessness. Roach fashions an unsavory looking weapon out of nails and a large plank of wood, and Wee John is eagerly detailing to the Swede what a wooden ship sounds like when it's fully engulfed in flames.

Even Oluwande, who generally seems happier to avoid confrontation on the whole, is carefully sharpening a nasty looking sword they'd found in the weapons cache, his eyes fixed on their goal.

The raid itself is, perhaps, not the most exciting or gruesome - especially compared to the likes of which they'd seen while traveling under Blackbeard's colors - but it's a damn sight better than the time they'd accosted those two fishermen.

For one, the ship turns out to be a leisure vessel and has actual valuables on board, expensive trinkets and gaudy jewelry alike. There is, inexplicably, also a small fortune's worth of gold badly sequestered behind a false wall, and really, Stede would like to know who they contracted to build it, because it was all terribly conspicuous.

After sending the occupants of the boat away on a dinghy that looked as though it had rarely touched the water, the crew excitedly hauls their goods to the deck and - after a few tense moments where Stede had feared things were about to get bloody - seat themselves into a circle and begin divvying up the loot.

Stede stands back and watches them with fondness, relishing in their happy shouts and excitement, and refuses when Pete beckons him closer for a peek of his own.

"I'm quite alright," he says, and he means it. He had already found his own personal treasure in the quarters of the married couple aboard the boat: a small cut-glass bottle of perfume that smelled of orange blossoms and sage, a diamond and citrine brooch that resembled a bumblebee, a small cache of lavender scented soaps, and a bundle of ribbons in a variety of colors.

The brooch had been an impulsive grab, something about the silly decadence of it making him smile. The soap was a necessity, because life at sea was actually rather smelly.

The perfume makes him think of St. Augustine and treasure, petrified fruit and Ed leaning towards him, a soft look in his eyes as Stede groomed out his beard. The ribbons he imagines threading through Ed's salt and pepper mane of hair, braiding them through until Stede has successfully woven a bit of color into the gray.

The brooch and the ribbons join the silk flower and the cravat in Stede's makeshift treasure chest, and the bottle of perfume is secreted aways, but not before Stede takes the time to dollop its scent across his pillows.

He turns down fine jewels, silver coins, and even the odd book when his crew offers it to him. The bounty he's building is not for himself, after all, and he must curate the collection carefully if he wants any hope at swaying Ed towards forgiveness.

The next ship they come across isn't nearly as well stocked as the first, but what it lacks in trinkets and fancy doo-dads, it makes up for with the contents of its galley.

Sweetened dried fruits, newly restocked stores of vegetables, bread gone only slightly stale, and a barrel of salted and preserved fish.

They eat until their stomachs hurt, and then eat some more, such a feast a rare treat. What they don't manage to scarf down is quickly brought aboard their ship and stored amongst their rations, Roach guarding the lot of it with threats of violence.

Stede finds roughly two dozen jars of strawberry jam and a beautiful blackcurrant jelly, and gives half of each to Roach for safe keeping. The other half he keeps for himself in a sunless corner of his room, stacked together in a small wooden crate. Every time he thinks about them, he imagines sitting on the crow's nest, sharing a bit of bread and marmalade with Ed as the morning sun crested over the horizon.

As the weeks go on, he amasses quite the collection, all of it mismatched and slightly odd, and all of it reminds him of Edward.

A flintlock with a mother-of-pearl grip, both beautiful and deadly - a bit too much for Stede, but he can imagine Ed wearing it on the holster at his thigh, ivory flashing in the sunlight. A hair comb with gold filigree, carved out of what Stede believes is tortoiseshell, found bundled up in a swath of silk scarves. A small collection of nightshirts, dark in color but soft and supple to the touch and airy enough for humid nights at sea. Earrings, hair pins, and a silver arm cuff fashioned in the shape of a serpent, all of which he places carefully in that velvet lined box.

He collects a few other things, too, but those are far less enjoyable. Blisters, splinters, bumps and bruises. Seven months into their journey, they board a ship whose crew is particularly resistant to being plundered, and Stede earns himself a pistol-whip to the head when a hidden sailor catches him unawares below deck. It splits the skin across his temple, blood soaking his hairline and his collar, and he's nauseated and dizzy for days after. The thin pale line it leaves behind after it heals is fascinating to him - a physical reminder of the life he's chosen, not so easily hidden beneath a billowy shirt.

He supposes he could tie a scarf around his head, but he finds he actually likes seeing the scar. It reminds him of the freedom he possesses now and the place he's earned amongst his crew. It also reminds him of the way Buttons had cut the man down with a furious bellow and a, "That'll teach ye to fuck with our Cap'n!"

Through all the nausea, he'd actually been quite touched.

His knuckles are bruised more often than not these days, and his fingernails are ringed with dirt. They're no longer the hands of an aristocrat.

They're the hands of a pirate; the hands of a free man.

Sometimes, late at night, he interlocks his fingers and closes his eyes, and pretends it's not his own hand he's holding.

Imagines, deep into the midnight hour and until the first hint of dawn, the feeling of leather fingerless gloves beneath his touch, and the feel of a gold and onyx ring sat just above the knuckle.

ooo

It's a bright and sunny day when they spot the ship.

It's the Swede who sees it first from his perch in the crow's nest, disrupting the relative calm on board with an excitable shout, hand flung out towards the starboard side.

At first, they don't realize who it is. The ship is far enough away that any colors or flags are indistinguishable, but after two weeks of relative boredom on quiet seas, a ship on the horizon provides a chance at a bit of excitement.

It isn't until they draw closer that Oluwande, standing at the bow with his scope pressed to one eye, says, "Uh, Captain?" in a stunned tone.

"Yes, Oluwande?" Stede responds distractedly, in the midst of an inventory of their weapons and ammunition with Wee John. "What is it?"

"Cap," Oluwande says again in that same odd tone of voice, undercut with a thread of insistence. "You're gonna want to see this."

Later, Stede still won't know if it was the words or Oluwande's strange inflection, but a sharp tingle of awareness races down his spine and draws him up tight. Without so much as a 'beg your pardon,' he vaults away from Wee John and up the stairs, snatching the proffered spyglass from Oluwande's outstretched hand without a word.

Despite the blistering midday sun, he's trembling when he pulls the lens up to his eye.

It's somewhat difficult to see, given the distance and the rocking of the waves, but after a moment of intense focus, he sees the stark cut of Blackbeard's colors catch the breeze and wave, taunting.

"It's him, isn't it?" Oluwande asks him quietly, one large hand a warm weight on Stede's shoulder.

"It's him," Stede confirms with a croak, and lets the spyglass drop. He presses it to his chest and allows a moment for the emotion to overcome him. Months upon months of sleepless nights, guilty dreams, and fantasized conversations of forgiveness have come to this. Ed, so close, and still so very, very far. "Hoist the white flag."

"The white…why?"

"Because we're an unfamiliar vessel pursuing the most feared pirate in the world?" Stede offers. "Who happens to be very cross with me? And we don't want to be blown to smithereens?"

Oluwande hoists the flag.

Luck is on their side, it seems, because as soon as they steer the ship in the direction of The Revenge, the wind finds their sails and fills them. They cut through waves at three times the speed they had before, bow rising and falling in great heaving motions. Stede curls a hand into a line of rope and holds on, feet braced against the wooden floorboards and his heart pounding in his chest.

It's been a long and stagnant few days, and his shirt is dirty with sweat, his unwashed hair tied at the nape of his neck with a small strip of fabric. His knuckles are bruised from his hand to hand combat lessons with Wee John, small cuts littered across his fingers from practicing maneuvers with his dagger. He's a far cry from the man Ed first met, from the man he was nine months ago.

He never wants to be that man again.

Stede is rooted to the spot at the bow of the ship, clutching the ropes by his head like a lifeline, unable to tear his gaze from The Revenge. It's been so long since he saw the lines of her: the gorgeous cherry mast, the golden dragon motifs, even the half-destroyed unicorn that had served as the figurehead. He loves this ship, has missed her dearly, but his eyes find a single dark figure on her deck, and she doesn't exist. The world narrows down, his focus drawn solely to one man.

Ed is little more than a silhouette in the distance, but Stede's breath hitches at the mere hint of his presence. The nearer they draw, the more Ed becomes real - the flash of skin where his shirt gapes at the neck, a strange black shadow above his beard where his eyes should be. Ed is turned in their direction, hands gripping the side rail, body stock still despite the rolling waves, staring at Stede.

Hope rises within him, blind and wanting. All these months of waiting, condensed into a few dozen meters of turquoise sea between them.

When they're close enough to hear voices, Izzy's voice raised above all the others, Ed suddenly pivots his attention away from Stede's approach and grabs his first mate by the throat. Stede can't help but lurch forward, straining into the open air between them, suddenly aching to be at Edward's side; to lay a hand on his shoulder, soothing him, calming the Kraken's temper.

An unseen commotion aboard the other ship, causing Ed to drop his grip on Izzy and turn his back to Stede.

No.

He's waited nine long months - nine months too long, because he never should have walked away - and he won't lose this chance now. He can't. He can't. Edward is only a short distance away, close enough for Stede to make out the swirl of ink that winds around his forearm, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Close enough to swim to.

An alarmed chorus rises up behind him when he pulls himself up onto the railing of the ship, body coiled like a spring, and dives off the side and into the water.

The water is warm from the day's unimpeded sunlight, a refreshing balm against Stede's sweaty and sun-soaked skin. His hands carve through the crystalline water, clear enough that he can see the fish that hastily swim out of his path. He has half a second to spare a thought towards any larger, hungrier sea creatures before the adrenaline drives him forward, swimming determinedly, fighting his way through the space between them.

When he's a few feet away from his ship, he pulls his face out of the water with a gasp, and is both surprised and gratified to see that someone has thrown the ladder over. Though his body is tired from the exertion of his swim, a nervous energy keeps him moving, and gives him the strength to reach up and grab onto a wooden step.

It takes a few minutes for him to ascend, sodden clothing weighing him down and his arms and legs trembling, but it's both too long and too soon before he's pulling himself over the rail, Fang and Ivan helping him along the way, and his feet touch the deck of his ship for the first time in nearly a year.

His chest heaves, his body aches, but his eyes find their focal point and fixate, as drawn towards Edward as they ever are. Ed, who looks bloodless and gaunt, staring at Stede with a look of haunted, distant fury.

Staring at Stede like he thought he'd never see him again.

Stede understands the feeling all too well.

"Hello," he says softly. He says it to Edward and to no one else, because in that moment, there's no one else that exists.

Ed's eyes are smeared in some kind of grease paint or makeup, setting him into a permanent glower, but there's no mistaking the way his face darkens even further underneath the smudge of black at Stede's greeting.

Stede has only a second to thrill at the way Ed strides forward, closing the last few feet between them, before he registers the way Ed lifts his arm, and realizes what's about to happen.

Ed cocks his fist and drives it into the delicate bone and cartilage of Stede's nose. Something crunches beneath his knuckles and Stede's eyes begin to water immediately, the pain in his nose sending him to his knees.

I deserved that, he thinks miserably to himself, but for a moment the only noise he can manage is a high whine that tears its way from the back of his throat, hands cupped in front of his face to catch the blood pouring from his nose. "Shit," he says, when the pain has cleared enough for words to once again be possible. Ed takes a step back at the sound of his voice, and suddenly the agony in the center of his face is nothing compared to the wrenching in Stede's chest. "Ed," he tries, but all it earns him is another half step back. "Ed, please- "

But Ed cuts him off, in a tone as flat and dead as Stede has ever heard him. "My name," he says, and the leather of his gloves give a soft creak as he clenches his hands into fists. "Is Blackbeard."

The last petal on the wilting flower of hope in Stede's chest falls.

Ed makes a bitten off noise, caught somewhere between a growl and a sob, and he turns on his heel and strides away, boots heavy on the deck. He opens the door to the Captain's quarters, stained glass glinting in the sunlight.

"Ed," Stede calls, voice thick and pleading, shot through with a pain that has nothing to do with the broken line of his nose. "Edward!"

But Blackbeard pays him no heed, and Edward slips away.

Fang and Frenchie help him to his feet, the latter handing Stede a small, damp square of fabric to sop up the blood still trickling from his nose. Ivan stands over Izzy, arms crossed and face drawn into a scowl, but when his eyes meet Stede's they soften with a nod. "Bonnet," he says. Izzy growls at his feet and Ivan nudges him none-too-gently with the toe of his boot. "Glad to see you aren't dead."

"I suppose," Stede says miserably, prodding tentative fingers at the aching center of his face.

"No really, Cap," Frenchie says. When Stede looks at him, he's stunned to see that Frenchie's eyes are covered in a light sheen of tears, and he's looking at Stede as if he's seen a ghost, hand still tight on Stede's elbow as if to ensure he's really there. "We thought you was dead. Some bloke came on the ship, said he'd seen you get, uh, run over by a carriage and-"

"And crushed by a piano," Stede finishes, voice soft as his stomach sinks impossibly further. "Oh, God. Ed. I have to tell Ed, it wasn't - it was a fuckery, I've got to-" He turns towards the door to the Captain's quarters, feeling wild, heart pounding. All this time, all these months, and Ed's believed him dead. He has to fix this.

Jim steps into his line of sight, cutting him off with two firm hands to his shoulders before he can do much more than pivot. "Yeah, that's probably a bad idea," they say, in a practical and wry way. Oh, Stede has missed their pragmatism. Jim pulls Stede's hand away from his face, paying no mind to the blood, and sets their thumbs on either side of his battered nose. Stede hisses through his teeth at the touch and tries to wince away, but Jim's grip is firm, unyielding. "This is gonna suck a whole lot more if you fight it," they advise, raising an eyebrow.

Stede nods and closes his eyes in anticipation of what's about to happen, and Jim says, "On the count of three, si? " Stede nods again, mouth pressing into a thin line, and then forces himself to stay still. "One."

Jim's thumbs push in, straightening out his nose with a nasty sounding click. It hurts almost as badly as the breaking of it. Stede lets out a strangled yelp and his knees buckle, but Frenchie's hand still clamped around his bicep helps to keep him upright. "Shit!" Stede warbles. "You said on three!"

Jim shrugs. "I lied," they say, and pat Stede on the shoulder. "Nice to see you're alive." They pull their mouth into a considering frown and cut a glance towards the door at the stern of the ship. "For now, anyway."

There's an enraged wheeze from somewhere near their knees, Izzy Hands crouched on the deck, one hand wrapped loosely around the red and rapidly bruising skin of his throat. "You useless fucking rat ," he rasps, lurching to his feet. Frenchie tugs Stede back when he does, and Ivan and Jim move to create a blockade between Izzy and Stede, standing shoulder to shoulder. Jim has a knife pressed to the underside of Izzy's chin between one blink and the next, and it draws him up short. Chin lifted to avoid the blade, he still sneers down his nose at Stede. "He was supposed to be free of you," he seethes, cheeks mottled red and his eyes black with hatred. "Why couldn't you stay fucking dead?"

"Oh, that's enough out of you, Izzy the Spewer," comes a familiarly unimpressed voice, ever so dear, and then a loafer clad foot meets the center of Izzy's back and forces him back down to his knees. Lucius looks about twenty pounds lighter than the last time Stede saw him, and he's pale and sickly as though he hasn't seen the sun in weeks. He gives Stede a sharp smile and wags his fingers, acting for all the world like he isn't half-standing on the back of a bloodthirsty pirate. "Hello, boss. I think you and I need to have a little chat."

ooo

Hours later, once they've steered both ships to shallower waters and anchored them, and the original crew of The Revenge has at last been reunited, Stede waits in the corridor outside of his old quarters, slumped between the floor and the wall, and tries to muster up the courage to go inside.

His conversation with Lucius had been…illuminating. Distressing. Really rather unpleasant, generally.

He can't stop picturing it: Edward, devastated and disheveled, a shadow of the man he was. Ed, so hurt by Stede's misguided sense of honor and duty that he'd tried to kill the one man aboard with the emotional competency to make him face his own broken heart. A man Stede knows that Ed would have begrudgingly called a friend.

He presses his hands to his face, a fresh wave of guilt coming over him, but hisses at the sharp pain that radiates from his nose and across his cheekbones. "Ow," he mumbles, miserable, but the tears that bite at his eyes have nothing to do with the physical ache he feels.

All this time, and the one thing that's driven Stede forward, made him strive to be a better pirate and the sort of man who deserved to stand at Ed's side, has been hope. Foolish, blind, misguided hope. The belief that he could make amends for his mistake, that he could apologize to Ed and somehow be given forgiveness…that belief doesn't exist anymore.

He has nothing but a broken nose, his own wretched heart, and no one but himself to blame.

Stede couldn't say for sure how long he sits there - hours, certainly, and enough that his clothes and hair have dried but how many exactly he couldn't say - before Oluwande steps through the door and approaches him cautiously, like he's a skittish animal. He hooks his hands into his rope belt and looks between Stede and the door, and jerks his head towards the quarters. "You, uh. Planning on goin' in any time soon, or…?"

"I'm working up to it," Stede mumbles despondently, but the only movement he makes is to rub his hands over his knees, eyes flickering to the door with trepidation.

Oluwande heaves a put-upon sigh through his nose and, with a quiet groan of effort, crouches down next to Stede in the corridor. "Can't believe I'm gonna say this," he mutters, just as much to himself as to Stede. "But, um. Do you…d'you want me to try and talk to him first? I can't say for certain, but seems like he might not be so, er...punch-happy with me. Or, like, anyone that isn't you."

"Would you?" Stede asks, looking into Oluwande's kind, exasperated face. "Honestly, I'm afraid he's going to shoot me."

Oluwande blows a raspberry through his lips and squints consideringly at the closed door at the end of the hall. "I did just manage to convince Jim that stabbing Blackbeard himself probably wouldn't end well, so I might be able to swing it, yeah." He raises an eyebrow at Stede. "Look, Cap, you know I like you."

Stede didn't really know that, actually, but he doesn't dare interrupt to say so.

"And I know that was a hell of a right hook. But you know you deserved it, don'tcha?"

"I know," Stede whispers, and Oluwande nods at him.

"Right, well, that's a start," he says, and claps his hands against his knees before rising with a grunt. He points at Stede. "If I start screaming, grab Jim," he says, and then he shuffles down the hallway and through the door.

The ship isn't soundproof by any means, so Stede is privy to the entire conversation between Edward and Oluwande, listens with bated breath as he tries to gather the courage to stand and close this final gap. When he hears the heavy tread of footsteps, he gets his trembling knees beneath him, and forces himself upright, hand braced against the wall.

Oluwande steps through the door but doesn't close it behind him, and claps Stede on the shoulder as he passes. "Your turn, mate," he says, and almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth does something made of glass shatter against the wall of Stede's old rooms, sending sparkling shards skidding across the floor, flung so violently that pieces of it reach Stede and Oluwande where they stand.

They look at each other with wide eyes, and Oluwande squeezes his shoulder. "Good luck," he says, and then he's gone, and it's just Stede, Ed, and this broken thing between them.

Stede takes a deep breath, and crosses the threshold.

His quarters are familiar and strange all at once, every trace of Stede gone save for the bones of the ship and a lone painting of a lighthouse perched on the mantle. It's filled with mismatched furniture, unfamiliar trinkets sat upon shelves where books once were held. Odd texts and tomes that Stede doesn't recognize, half a dozen tea sets, and what appears to be a vase from the Ming dynasty, or at the very least fashioned after it.

These are unmistakably Ed's rooms, now, every inch of Stede quite purposefully erased.

Ed stands in the center of the room, body strung tight like a wild cat waiting to pounce, and the look in his bloodshot eyes is as black as the paint smudged around them when he catches sight of Stede. Above the wiry plume of his beard, and even under the makeup, Stede can see that Ed's lost weight, the cut of his cheekbones sharper than they were nine months ago. His shoulders are hunched, arms tense at his sides and his hands still curled into fists.

He looks furious and savage, one false move away from throwing another punch or throttling Stede with his bare hands, and he's the most beautiful thing Stede has ever seen.

"Ed," he says, and his voice cracks on it. "Edward. I'm sorry." He swallows tightly, fighting back tears. "My God, I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Ed snaps at him, jerking his face in Stede's direction but keeping his eyes averted, dropped somewhere near where Stede's boots stand upon shards of broken glass. Stede braves a step forward, the only noise in the room the soft, gravelly crunch of the shattered vase beneath his feet, but doesn't dare take another when Ed stumbles back, eyes wild.

He swallows again. "You have to know," he begs, voice thin. "I regret leaving you there more than I regret anything else I've ever done, and I will for the rest of my life."

Ed spits out something about being a monster, being too much for Stede to handle, something about not being good enough, and it nearly cuts him at the knees.

How could Edward think such a thing about himself, when the only monster in the room is Stede?

He can't help it. His feet have a mind of their own and carry him forward, as though if he closes the distance, he can more easily dissuade Ed of that ridiculous notion.

It doesn't work.

He'd known, in a theoretical sort of way, that his choice to leave Ed alone at the dock - the choice to abandon the prospect of a happy life together in a far away land - must have caused some irreparable damage to Ed's sense of worth.

He could never have imagined this. Ed accuses him of only wanting Blackbeard, not Edward Teach, and though he's so painfully, outrageously and rightfully furious with Stede, there's no mistaking the undercurrent of deep self-loathing that strikes through every word.

"It was never Blackbeard," he tries feebly. "It was always you, Ed. My Ed."

But Edward doesn't believe him, rejects his claim, and Stede has no choice but to accept that, much as it breaks his own heart in two to do so.

Still, he offers one last rambling attempt at explanation, hands twisting together. He hasn't sailed across hundreds of miles, spent nine months imagining this moment, just to not say his piece.

"I…I should have come to you," he admits, and it's something that he's known deep within him from the cursed first step he took in the opposite direction. "But I was so shaken, so terribly confused - Badminton woke me at gunpoint and marched me into the woods, to kill me, you see, and he said…he said these awful things about me, awful but true, about how I'd ruined you and the horrible way I'd treated my wife and children, and I…I panicked, Ed, and I'll never forgive myself as long as I live for hurting you the way I have."

Ed says something then, angry and sharp, but Stede doesn't hear it, too caught in the momentum of his apology. He has to say this. He must. "And, and I know you must hate me, I hate myself, but I…"

He smiles, even as his chest hitches on a sob. He's waited a long time to say these words, and even if Ed never wants to see him again after this moment, Stede will happily go to his grave knowing that at least he got them out.

"God, Ed," he laughs tearily. "I love you. I simply…I needed you to know how desperately I love you."

The words reach across the space between them, an offering and a desperate entreaty. A moment passes, and then another, but still Ed says nothing, his jaw clenched tight and his brown eyes pinned on Stede in a hard, unyielding stare.

This is it, then. The unhappy culmination of the best thing Stede's ever thought he could call his own, but had been too scared to hold onto with both hands.

He feels like he's drowning. He feels like his sternum is cracked in two, an icy hand clenched around the delicate muscle of his heart. Stede trembles, head to toe, as the finality of it all sinks in.

Edward will never forgive him, despite his most desperate wishes, and after all Stede has done to him, he has no choice but to accept that as his fate.

"I just needed you to know," he rasps. He takes one last long, lingering look at the svelte line of Edward's body, a shape he'll never feel against the length of his own, and lets the tears of grief flow freely. He turns to go.

"Stop."

Stede stops, gaze snapping back to the center of the room where Ed stands, body language still furious but something in his face cracking open, a glimmer of sorrow breaking through. Ed's chest is heaving, jaw jutted forward as he takes fast, unsteady breaths, and in the golden glow of the setting sun that streams through the windows, Stede can make out the sheen of tears gathering against Ed's sooty lashes.

"Jesus fucking Christ, man," Ed barks, "Stop fucking leaving."

He moves.

Stede has a split-second of panic as Ed strides forward, closing the distance between one blink and the next, where he fears he's about to be punched again, but then there are hands fisted in his collar and a mouth pressed insistently against his own.

He yelps as pain lances through his injured face, but the way he finds himself melting into the kiss is instinctual, relief coursing through him. He cradles Ed's face in his hands and draws him closer, sets his mouth against the plump line of Ed's bottom lip.

He would gladly do nothing but kiss this man for the rest of his life, spine tingling and weak at the knees, so of course it ends too soon.

Ed breaks away with a gasp, but he doesn't go far. His fingers find a delicate spot in the line of Stede's neck and press in against the thrum of his heartbeat. "I thought you were fuckin' dead. They told me you were fucking dead."

Stede tries to explain about the fuckery, but Ed doesn't seem to hear him, his eyes set wide with crazed disbelief, hands skimming down Stede's neck, across his collarbone, over his shoulders and back again until he's cradling Stede's face in his hands. "I'm so fucking pissed at you. I love you. I love you, don't you ever pull that shit again or I'll cut your fucking head off."

He presses his mouth insistently into Stede's again, swallowing the happy, warbling laugh that bubbles out of him, tongue slipping inside when Stede grins.

He lets himself be backed against the wall - the very same spot where not ten minutes ago, Ed had thrown the vase - and kissed within an inch of his life. After a few moments, some of the sense of desperation fades from Edward's grip and his mouth softens. One hand sinks into the greasy, unkempt tangle of Stede's hair while the other holds him at the waist, keeping their torsos tightly pressed together.

"Thought I'd lost you," Ed says at some point, the words so soft Stede strains to hear them even as they skim across the sensitive bit of skin just before his ear. It's little more than an exhale, soft and wondrous, and Stede has to wonder whether or not Ed realizes he's said it at all.

"Never again," he promises, and sinks into the next kiss with grateful desperation. He lays one hand on Ed's chest, just above the place where his heart is beating rapidly, splays his fingers over warm brown skin and swirls of ink, and tries to convey with his touch and his lips how ardently he means it.

Never again, he thinks with all the sincerity of a vow, and then Ed's teeth find the hinge of his jaw, and he stops thinking anything at all for a long time.

ooo

Eventually they migrate from their spot against the wall amongst the broken glass, over to an elegant but worn looking chaise lounge, barely wide enough for one person to lay comfortably, much less two full grown men. Neither of them seem to mind the forced closeness; Stede knows he certainly doesn't, feeling punch-drunk on Ed's proximity. Edward is draped atop him, forehead pressed into Stede's temple and his left hand trailing from the central divot of Stede's collarbone to his shoulder and back again, the touch intoxicating and hypnotic. Stede only realizes he's close to drifting off when Ed speaks and startles him out of it.

"Your hair's long," Ed observes quietly, reaching up to tug on a blond, curling length of hair that's escaped Stede's small ponytail. "S'different."

"I was rather hoping Lucius would cut it," Stede admits. The long hair makes him look a bit more rakish, he thinks, but it also drives him insane when the sun is high and bright, leaving a sweaty clump of hair to gather at the nape of his neck. "I didn't quite, ah, trust the others with a pair of shears so close to my head."

Ed's mouth pulls into a moue of consideration, expressing the sentiment of 'fair enough' without actually saying the words. His eyes seem far away; whether he's lost in thought or still purposely holding back, Stede doesn't know, but he hates the unseen distance.

Not all the strife between them is so easily repaired by a kiss - or hundreds of kisses, as it were - but he'll spend the rest of his life trying to bridge the gap. Kisses, kind words, silk flowers, or daggers, bloodshed, and danger. Whatever it is that makes Ed happy, Stede will give it to him without hesitation.

Ed trails his fingers from Stede's shoulder down his bicep, over his forearm, until he can pick Stede's hand up with his own. At some point he's lost his fingerless gloves, though the odd black mask of kohl across his face remains, and it's only when he slots their fingers together that Stede registers the ring.

His breathing catches, then resumes with an audible stutter.

Shining yellow gold and an onyx stone in a signet style, large enough to sit on a ring finger instead of a pinky. A perfect fit to Ed's finger, just as he'd somehow known it would be.

He can recall with perfect clarity the moment it had caught his eye: a plain enough ring in comparison to the obviously stolen gems and jewels that surrounded it, the black stone in the middle had of such fine quality and so smooth that it had reflected the sky above and Stede's own reflection with astonishing clarity.

Ed hadn't been far - leaning against a wall nearby, lazily surveilling the crowd around them with one hand grasping loosely at his gun - so Stede had tried to barter with the scuzzy vendor quietly. In the end it had cost him a few coins and a ring from his own hand (a family heirloom made of silver and set with a few pinhole sized diamonds), but it had been a price he'd gladly paid.

He hadn't gotten it for himself, but for Edward, who deserved a finery of his own that wasn't stolen or borrowed from Stede, but given willingly as a gift. Something all his own, chosen with care and Edward in mind.

That night, alone in his room, he had taken the sharp and pointed end of a cravat pin and painstakingly (and badly) etched two letters into the inside of the band.

The significance of the entire ordeal hadn't occurred to him until the next day, ring clasped tightly in his palm as he'd prepared to present it to Edward, and it occurred to him that the only other individual he'd ever given such a gift to had been his wife.

Stede hadn't been cognizant enough of his own feelings at that point not to panic over the gesture, and so he'd hastily hidden the ring behind a pair of spectacularly embroidered dress shoes, and tried to put it out of his mind.

But Ed had found it. Ed had found it, secreted away in Stede's auxiliary wardrobe, and chosen to keep it even as he'd erased every other reminder of Stede from his surroundings.

Kept it, and still wore it, even after all that had occurred between them.

Stede lifts their entwined hands to his mouth and presses a soft, reverent kiss to the skin-warm band, closing his eyes as he's overcome with emotion.

Things are far from fine between them. Too much time has passed, scarring over wounds too deep to heal so easily, but even so: this moment, pressed tightly against the man he loves and knowing that despite it all, he is loved in turn, is more than he has ever thought he could have. Even in his most optimistic moments in his life with Mary, this feeling alone (much less the reciprocation) had seemed nothing more than a distant dream.

When he opens his eyes, Edward is looking at him, brown eyes soft and warm, but still so far away.

Later, by the warm dim glow of candlelight, he dips a handkerchief into a small bowl of water and painstakingly wipes away the smudge of black from Ed's face. Ed's eyes stay closed the entire time, but he keeps his face tilted trustingly, and with every cleansing pass, the mask of Blackbeard falls away until all that's left is Edward.

Ed opens his eyes and Stede is captured by the reflection glimmer of the candle's flames, a dancing yellow light in the warm dark brown of the iris. Edward's head is a few mere inches from his own, but it's the soft, cautious look of love that Stede finds in his gaze that makes him feel the closest he has felt to Ed all night.

"Ah," Stede whispers, and traces a careful touch around the reddened, sensitive skin beneath Ed's beautiful eyes. "There you are. I've missed you so."

Ed closes his eyes, brows furrowing, as if overwhelmed by Stede's quiet honesty. He leans forward as Stede lilts downward, foreheads bumping together gently as they meet one another in the middle.

Stede smiles, contentment overriding even the worst ache that radiates from his bruised and battered face.

He leans down to steal a kiss from Edward's waiting mouth, and that old restless feeling inside of him subsides.

Home, at last.

Afterword

End Notes

aaaaaAAAAHHHHhhhhhhh!!!

this was initially going to be longer, but I've decided instead that there will be a third (happier, much fluffier) installment of this 'series' since I couldn't figure out a way to intermesh it with this story as it is. sooo look out for that :)

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