always been a storm

by oopshidaisy

Summary:

Izzy looks to Edward, mouth working helplessly.
“Just let it happen, mate,” Ed suggests.
“I was hoping,” Stede continues, a little irritated by the lack of support, “that you’d let me—and Ed—know if there’s anything we could be doing differently, to make you more comfortable.”

(Or: How Izzy Hands learned to stop worrying and love his co-captains.)

Notes:

title is from 'storms' by fleetwood mac

Chapter 1

Notes:

gorgeous cover art by @favouritefi

“He’ll have to relax eventually,” says Stede. Damningly, he can’t quite keep the doubt from his tone.

Ed snorts in response. “Not likely,” he says, nudging their hands together on the taffrail. Below them, on the main deck, Izzy is stomping up a storm, snapping at anyone who’ll listen about shoddy rigging.

“But—” Stede protests, a disconcerting realisation crashing over him. “He’s not always been like this, surely?”

Ed hums, giving the question its due consideration. “For as long as I’ve known him, pretty much. Before that, I dunno. Think his dad was a bit of a bastard.”

“Ah,” Stede says, nodding. He’s beginning to think that bad fathers are rather a prerequisite for the pirate lifestyle. And it doesn’t surprise him, precisely, to think of Izzy as having had a troubled childhood. He’s certainly having a troubled adulthood, though he’s got no one to blame for that but himself as far as Stede’s concerned.

“He’s happy being miserable,” Ed comments, causing Stede to look at him askance. “Poor bloke wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he wasn’t, you know—” He gestures towards Izzy’s brewing eruption. Even from the distance they’re standing, the deep red hue of Izzy’s face is visible—as is the dangerous set of his jaw.

“Have you ever—tried?” Stede asks. “Making him happy, I mean.”

Ed’s eyebrows go up and he shifts around, putting his back against the railing and studying Stede’s face. “Would’ve thought you’d be the last one asking after Izzy’s welfare, mate,” he says. “Thought you two couldn’t stand each other.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” Stede says breezily. Ed stares him down. “Alright, fine! Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. And then continued on the wrong foot. And still are, I suppose. But that doesn’t mean I can’t want him to be a little less—miserable, as you say. Everyone else seems to be getting on alright, these days.”

It’s true: even Lucius has managed to let bygones be bygones, though he doesn’t spend a lot of time alone with Ed where he can help it. In the seven months since Stede left Ed on that beach, most everything has been tied up with a bow. Ed and Stede are back together, co-captaining, and they’ve had a relatively successful run of evading the many nations and individuals who want them dead. The crew is really coming into their own, raiding merchant ships with aplomb, and giving Ed the benefit of the doubt as he learns to strike a balance between the fearsome Kraken, the legendary Blackbeard, and the lovely Ed. There’s only this one loose thread.

“Have you ever seen him relaxed?” Stede asks. “Happy?”

Ed laughs. “I’ve seen him as close as he gets,” he says. Something about the way he says it doesn’t invite further questions—not in a way that’s defensive, but in a way that feels private. Since there are no secrets between Ed and himself, Stede takes this to mean that Ed’s protecting Izzy’s privacy. Stede chews on his lip.

“Have you spoken to him lately?” he asks.

“’Course I have,” Ed says. “He’s my first mate.”

“I mean about how he’s feeling,” Stede says.

Ed frowns. “I know how he’s feeling.”

“But—”

“Me and Iz, it’s not like you and your lot. I’ve known him since we were kids.” Ed sighs, tipping his head back. His hair falls like an avalanche down his back. “Like right now,” he continues. “I’m not even looking in his direction, right? But I know he’s about to start yelling at the Swede, because the Swede’s the easiest target and on this occasion Iz doesn’t want someone who’ll fight back. It’s probably ‘cause you left your man Olu in charge last night. He thinks you’re sweeping responsibility out from under him. He thinks maybe I don’t want him as my first mate anymore. And he doesn’t understand why you let him stay, which infuriates the fuck out of him because, no offence, mate, but he fucking hates you and he wants you to hate him back.”

Right as Ed stops speaking, Izzy starts berating the Swede. Stede blinks.

“Why don’t you just tell him that you want him to stay?”

“He wouldn’t like it,” Ed says. “Hates pity.”

“It’s not pity to tell people you value their hard work,” Stede says. “Why, I tell the rest of the crew all the time.”

“Yeah, try it with Iz,” Ed huffs. “See how he reacts.”

Stede tips his forehead against Ed’s shoulder, revelling in the feel of silk and skin before he remembers that he’s annoyed. “What would you suggest, then?”

“He’ll get used to it eventually,” Ed says. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll feed him another toe.”

Stede grimaces. “I’d rather you didn’t. There’s got to be something I can do to make him feel welcome. Without demoting Oluwande, of course. He’s doing an excellent job.”

Ed brings a hand up to play with the hair at Stede’s nape, which is getting too long, sticking out at odd and untameable angles. “We’ve got two captains, no reason we can’t have two first mates,” he says. “Like I said, you’ve got to let Iz go through his adjustment period. Can’t go rushing things.”

“Ed,” Stede insists. “You know my philosophy. We talk it through—”

“—as a crew—”

“—and I haven’t been treating Izzy like a part of the crew! No wonder he’s less than fond of me.”

Ed’s laugh has a hint of an edge to it. “Pretty sure that’s not it, love.”

“Well, it’s certainly not helping.” Stede lifts his head, watching Izzy struggle with the rigging himself. He’s not tall enough to reach the part that’s tangled, and the way Lucius’ pencil is flying over paper suggests that a less-than-flattering caricature of the entire sorry situation is in progress. “I’ll have a talk with him tonight. Perhaps over dinner. Would you like to be there?”

“Probably for the best,” Ed says. “Someone’s got to make sure he doesn’t kill you.”

 

---

 

Izzy walks into the captains’ quarters with the gait of a man heading towards his own execution. Not to be deterred, Stede gestures at the third place setting on the table with a smile.

“I didn’t know your favourite, but Roach was kind enough to rustle up a few options for us,” he says. “He’s come up with a rather delectable way of preparing squid, actually—”

“Why am I here?” Izzy asks, and his eyes are on Ed, not Stede.

Stede powers ahead all the same. “I wanted to have a chat,” he says. “We haven’t had a chance to catch up since I came back, and I thought it would be helpful to check in.”

“A chat?” Izzy says, in a tone more befitting certain death than the prospect of socialising. He turns to leave.

“It’s an order, Iz,” Ed says quietly. Izzy freezes.

“It’s not—oh, fine, we’ll say it’s an order,” Stede says. “But I’d like for you to try and enjoy yourself, if you can.”

Izzy doesn’t reply aloud, only sinks into the chair he’s been offered and stares dubiously down at the cutlery and fine plates. Stede supposes the formal place settings may be a tad overwhelming, but he’d wanted Izzy to know that he’d put an effort in.

“Lovely!” Stede says, clapping his hands together. “Right, well, first of all, Izzy, I wanted to let you know that I think you’re doing a great job. It can’t have been easy—” what with how no one in the crew really likes you, Stede thinks but does not add, “—but you’ve been instrumental in keeping the ship running.”

“What,” Izzy says, “the fuck.”

“Told you he wouldn’t like it,” Ed says, reaching for a piece of the salted squid and popping it into his mouth.

Stede waves them both off. “I know we haven’t always been the easiest bunch to deal with, so it’s important that you know how much I appreciate the hard work you’ve been doing.”

Izzy looks to Edward, mouth working helplessly.

“Just let it happen, mate,” Ed suggests.

“I was hoping,” Stede continues, a little irritated by the lack of support, “that you’d let me—and Ed—know if there’s anything we could be doing differently, to make you more comfortable.”

Izzy swallows. “I don’t need to be comfortable.” He spits the word like a curse. “I need to do my fucking job. I need everyone else to do their fucking jobs.”

That, Stede thinks, counts as feedback. He’d given Lucius the evening off, intuiting that Izzy might not want anyone else around, so he makes a mental note: Suggestion for Improvement #1: A fuller commitment to the completion of tasks.

“Alright, that’s good,” he says. “Is there any specific area in which you feel we’ve been slacking, or—?”

“Eat,” Ed interrupts, nodding at Izzy. “Go on.”

Izzy looks between them before taking a mutinous bite of a cracker that Stede had, fortunately, thought to pre-slather with butter. He has no doubt that, given any choice in the matter, Izzy would have eaten it dry.

“Why don’t you try some bacon?” Stede suggests.

“Take a bit of everything,” Ed says. “Except the eggs. Know how you feel about them.”

“Yes, sir,” Izzy says, beginning to pile his plate with food.

Stede dithers. He can’t deny that Ed ordering Izzy around is effective, but it’s not how he’d wanted things to go.

“I hope you know that despite the chain of command,” he says firmly, “we’re all equals here. I wouldn’t want to make you feel otherwise.”

“We’re not equals,” Izzy says with disgust. His tone somehow conveys the exact order he would rank the three of them in, given half a choice. “That’s your problem, Bonnet. You think you can run a ship by being nice to people and letting them know you appreciate them. But without me going around scaring the shit out of those fucking idiots, nothing would get done around here.”

Suggestion for Improvement #2: Adapt one’s management style to the situation at hand.

“Thank you,” Stede says, managing to limit the amount of passive-aggression sneaking into his tone. It would be just his luck for Izzy to take to it as badly as Ed had. “That’s extremely valuable feedback, I’ll bear it in mind.”

Izzy, now chewing on a forkful of seasoned vegetables, frowns. Stede smiles blithely in response.

“I have some feedback of my own, if you don’t mind,” Stede continues.

“Edward—” Izzy whines.

“Nothing serious!” Stede says. “It’s simply come to my attention that you’ve been working yourself too hard. Have you ever heard of a work-life balance?”

“The fuck?”

“No? Alright, then. What I’m suggesting is taking a little more time for yourself. As part of that, you’ll have a few hours of leisure time each day. Free time, to do with as you please. Apart from each Friday, when Ed and I request that you have dinner with us.”

“Not a request,” Ed puts in.

“I don’t—” Izzy’s eyes are a hint panicked, though in response to what, Stede can’t imagine. “What if I say no?”

“Er—” Stede begins.

“I’ll tie you to the mast and let his lot throw rotten veg at you,” Ed says casually. He may be dressed for bed, with his favourite robe swooping beneath his collarbones and his hair pulled messily up at the nape, but Stede doesn’t doubt for a moment the veracity of the threat. “’til you change your mind.”

Izzy’s throat works. For a moment, Stede thinks he might reject the offer outright and force Ed to follow through on his punishment, but then he gives one jerk of a nod and returns to disassembling a potato.

“Excellent,” Stede says. “Would you like some brandy?”

Once again, Izzy looks to Ed. Stede had started out thinking of the constant deference as an intentional slight, aimed towards him, but this time he studies Izzy’s reaction after Ed inclines his head. Izzy takes in the permission like oxygen, his chest expanding, and he reaches for the decanter like it’s all he was put on this earth to do.

It isn’t always like this, between Izzy and Ed. Stede has watched plenty of interactions in which Izzy is outright insubordinate, and plenty more where he suffers Ed’s orders only under duress. He makes a mental note to ask Ed about it, later.

“Excellent,” Stede says. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

“I’d rather be drinking my own piss,” Izzy says.

“Be nice,” Ed says.

“Nice,” Izzy scoffs, but then he lapses into silence, sipping at his brandy.

In the ensuing respite, Stede observes him. There’s a heavy, frustrated set to Izzy’s brows, a tense clench to his jaw. And yet neither are any worse than usual. If he looks at this in terms of degrees of resistance, Izzy is as acquiescent as Stede could ever hope for him to be. He finishes his brandy at a measured pace; he picks at the food on his plate; he casts suspicious glances at his two dinner companions at regular intervals. Given what Ed had led him to expect, Stede considers it an unmitigated success.

“Ed, dear,” Stede says, when Izzy’s plate is emptied, “would you grab the dessert?”

Ed’s mouth twitches, amused, but he goes to retrieve the box of sweet pastries that Stede had selected for the occasion. He thought they might be received better than chocolate or sweets, though Izzy’s vehemence upon seeing them is impossible to measure against hypotheticals.

“You expect me to eat these?” he demands, as though Stede has presented him with a box of insects.

Ed, stood beside Izzy’s chair, passes a hand over the back of his neck and says, “Yeah, we do.”

At the brief touch of Ed’s hand, Izzy shudders. It’s a small movement, hastily cut off, and if Stede hadn’t been paying undue attention to Izzy he never would have caught it. Stede looks up, meeting Ed’s eye, but Ed’s expression is still placid and gently amused—nothing out of the ordinary, then.

Stede supposes it makes sense for Izzy to have an aversion to touch. He’s never seen Izzy instigate contact that’s not violent, after all. But it seems a shame, when Stede’s sure that all Ed intended by the touch was reassurance.

(Or if not reassurance, then an extension of that steel in his voice when he delivers an order. An affirmation of equilibrium.)

“I think you’ll like the Banbury cake,” Stede says, pointing at the flat pastry in the centre of the box. “It’s not too sweet.”

“And there’s rum in it,” Ed adds.

“Fine,” Izzy bites out, reaching for the cake. He eschews cutlery and eats it with his hands, which is sure to delight Ed, who accepts knives and forks as something of a necessity for main courses but abandons them the moment his eye catches on something sweet.

“There you go, mate,” Ed says. “It’s good, right?”

“Not bad,” Izzy allows. It would be damning with faint praise, if not for the fact that all that remains of the Banbury cake are a few scattered crumbs. Stede beams.

“Now,” he says, “normally we’d take tea after dinner, but Ed tends to favour something stronger. Which would you prefer?”

Ed smiles like a whip. “Iz doesn’t much like a drink,” he says. “Weak stomach.”

Stede gives him a sharp look. “I’m sure he can decide for himself what he wants,” he says, earning an eyeroll.

Izzy’s mouth is a flat line. “I’m not drinking tea,” he says.

“More brandy it is!” says Stede. “Shall we retire to the settee?”

He watches Izzy’s first response play out on his face, words suppressed on the back of Ed’s directive to ‘be nice’. After a somewhat agonised pause, Izzy says: “It’s not big enough.”

The new settee is a tad cosier than its predecessor. When he’d stolen it, Stede had only Edward in mind, and so while three people could, technically speaking, sit on it, they’d be pressed rather close. Not a problem for Stede and Ed, of course, but Stede doesn’t want to force close contact on Izzy when the man clearly doesn’t like it.

“I’ll take the floor,” Ed says, which only serves to exacerbate the horror in Izzy’s expression.

“Your knee—” Izzy starts.

“Nice of you to worry about it, mate. Stede’s cushions are fluffy as fuck, though, a few of those and I’ll be fine,” Ed says, touching Izzy again. Same place, same way. As though he hadn’t noticed Izzy’s discomfort the first time.

Izzy’s shudder on this occasion is less pronounced, which Stede suspects is because he’d been able to steel himself in advance. But his eyelids twitch, and when Stede glances down his hands have balled into fists.

“Er,” Stede says. “I’ll just go get some cushions, then.”

He busies himself with setting up a comfortable enough seat on the floor for Ed, and when he looks up again Ed and Izzy are quietly talking amongst themselves, Ed’s hand on Izzy’s shoulder. And the look on Izzy’s face—

Ah, Stede thinks.

He begins to see the problem.

At once, he feels foolish for not recognising it sooner. But Izzy isn’t looking at Ed the way Stede would, if their positions were reversed. It’s difficult to put a finger on, but watching Izzy’s face is like watching a war play out, everything sharp-edged and conflicted. As Stede watches, Ed’s hand moves from Izzy’s shoulder to cup the side of his neck. He nods down at him, and Izzy replies with something inaudible.

And all the while his eyes shine in the candlelight, liquid with adoration.

“Alright!” Stede says, unable to conceal the thread of strain in his voice. God, this is worse than Jack. At least Jack hadn’t loved Ed. “Would you bring the brandy over, darling?”

Ed’s eyebrow shoots up at the endearment—it’s not unusual, coming from Stede, but there may have been some undue emphasis on it. Stede doesn’t know. He’s forgotten how to act normal.

Anyone would be having the same issues, Stede thinks, thinking of Izzy as a person with feelings! Romantic ones! For his Ed. It’s a lot to take in, and Stede isn’t sure he’s up to it when the worst he’d expected this evening was a tense dinner and perhaps an attempt on his life.

Izzy sits pressed as far to the side of the couch as he can manage, and Stede does the same. Ed takes the floor between them, tipping his head back into the empty gulf of space. He makes a face when his hair gets stuck beneath him and raises his head again, pulling the queue out and letting his hair fall free. It gives Stede all the excuse he needs to reach out and tangle his fingers in Ed’s hair, combing it out. Ed settles back with a contented sigh, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Would you mind pouring for us?” Stede asks Izzy.

Izzy does as he’s told without a word from Ed, which is a relief because Stede doubts Ed could summon the authority necessary for an order when he’s got a hand in his hair. He’s boneless and lax, slipping in the direction of Stede’s knee.

When they’ve each got a glass of brandy in hand, it’s easier for Stede to keep his composure. It’s something about the social contract of it, the way it indicates the end of the evening is drawing near. He need only make it through this glass before he can send Izzy on his way and have a private crisis about the whole situation.

Then Izzy speaks.

“What am I supposed to do,” he asks, “with all this—time off you’re giving me?”

Stede’s stunned into speaking freely. “Whatever you like,” he says. “You can pursue hobbies, or interests, or simply catch up on rest.”

“Izzy hasn’t got hobbies,” Ed mumbles sleepily. “And his interests are, y’know, maiming and murdering and making everyone afraid of him and such.”

Izzy glares into his glass.

“It’s never too late,” Stede says gently. “People pick up new hobbies all the time.”

“Mm,” Ed says, “that’s true. I’m thinking of taking up painting.”

“That's wonderful. As long as you don’t get an instructor,” Stede says with a twitch of a smile. Ed laughs, his head coming to rest against Stede's thigh, and Stede drains the last of his brandy in a gulp.

Izzy seems to take that as permission, tossing back the last of his own glass (more carelessly than a brandy of that vintage deserves to be drunk, really) and getting hastily, stumbling, to his feet.

“Well,” he says, “this was fucking weird. Just so you know.”

Privately, Stede agrees.

“We’ll see you next Friday, then?” he says.

Izzy makes a sound like a growl and stomps out of the captains’ quarters.

 

---

 

Later, when he and Ed are in bed, Stede wonders how best to broach the subject.

“You and Izzy,” he says carefully, “did you ever…um…?”

“Gonna have to be more specific, mate,” Ed mumbles into Stede’s neck. He sounds close to sleep already, but this isn’t the kind of thing Stede can save until morning.

“Sleep together,” Stede bites out. “Did you ever sleep together?”

“Hm,” Ed says, not sounding nearly as uncomfortable as Stede feels. “Couple times. More trouble than it’s worth, really. Haven’t done it in—ten years, something like that? Why? Are you jealous?”

“No?” Stede says. “Or—I don’t know. What do you mean, ‘more trouble than it’s worth’?”

Ed groans. “He’s just—you have to catch him in the right mood, and then you’ve got to get past that part where he’s pretending he doesn’t want it—”

“I’m sorry?” Stede says, high-pitched.

“Not everyone can be like you, love,” Ed says. “Way Izzy sees it, he’s not supposed to want—what he wants. So he denies it up ‘til the last possible second, and then—d’you really want to know?”

“Um,” Stede says.

“He’s a lot of work,” Ed says, skirting nimbly around the details. “And I was never sure whether I was making it better or worse. So I stopped.”

“But he’s in love with you,” Stede says, voice weak.

“I guess,” Ed mumbles. “If you want to put it like that. Thought you knew already.”

Stede gapes at the ceiling, eyes wide open. On top of him, Ed’s breathing is getting slower, more even.

“No, I didn't!” Stede says, shrilly enough that Ed grumbles and rolls onto his back, eyes peeling open.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ed says. “I love you. You know I love you.”

“But—” But there’s someone out there who loves you and who isn’t loved in return, not the way he wants to be, and I can’t stand that. “This whole time—”

All of his memories of Izzy are taking on a new hue, a darker hue, one where Izzy isn’t absolutely one hundred per cent in the wrong (or, if he is, then his motivations are at least understandable). Stede had really liked the world where Izzy was absolutely one hundred per cent in the wrong at all times.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says, abruptly growing serious. “I didn’t realise—I’m used to it, y’know. I don’t really think about it.”

It occurs to Stede that the way Ed controls Izzy is purely instinctual, a compulsion to give Izzy what he needs borne from decades of this situation festering between them. He wonders if there’s anything to be gained from pointing that out.

“If you want him off the ship—” Ed starts.

“God, no!” Stede says. “I’m finally—I feel I understand him better, now.”

Ed’s brows go heavy. “He’s plenty fucked up in ways that have nothing to do with me, y’know.”

“I know,” Stede says. “It’s more about—context.”

“Context,” Ed repeats dubiously.

“Yes,” Stede says. “I apologise for coming across as though—it’s not about jealousy, I assure you. I trust you. It’s—I suppose I feel sorry for him. And I know he’d hate it if he knew, but I really hope we can find a way to make him happy.”

“He liked the bacon,” Ed offers.

“Yes, I did see he took seconds of that one,” Stede confirms, settling back and opening his arms for Ed to once again take his rightful place within them. “We should try having him over for breakfast one morning.”

Ed huffs a laugh, tickling the hollow of Stede’s throat. “Might want to work up to that,” he says.

“And work up we will,” Stede responds, decisively.

Chapter 2

Notes:

a huge thank you to everyone who read the first chapter! i've been overwhelmed by the support this fic has been getting, and all of the kudos/comments/bookmarks have been hugely appreciated. i meant to get this second chapter out sooner, but came down with post-covid symptoms last week and had to put it on pause until i'd recovered enough to not write garbage. hopefully it's worth the wait!

Stede really doesn’t think it’s unreasonable, giving Izzy a couple of hours to himself a day. Everyone else on the crew loves having time off, even if the concept had been foreign to them at first. Lucius, in particular, is a natural.

It’s not that he’s unaware of the plan being outside of Izzy’s comfort zone. It’s rather the point, he thinks, that Izzy doesn’t have a comfort zone.

“I could keep an eye on him,” he says to Ed while they’re getting dressed the next morning, fussing with the minuscule fabric buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. “Or…you could.”

“Don’t see how that would help,” Ed says. He takes over with the buttons, deftly hooking them and straightening out Stede’s sleeves afterwards, his fingers lingering on the soft, finely-woven fabric. “You’ve got to let him figure out what he wants to do for himself, I reckon. No use in forcing it.”

“No, you’re quite right,” Stede agrees. Nevertheless, anxiousness thrums through him. He’d had quite the job adjusting the crew’s worldview already, but something tells him Izzy Hands is going to be an entirely different kettle of fish.

 

---

 

“You need to set him back to work,” Buttons says, when the sun’s threatening to set and Izzy’s been off work for all of twenty minutes. “Some men ain’t meant for leisure time, Cap’n. You cannae force it.”

“Nonsense,” Stede says. “…What’s he done?”

The answer, as it turns out, is much the same as usual.

“You can’t order people around ‘recreationally’,” Stede says, once he’s rescued Black Pete from the crow’s nest.

“Why not?” Izzy asks. It’s only here, in the faint light of the declining sun, that Stede realises how subdued he’d been the night before. He supposes that’s the issue dealing with someone whose personality is constructed of various layers of antagonism: it’s impossible to say which level you’re on at any given time.

Stede refuses to defer to Ed. He stands his ground. “Because,” he says, “it’s an order from your captain. Me. And you’re going to follow it.”

“I don’t fucking answer to you,” Izzy sneers.

Stede wonders if there’s anything to be gained by elucidating on his credentials as a pirate captain. Probably not. “If I have to stay and monitor you myself, I will,” he says.

The suggestion is met with exactly the look of horror he’d expected, along with a threatening edge that gives Stede the impression that Izzy might be considering pushing Stede from the nest and claiming it was an accident. Stede’s only comfort is that he doubts the crew would believe him.

“There’s nothing to do,” Izzy complains, jaw set. “We’re in the middle of the fucking ocean, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Everyone else seems to get on just fine,” Stede says. “Frenchie’s got his music; Wee John’s coming along excellently with his sewing, and Lucius has been teaching Fang to draw.”

Izzy grimaces, and the shadows of the evening transfigure his face into something harsh, almost ghoulish. It’s the way Izzy would prefer to be seen, Stede fancies: scary and only half-human, someone who need not trifle with the ordinary whims of men. But for Stede it only serves to emphasise the dark circles underneath his eyes and the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. It only serves to make him pitiable.

“I’m not expecting you to pursue arts and crafts,” Stede says, his voice gentling. “Not yet, anyway. But there must be things you enjoy doing. Things outside your regular duties, I mean.”

When Izzy next looks up, it’s with naked frustration swimming in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says. Stede believes him.

“How about this,” Stede suggests, “you’re an excellent swordsman—”

Izzy’s lip curls, and Stede moves quickly on, not wanting to dredge up any residual resentment from their duel.

“—and a lot of the crew could use a good teacher.” Stede pauses. “It wouldn’t be as part of your regular duties. You’d be helping the boys, not commanding them. If that’s something you’d be interested in.”

For a moment, Stede feels sure the answer is to be no. He’s already cycling through alternatives—would Izzy enjoy whittling, perhaps, or wine tasting—when Izzy nods sharply, a single jerk of his chin. His hand drops to the hilt of his cutlass.

“Could do that, yeah,” he says.

“Excellent,” Stede says. “Why don’t you ask Frenchie and Wee John if they’d like to continue their practice with your assistance?”

It had been a struggle to think of any crewmembers who wouldn’t run in the opposite direction when confronted with the prospect of being taught by Izzy, but Stede has seen Frenchie and Izzy have interactions that are downright amicable, and Wee John should be happy enough to tag along if Frenchie’s there.

“Do I have to?” Izzy complains.

“You’d rather I fetched them for you?” Stede asks, raising his eyebrows.

“No, I—” Izzy splutters. “Shut up.”

“It’s no trouble,” Stede says. “And it might be better coming from me, anyway. Even though you and Frenchie—”

“He’s not completely useless,” Izzy mutters. His tone is difficult to read.

There are limits to what Stede knows about the time when he was away. Ed, understandably, doesn’t like talking about it. By the time Stede had managed to get himself aboard the Revenge, most of Ed’s allegedly fearsome rage had burnt itself out, and it hadn’t been long before Stede had managed to patch up both their relationship and the disparate contingents of their crews.

When Stede imagines it, it’s generally from Ed’s perspective, or as an outsider looking in. But Izzy had been there, too, had stuck with the ship even after Ed had cut off his toe. He’d probably interacted more with Frenchie and Jim than Ed had on a day-to-day basis. And while Jim maintains that they’d like nothing better than to shove a knife through Izzy’s eye, Frenchie’s outlook seems more disposed towards forgiving and forgetting. Stede would love to know why.

“I’ll talk to him,” Stede says, and backs away to climb carefully down the mast.

 

---

 

Stede doesn’t stick around to watch the lesson: he’s due for a bath, and he’s planning on spending his evening reading in the tub while Ed takes his turn making sure things are running smoothly up on deck.

The next morning, though, he hears from Oluwande that the lesson had gone until midnight.

“I thought of stepping in to intervene,” he shrugs. “I mean, the lads were obviously shattered, but—well, we could do with a couple more people who can hold their own in a fight, I s’pose. And nobody ended up drawing blood, which is better than I expected it to go.”

“Thanks, Olu,” Stede says. “For keeping an eye on things.”

“Oh, I was mostly planning our course with Buttons,” Oluwande says. “It was Blackbeard—Captain Edward, I mean—keeping an eye on ‘em.”

 

---

 

Stede considers asking Izzy directly how the previous night had gone, then thinks better of it. He leaves Izzy to his own devices all day, choosing instead to gently encourage Lucius to take stock of their supplies and begin a list of what they’re running low on.

“Get someone else to do it,” Lucius huffs, propping himself up on an elbow. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Stede is quite deliberately not looking at what Lucius is busy with. He’d knocked before entering, but not everyone has taken the opportunity to put their clothes back on.

“Nobody else can write,” he says.

“Jim can,” Lucius says. “Hell, even Dizzy Izzy can. I’ve seen him scribbling in his little diary when he thinks no one’s looking.”

Stede’s embarrassed by how quickly his mind turns to the path of least resistance—cutting off the interaction here and getting Izzy to do it. And yes, it’s partly because this is more of certain crew members than Stede had ever expected to see, but he can also acknowledge that it’s because when he gives a task to Izzy, it gets done. There might be an unpleasant interaction beforehand, but Izzy treats concrete tasks like stock-taking and ship cleanliness with an almost religious zeal.

Stede recognises, however, that it might be time to act on those suggestions for improvement.

“Lucius,” he says sternly, “I’m asking you to do it. Izzy’s got quite enough on his plate, and Jim’s rather busy with killing and skinning the chickens for dinner. Would you rather be doing that?”

Lucius’ eyebrows do a complicated wriggle of equal parts exasperation and acquiescence. “Okay, fine,” he says, levering himself up. Stede averts his eyes. “Someone’s been taking managerial tips from the Spewer.”

Stede splutters.

“Don’t worry,” Lucius says, winking as he swans past, “it’s a good look on you, Captain.”

 

---

 

By the time Stede sits down with Ed for lunch, it feels like it’s been an age since he last saw him. He hooks their feet together under the table and indulges in the rather indecorous treat of eating with only one hand and holding Ed’s with the other, stroking his thumb over the knuckles.

“Missed me?” Ed says sunnily. There’s a spot of tomato soup in his beard; Stede leans over to kiss it off.

“I rather did, actually,” he says when he’s resumed his seat. “It makes sense for co-captains to take alternating turns at captaining, but I prefer the days when we’re both out there.”

“Mm,” Ed agrees. “Well, I’m joining you this afternoon. We’re heading into choppier waters. Need all the captains we can get.”

“All hands on deck,” Stede says in his best Serious Pirate voice, making Ed laugh. Then he says, “Speaking of the crew,” even though they hadn’t been, really, “I took Izzy’s advice today.”

“Really?” Ed says. “What about?”

“Dealing with the crew,” Stede says. “Sometimes, I suppose, they do need a little—tiny!—push, to get on with their duties. And it’s my job to get them that kick up the bum!”

Ed leans back in his chair, mouth twitching in the way that Stede knows means he’s holding back a smile. “You got tough on ‘em?”

“Just Lucius,” Stede says. “I think he understood.”

Ed gives him an evaluating smirk, eyes flicking up and down as though picturing Stede’s best attempts at intimidation. “Next time you want to go in for that kind of thing, I’d be happy to help. Stand behind you holding my knife and that. Could help get the message across.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Stede says. “Though I’d rather they not think I’m threatening them.”

“Yeah, if you started doing it we’d have to come up with some other reason to keep Izzy around.”

“He’s not actually threatening them still, is he? Not with death, at least.” Stede asks, before remembering that he’d found Black Pete the previous evening on the tail end of being told that he’d be strung up from the crow’s nest by his intestines if he didn’t start ‘fucking paying attention'.

“Worse, probably,” Ed says, as though equally aware of the crow’s nest intestines incident. Then he chuckles and says, “Lighten up. Not like any of ‘em take him seriously anyway.”

“Hm, I suppose,” Stede allows. “I wish there was some sort of happy medium. Where they could respect Izzy without fearing him.”

Ed snorts. “Be reasonable, man.”

“Did the swordfighting last night go well, at least?” Stede asks, taking a sip of his tea. “Oluwande said you ended up keeping an eye on things.”

“Not much to keep an eye on, really,” Ed says, shifting. He’s changed into his leathers, ready for the day ahead, but now that he’s equally accustomed to the comforts of silk banyans he hates wearing the Blackbeard getup for longer than he has to. “Izzy’s a good teacher when he wants to be.”

“Did he teach you?” Stede asks, curious for a glimpse into their past.

“Fuck no,” Ed laughs. “By the time we met, Iz’d already done a spell with the British. Fought like ‘em—all upright and prissy and playing by the rules. He’s right into honour, Izzy is. Always giving people warnings and shit. When we met, I took him down a peg or two. Showed him how to fight dirty.”

“Oh,” Stede says, a little strangled. Something about the way Ed says dirty, possibly.

“These days he’s got the balance right, I reckon,” Ed continues. “He took Frenchie and John through the ‘rules’ of a duel first, made them memorise ‘em before they even picked up their swords. But he said they could start fighting like proper bloody pirates once they’d got the basics.”

“Lovely,” Stede says. “I never knew Izzy had been in the Royal Navy.”

“Yeah, well, he’d rather die than tell anyone,” Ed says. “As he should, fuckin’ assholes they are. But he was only with ‘em a small while anyway. Managed to sneak into service, stayed for as long as it took to tangle with a couple pirate crews, and switched sides not long after he turned sixteen.”

Thinking of Izzy as a teenager is disconcerting. There had been a time when Izzy’s skin was smooth and unlined by the deep indentations of a hundred thousand scowls, a time when he didn’t keep a sword at his hip and a wall around his heart. It’s a sobering thought.

“What was he like?” Stede asks. “Right at the start.”

“He was a shit pirate,” Ed replies instantly. “Had to vouch to Captain—would’ve been Captain North, back then. Anyway, I had to vouch for him to keep him on board.”

“Why did you?”

Ed shrugs. “He was shit, but he tried harder than any bastard I ever saw. And it wasn’t like he was some posh English twat, not like your Badmintons. He was just a kid who grew up at the bottom of the heap and dreamed of going to sea. S’pose I saw myself in that. And once he picked up the ropes, everyone thought I was the mad genius who saw something special in the kid with seasickness.”

Unexpectedly, Stede feels his chest go tight at the thought of it. A young Izzy, without his shield of ruthless competence, forced to rely on the kindness of another human being. No wonder he’d latched onto Edward so completely.

“He was always good with a sword, though,” Ed continues. “That much he was born with, I think.”

“He’d have made a good dancer,” Stede comments. “Had…circumstances been different.”

“Izzy dancing,” Ed says with a laugh. “Now there’s a thought.”

 

---

 

The way Izzy fights does resemble dancing, Stede thinks that evening, when Izzy’s taken command of most of the deck to teach Frenchie how to parry. Wee John seems content to watch and call out occasional encouragements. (“Aren’t you going to join in?” Stede had asked him. Wee John had smiled. “People see me coming, Cap’n, they don’t generally start challenging me to duels.”)

Stede is unused to thinking of violence as graceful. He’d thought, in fact, that violence and grace lay on either side of a wide spectrum, as disparate as two concepts could possibly be.

Jim had gone some of the way towards changing his mind, with their meticulous control over the trajectory of each of their knives, and now it’s Izzy who’s banishing the remainder of the assumption. Every slash of his cutlass against Frenchie’s is intentional, right down to the angle, and each shift of his stance is made with the studied control of a tightrope walker. Stede finds himself altogether entranced, though he’s supposed to be keeping track of the storm they’re skirting the edges of.

“Bleeding heck, mate,” Frenchie says with a panting grin when Izzy hits their swords together with an especially loud clang. “What’d my sword ever do to you?”

“Nothing so far,” Izzy responds, hardly even out of breath. “That’s the point.”

Stede breaks into a wide, delighted smile: that was almost a joke.

At the encouragement (and it was encouragement, too, not even a threat!) Frenchie starts vaguely waggling his wrist back and forth, trying to match Izzy’s sword.

“Promise not to stab me,” Frenchie says after he misses Izzy’s sword entirely; Izzy diverts course in the space of a breath, twisting his cutlass so the flat of its blade lands harmlessly atop Frenchie’s shoulder.

“I won’t stab you. It’d be unfair,” Izzy says, resetting his position. “Like stabbing a dog with no teeth. A cat with no claws. A—”

“I’d stab a cat with no claws,” Frenchie says. “You know they can hide ‘em, right?”

Izzy’s mouth twitches into a smile that’s almost affectionate. Stede drops his telescope on his foot. It’s a good thing Ed’s halfway up the mast interpreting clouds, or Stede would be begging him for insight: Have you ever seen him do that before? How do we make him do it again?

Stede isn’t the only one watching—a good portion of the crewmembers are still awake, their hammocks and sleeping rolls pushed aside to give the duellers space. Jim and Black Pete, in particular, are watching with rapt attention.

“I could take him,” Black Pete says lowly, clearly afraid that Izzy will overhear. “He only looks good because Frenchie’s so bad.”

“Bullshit you could take him,” says Oluwande.

“He’s old,” Pete insists. “Slow.”

Izzy’s age, Stede has reason to believe, is younger than it appears. As for calling him slow—nothing could be further from the truth. He’s reduced his speed for Frenchie’s benefit, but Stede remembers the quick, sure slices from when Izzy had cut his shirt to shreds.

“Maybe you should try,” Stede finds himself saying to Black Pete. “See how you fare.”

“Maybe I will,” Pete says.

“Uh, babe, he’s baiting you,” Lucius comments from the ground, where he’d been doing a convincing impression of sleep. “He totally thinks you’re gonna lose.”

“There’s no reason Izzy can’t take on another student,” Stede says, trying to cover after Lucius’ detection of his passive-aggression. “It would be good for all of us to learn a thing or two from First Mate Hands, I’d wager.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Lucius says, flopping his head back into his pillow.

“Did you hear that, Izzy?” Stede calls. Izzy grunts in response. “You could soon have new students!”

“I’d rather this one learn how to hold his fucking sword first.”

Frenchie adjusts his grip. “Like this?”

“Not even close,” Izzy says, and then easily hooks the sword out of his hand to demonstrate. Stede clutches a hand to his heart.

“Wow,” he says. “You see, that’s the kind of thing I imagine we’d all like to learn.”

Izzy spares him a glance. “I’m not teaching you,” he says.

“No?” Stede says. “Not even if I make it an order?”

Izzy raises his eyebrows. “I thought you said this was my free time,” he says, in a tone that still disparages the very concept. “You can’t order me around in my free time.”

Stede smiles brightly. “No, I suppose I can’t!” he says. “Fine, then. Teach whomever you please!”

 

---

 

Izzy runs Frenchie ragged until they’ve safely left the storm behind and the moon is hanging huge in the sky above. Though it’s been hours, Stede can’t detect any exertion in Izzy’s form, no cracks in his composure.

“You weren’t completely horrible tonight,” Izzy tells Frenchie. “Footwork’s getting better.”

“Thanks, m’dear,” Frenchie says, and then he reaches out and squeezes Izzy’s hand, the ungloved one, before he disappears belowdecks with Wee John following behind.

Izzy looks dumbfounded, his hand held out from him at an awkward angle, like he doesn’t know what to do with it now it’s been pressed, gently, by someone who wasn’t trying to hurt him. Stede wonders if Izzy’s ever had a friendship before, one unsullied by the maelstrom of emotions inherent to his relationship with Ed.

As he wonders, Izzy looks up and their eyes meet. The mere fact of Stede’s gaze has Izzy’s face folding back into its hostile lines, his hand clenching.

“Shut up,” he says, though Stede hadn’t spoken.

“Goodnight, Izzy,” Stede responds. A brief impulse seizes upon him to touch Izzy the way Frenchie had, but in the end he only nods at him politely before taking his leave, starting in the direction of the captains’ quarters.

Notes:

enjoyed having a sort of fill in the blank situation with regards to which crewmember(s) lucius was fucking

Chapter 3

Notes:

this chapter was meant to be about izzy getting wine drunk and then feelings crept in and suddenly i was crying. enjoy!

For the rest of the week, Izzy continues taking Frenchie through his paces. It’s too early to say anything grand of the arrangement—Izzy is still an unmitigated grouch and Frenchie has yet to make it through a lesson without dropping his sword at least a dozen times—but Stede is optimist enough to believe he detects an improvement in them both.

And he would know, because every night he watches them.

“Think you’re a bit obsessed, mate,” Ed says, on one of the nights when Stede crawls into bed much later than he’d planned. Ed sits up on his arrival, silk-soft nightshirt pooling around his collarbones. Stede can hardly regret waking him when he looks like this: eyelids heavy, hair mussed and snarled around the creased imprints of the pillow on his cheek.

Stede flushes pink. “I’m not obsessed—”

“Not complaining,” Ed says with a wry grin, swinging round to the edge of the bed and poking at the side of Stede’s belly where his stab scar sits. “You might learn a thing or two, watching Izzy like this. Can’t win every duel by getting stabbed.”

“More’s the pity,” Stede says. “He’s still refusing to teach me.”

Ed clicks his tongue, pulling Stede in to sit beside him. Once Stede is ideally situated, Ed tips his head to rest on Stede’s shoulder. “He’s probably got his hands full with Frenchie.”

“Frenchie isn’t that bad.”

“I once saw him trip over nothing in the dead centre of the main deck and then fall overboard. Never seen anything like it. Lad’s a walking disaster.”

“He what?” Stede asks.

“Ah, yeah, it was during the—” Ed wriggles his fingers in a way that might possibly, if you were inclined to be generous with him, evoke a Kraken. “—bad times.”

Stede takes Ed’s hands in his own, stilling their motion. “It’s alright if you don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and then, without pause: “Was Frenchie okay? Did Jim save him?”

“It wasn’t a storm or anything,” Ed says. “And, uh, it was actually Izzy who went in and got him. Think I told him I’d have the rest of his foot if he let anything happen to Jim and Frenchie, so. Guess he took that to heart.”

Stede resists the urge to add that it seems as though Izzy takes everything Ed says to heart.

“Frenchie was fine, though,” Ed continues. “Bit skittish around water for the next couple of days, but he got over it.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Stede says, squeezing Ed’s hands. “It explains why Frenchie’s soft on Izzy, at least.”

“Izzy went soft on him right back,” Ed says with a yawn. “Fucking bizarre to watch, I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll imagine it was,” Stede smiles. He traces the dry skin around Ed’s knuckles. “Perhaps you’ll tell me about it when I’m not interrupting your beauty rest.”

“Blackbeard doesn’t need beauty rest,” Ed mutters, but it must only be out of some instinct to be contrary, Stede reckons, when he’s practically falling asleep right there on Stede’s shoulder.

“No? Well, the Gentleman Pirate does, and he’ll thank you to save your tales of Izzy and Frenchie’s unlikely friendship for a more appropriate hour.”

Ed’s only response is a snore.

 

---

 

The next morning, Izzy approaches Stede of his own accord, which is unusual. For the most part, since Stede’s return, Izzy has held himself separate from Stede’s crew. He takes his orders from Ed, such as they are, and gripes about shoddy workmanship with a seeming awareness that the days of his absolute authority are long gone.

Stede doesn’t have much of an issue with it. He finds interacting with Izzy difficult, and the man is undeniably self-sufficient when it comes to the menial work of a pirate ship, and as such there’s little cause for Stede to seek him out on any given day.

“Edward says I still have to join you two,” Izzy grits out, “this evening.”

Stede sets down the watering can he’s been using to tend to the assortment of stolen potted plants they’ve taken to keeping on the deck. He strips off his gardening gloves and places them daintily in his pocket.

“I can’t see what would have changed,” he says, ignoring the vein throbbing in Izzy’s temple. “So, yes. We’ll be expecting you at sundown.”

“Why are you doing this?” Izzy demands. “You don’t like me.”

“Not particularly,” Stede agrees.

“And I fucking hate you.”

“Of that I’m quite assured, never you worry,” Stede responds.

“Then why the fuck are we having dinner together?”

“Well, Izzy, I dare to dream of a world where we don’t hate each other,” Stede says. “A world in which we might enjoy dining together. I do believe it would be most helpful for the morale of the crew, and more specifically for Ed.”

“What’s Edward got to do with it?” Izzy demands, stepping closer. His tone is that of someone whose favourite topic has just been broached by their least favourite person: all coiled anticipation beneath a defensive shell.

“I imagine it’s rather difficult for him,” Stede says, “with us not getting along. His co-captain and his first mate. It seems unfair to make him feel as though he has to take sides between us, or act as a conduit through which information might be conveyed. Rather simpler if the two of us decide to make an effort with each other, don’t you agree?”

Izzy’s lip curls. “Fine. I’ll go to your fucking dinner.”

“Lovely,” Stede says.

“I’m still not teaching you how to swordfight,” Izzy says, and he kicks out at one of the plants before he stalks off.

 

---

 

Between them, Roach and Ed manage to convince Stede to wind it back on the selection of food for the meal.

“We haven’t stocked up in a few weeks,” Ed points out. “You can’t use all the sugar making cakes he won’t eat. I’ve already had to cut down to four lumps in my tea, man.”

“But—” Stede dithers.

“I won’t do it,” Roach adds. “You can have one main course. And one dessert.”

Stede’s eyes go round with panic. He’s gained enough self-awareness to know that making decisions under pressure isn’t one of his particular strengths. He studies the available ingredients and puts his head in his hands.

“You decide,” he says to Ed. “If the meal’s a disaster, at least we can tell him you chose it.”

Ed laughs. “Let’s have chicken pie, then. And shortbread.”

Stede raises his head. It really shouldn’t be that simple. And yet—

“Excellent,” he says, regaining his equilibrium. “Good choice. We’ll be wanting white wine, then, to accompany. Thank you kindly, chef.”

Roach makes a face that seems rather mocking, but Stede is too buoyed by a decision well made to care. He grabs Ed by the arm and leads him away from the kitchen, beginning a spirited monologue about place settings as he goes.

 

---

 

Eventually, mid-afternoon, Ed steps in front of him, takes Stede’s wrists in his hands, and says, “What’s this really about, eh?”

They’re in the captains’ quarters with the table already laid. Stede has managed, upon Ed’s urging, to limit himself to one knife, one fork, and one spoon for each of them, and Stede can’t help but find the whole set-up seems woefully paltry, his entire upbringing rebelling against it.

He can admit that he’s gotten himself into something of a tizzy. He’s changed outfits twice, and wants to again (really—forest green? what was he thinking?); he’s tidied the cabin from top to bottom, and he’s in the process of switching out the wineglasses for the sixth (or perhaps seventh) time.

“I don’t know,” Stede says miserably. “It’s Izzy. I don’t care what he thinks.”

“I think maybe you do, love,” Ed suggests, rubbing circles into Stede’s wrists. “And take it from me, it’s a lot of pressure trying to figure out what that guy wants.”

Stede extricates himself for long enough to set down the wine glasses, which are really more suited to red wine than white. The other set, however, are far too gaudy for Izzy’s tastes. But then again, he might only be assuming Izzy’s preferences based on preconceived notions—

“Maybe I should look up some conversational starters,” he says, to distract himself from the conundrum of the glassware. “I know I have a book on them somewhere—”

“Probably at the bottom of the ocean by now,” Ed points out. “Which might be for the best, actually, since if you started doing upper crust conversational gambits with Izzy I think he’d bite you.”

“You make him sound like a feral cat.”

“He is, a bit. You ever try feeding a street cat, like, fuckin’ fancy cuts of meat? Little buggers don’t even know what to do with themselves.”

“He’s a tad less scary if you think of him that way,” Stede admits, his lungs allowing in their first full breath of the afternoon. “Though I doubt he’d appreciate the comparison.”

Ed grins. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Stede has to cross back over and kiss him, then, dipping his hands underneath the loose fabric of Ed’s shirt and leaning into the warm comfort of his body. He always feels better with Ed holding him, like the mere touch of skin to skin can surmount any obstacle.

“Better?” Ed asks when he draws back, his eyes twinkling.

“Much,” Stede replies.

 

---

 

Izzy arrives with typical punctiliousness the moment the sun disappears behind the horizon, his knock on the door sharp and precise.

“Come in,” Stede calls, fiddling with the stem of his wineglass.

He’s seated to Ed’s right, with Ed at the head of the table. Really, etiquette dictates that the hosts should each sit at the respective ends of the table, but Stede can’t imagine Izzy would appreciate being hemmed in like that. He might even interpret it as Stede attempting to assert dominance, which would surely be disastrous.

Besides, Stede has gotten used to eating with Ed by his side—the other side of the table seems ridiculously far away when they can just as well be close enough to touch.

“Hey, Iz,” Ed says when Izzy steps into view, “you gonna be nice for us tonight?”

“Fuck off,” Izzy spits, two spots of colour appearing to blot the arch of his cheeks. He seats himself at the table, to Ed’s left, and Stede watches as his shoulders hunch in defensively.

“Would you like some wine, Izzy?” Stede asks. Izzy shrugs.

“Answer him,” Ed says.

It’s interesting, Stede thinks. There’s no menace in Ed’s tone, no threat. If anything, he sounds weary, like a teacher handling an unruly student. But Izzy’s posture straightens at once and some undefinable change comes over him, like a layer of resistance has been scratched away.

“Yeah,” Izzy says. “I’ll have wine.”

“Good!” Stede says, pouring each of them out a generous serving. It had been difficult to bring the rest of the crew around to the very concept of wine, with most of the resistance boiling down to ‘but rum gets us drunk faster’. Still, Stede has always preferred the inebriation of a fine wine or brandy over the hammering of a bottle of rum, so he makes sure to keep the ship well-stocked with both.

Izzy raises his glass with a scowl, studying the pale golden liquid suspiciously. In response, Stede takes a pointed sip of his own wine, decanted from the same bottle, to prove it’s not poisoned. Ed, for his part, drains his glass in two long gulps and reaches for the bottle to pour himself another.

Some combination of Ed and Stede’s actions prove enough for Izzy to relax and begin drinking, his eyes going a little wide when the taste hits his tongue.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?” Stede says. “You always get the best stuff from the Dutch vessels, I’ve found.”

“Really,” says Izzy flatly.

Sensing that maintaining the conversational thread will be his responsibility until such a time as either Ed or Izzy gets properly tipsy, Stede takes it upon himself to expound upon the origin of the wine, somewhat embellishing his descriptions of the Italian countryside with what he’s read in books. He considers it a job well done when Ed knocks their feet together under the table and Izzy helps himself to the warm bread that constitutes their starter.

“Why does it matter so much,” Izzy asks when Stede pauses for breath, “where the wine’s from?”

His glass has mysteriously emptied over the course of Stede’s monologue, so Stede pours him another.

“Something to do with the quality of the grapes, I should expect,” Stede says, though he can admit to never having given the reason a lot of thought. Growing up wealthy, you simply learned which wines were acceptable and which were gauche and went from there. “Everyone knows the French and the Italians do it best, though the Spaniards aren’t far behind. You need a particular climate for the vineyards to flourish.”

“Not as good as brandy,” Ed puts in, “but it’ll do.”

“Yes, well, you’re really supposed to save the brandy for after the meal,” Stede says. “And we’re running out anyway.”

Ed shrugs. “We’ll keep a lookout for some fancy French merchants to raid. Won’t we, Iz?”

“If that’s what you want, boss,” Izzy says.

“Don’t be like that.” Ed’s mouth forms a moue of displeasure. “We can get you some more fancypants wine while we’re at it.”

“That would be—fine,” Izzy says. He’s fast on his way to finishing his second glass, and Stede hasn’t even served the main dish yet. He hastens to remove the cloche and begins slicing the pie while Ed takes the initiative and doles out servings of potatoes.

Izzy takes it all under sufferance, without the appreciation Stede feels that Roach’s perfectly flaky pastry deserves.

He doesn’t have to be instructed to eat, however, which Stede considers an improvement on last time. Izzy deconstructs his slice of pie and eats it in discrete segments, something generally discouraged in polite company, but he finishes the entire thing. The potatoes, too, are duly consumed, and afterwards Izzy mops up the sauce with what remains of his bread.

While he eats, Stede and Ed chatter idly about whether it might be better to stock up on supplies by making port or hunting down a decent-sized merchant ship. They neither entreat nor discourage Izzy’s involvement in the conversation, and Stede had been rather wondering whether Izzy was listening at all when he cuts in with, “We won’t be able to get any of Bonnet’s fancy shit on New Providence.”

“And you want Stede to have his fancy shit, do you?” Ed asks, leaning back in his chair.

Izzy frowns and drains his glass for the—well, it’s been rather a few times. Stede tops him up again. It’s a good thing he’d thought to procure a second bottle.

“He’d probably be fucking insufferable without it,” Izzy says. His skin is pink—either from the alcohol or the embarrassment. “Whinging on about not having fucking—cake, or pineapples, or whatever the fuck it is rich boys need to get by.”

“Izzy,” Ed says, a note of warning entering his voice, “that’s not very nice.”

“It’s quite alright,” Stede says before Izzy can react. “I can assure you that I’d get along quite admirably without a single pineapple for the rest of my days. Dreadful things. Now, passion fruit, there’s something I couldn’t live without.”

“Fucking hell,” Izzy says.

“Passion fruit’s pretty good, actually,” Ed says. He taps Izzy on the back of the wrist, in the bare space between his glove and his sleeve, with the tip of his index finger. “You’d like it, if you gave it a try.”

“It’s rather delicious as a cake topping,” Stede adds, and Ed shoots him a look that says quite clearly: Not helping.

“I know all this rich people shit is weird, okay?” Ed says. “But we’re fucking pirates. We’re rich as shit. If anyone gets to have a bloody passion fruit topped cake every once in a while, shouldn’t it be us? I mean, what the hell else is it for?”

There are a great many responses Stede expects from Izzy. His list of guesses for what Izzy considers the purpose of a pirate life to be descends from violence to infamy to, right at the very bottom, actually enjoying himself. It’s a short-sighted view, he knows, when Oluwande’s already explained to him that most of the crew would have chosen another path for themselves, given half a choice. But Izzy has always seemed so settled in his role; Stede can’t imagine a version of him who’d done anything else.

“It’s not meant to be for cake,” Izzy says quietly.

“What, then?” Ed presses. “For me, it was an escape. Needed to get as far away from home as I could, even if it meant sneaking onto a ship and hiding out in a barrel for weeks.” Stede looks over at him sharply, a bolt of sympathy closing his throat. He reaches out for Ed’s hand. “It was a long time ago, love, don’t make a fuss.”

Stede remains quiet, but he can’t keep himself from squeezing Ed’s hand, attempting to non-verbally communicate how dearly he wishes that he could have been there as a salve to every unpleasantness Ed had experienced before they’d met.

“And then it was about adventure,” Ed continues. “You remember those years, Iz, when everything felt new and exciting. Like we were kings of the world. Like there was nowhere we couldn’t go. I loved that. Still do. There’s still so much out there we still haven’t seen, but it’s like we’ve gotten ourselves trapped in this one patch of ocean, going round and round, no end in sight.”

“Boring,” Izzy says, like he’s tasting the word.

“Exactly!” Ed’s face lights up, even though Izzy’s response had seemed less like understanding and more like the first step on a path that might, eventually, lead in that direction. “There’s no reason we have to keep going through the motions. And this—dressing fancy, eating well, falling in love—” Izzy flinches. “—it’s the kind of life we could’ve been living all along. If we weren’t so convinced it wasn’t for us.”

“It’ll get us killed,” Izzy says.

“Hasn’t yet,” Ed points out. “Let me go a little soft in my old age. I’ll allow the same of you.”

“What if I can’t?” Izzy says, a slight challenge in the tilt of his chin.

“Then I’ll still keep you, Iz,” Ed says. “As long as you want to stay.”

Stede has to look away, then, from the bright shine that leaps to Izzy’s eyes. He doesn’t want to bear witness to the tears, should they fall. It seems the sort of thing Izzy would resent.

“Edward—” Izzy says. His voice is unsteady. Stede watches as he clamps down on however the sentence was supposed to end, as he grits his teeth and avoids Ed’s eye. And he watches as Ed’s fingers twitch in the way that Stede has learned means he wants to touch something: a piece of fabric, most often, but sometimes Stede himself. It doesn’t surprise Stede to see the gesture now; if he thought it had any chance of being received well, he’d be tempted to lay a comforting hand on Izzy’s shoulder. But Ed’s hand falls into stillness, and Stede looks away.

 

---

 

There’s no graceful way to extricate himself from the moment, but eventually Stede rises from the table and retrieves the tin of shortbread, because he’s not about to let his dinner party get derailed by emotional intimacy, no matter how touching.

He sets the tin at Izzy’s elbow and watches the moment Izzy remembers Stede is even in the room. It should be insulting, but Stede knows well the lure of Edward’s complete attention. It’s hard to begrudge somebody else getting swept up in it.

“Have you ever had shortbread before, Izzy?” he asks.

Izzy shrugs. “Not sure,” he says.

“Well, go ahead and try a piece,” Stede says. “You’ll like it.”

Izzy does as he’s told, which isn’t so shocking as it might once have been. Really, all the man’s looking for is a stern tone and a break from his responsibilities, as far as Stede can tell. It’s not so difficult to provide.

Something complicated passes over Izzy’s face at the first bite.

“My sister used to make this,” he says.

“Oh?” Stede resumes his seat.

“Called it something different,” Izzy says, turning the crumbly biscuit over in his hand. “Can’t remember what it was.”

He takes another bite, and Stede’s heart thuds. Izzy had had a sister, once. A sister who baked for him. Stede wonders when he last saw her. He wonders what Izzy had been like as a child—whether there had been any softness in him then.

“You can take the tin, if you’d like,” Stede says.

Izzy’s eyes leap suspiciously to Stede’s.

“Take it,” Ed adds. There’s a tension to his posture that Stede hasn’t seen in quite some time. His face is inscrutable.

“Fine,” Izzy says. “I will.”

Stede cracks a helpless smile, because it’s so Izzy to not say thank you, to make it seem like he’s doing them a favour by accepting kindness. He can’t quite pinpoint when the impoliteness had become mildly endearing, rather than unforgivable, but there’s no denying that it has.

“We won’t keep you much longer,” he says. “Would you like some more wine before you go? Or coffee? Ed says you prefer it to tea.”

“Do we have to do the—” Izzy waves a hand at the couch with a slightly mocking affectation. “—sitting around thing again?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Stede says. “But it’s the traditional end to a meal.”

If one applies a loose definition of the word ‘traditional’, Stede thinks, it’s true enough. Even if most meals among the gentry don’t end with one of the party sat on the floor at his male partner’s feet.

“If I—” Izzy starts. Colour rises once more to his cheeks. “I could sit on the floor.”

“Nonsense,” Stede says quickly. “You’re a guest. If you’re worried about Ed’s knee, I’ll be happy to take the floor.”

Ed snorts out a laugh, which only serves to make the colour in Izzy’s face deepen.

“We really should think about getting another chair for the sitting area,” Stede says, getting briskly to his feet and pouring out a final glass of wine for them each. “It was foolish of me not to account for guests.”

“Can’t we just use one of these?” Izzy asks, gesturing to the perfectly adequate chair he’s currently sat on.

“Absolutely not,” Stede says. “I know this cabin’s something of an open plan affair, but that’s no excuse not to keep the furniture separate. If we start shifting things from the dining area to the sitting area—” He shudders. “I’d consider myself a subpar host. No, go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be over in a jiffy.”

Izzy’s just the slightest bit off-balance when he gets to his feet, the wine having done its work. Stede might not have even noticed if not for the way Ed puts a steadying hand on his elbow, murmuring, “You know, the boy may be onto something with Dizzy Izzy.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy says, snatching his arm back. But he glows the way he always does when Ed touches him: helplessly, blatantly.

Stede forces himself to stop watching, turning away from the two of them to procure a suitably comfortable cushion to lay on the floor. There’s no shortage of them, luckily, between Stede and Ed’s appreciation for the comfortable things in life. He dithers over his choice for a few seconds longer than is perhaps necessary, giving Ed and Izzy a chance to get settled in before he interrupts them.

When he turns back around, Izzy’s wedged himself against the edge of the settee. Ed, meanwhile, is sprawled out, his wine glass hanging loosely between his fingers. They’re not touching, but there’s a spot where Ed’s knee almost meets Izzy’s thigh. No one is more aware of this fact, Stede suspects, than Izzy himself.

“Relax,” he suggests, making sure to set his cushion down on Ed’s side. He sits down with his back to the arm of the chair.

“Don’t push it, Bonnet,” Izzy says.

“This could be fun,” Stede pushes on, heedless, “if you’d let it.”

Izzy sighs. “It’s—not terrible,” he says. “Still a useless waste of time, obviously, but—”

“No, no, don’t ruin it,” Stede says, beaming. “You said something nice.”

“There’s one for the history books,” Ed mutters.

“It wasn’t nice,” Izzy says, like the word’s a particularly bad taste on his tongue.

“Coming from you, it was practically glowing,” Stede says. “Perfectly lovely.”

“Edward, make him shut up,” Izzy groans, gulping down wine as though it will save him the embarrassment.

“It doesn’t work like that with us,” Ed says softly. He lets his knee fall further, hitting unavoidably against Izzy’s leg. “You’re the only one still following orders. Wonder why that is.”

“Ed—” Izzy says.

“Finish your drink,” Ed says.

Stede doesn’t know why he feels so flushed, but he shifts in his seat and something about the movement breaks the spell, at least where Ed is concerned; he pulls himself back, smiles in a way that seems forced.

“Good,” he says, which is when Stede notices that Izzy’s done as instructed. Of course he has.

“Can I go now?” Izzy asks. His free hand clenches on his knee. There’s something frantic in his eyes, like a creature backed into a corner. For all that Stede thinks the evening has gone better than expected, it’s clear that Izzy shouldn’t be made to stay beyond his limits.

Stede finds himself looking to Ed before he remembers that, technically, they’re joint hosts. Co-captains.

“You may,” he says. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Izzy. Don’t forget your shortbread.”

 

---

 

“I’m so sorry,” Ed says, when Izzy’s gone. “I just—old habits, and he—”

“Wait, hang on a minute,” Stede says. “What are you apologising for?”

“You don’t—you didn’t mind…that?” Ed asks, looking bewildered.

Stede gets to his feet and begins tidying the table, buying himself time, snuffing out the candles and covering the remaining food for leftovers. He tries to think back over the evening, pinpoint something that could have made him upset.

“I suppose there was a moment or two where I was left out,” he concedes, frowning. “But that’s to be expected. You and he have known each other such a long time.”

Ed drags a hand through his hair. “But—when Jack came ‘round—”

“I hardly see what he has to do with this,” Stede says. “Why, he and Izzy could hardly be less alike. It’s a wonder they ever got on.”

“They didn’t, really,” Ed says. “But that’s not the point. Izzy was—I pushed him too far tonight.”

“Darling,” Stede says, abandoning the table to sit beside Ed on the couch, “nothing you did upset me. And I can’t speak for Izzy, but I’d imagine he was just thrilled to have your attention.”

“That’s the problem,” Ed insists, and Stede begins to see the shape of it.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, I don’t have a problem with that. I meant what I said last week. No jealousy. And besides, I was here the entire time.”

“You’re really not angry?”

Stede almost laughs—but doesn’t, because Ed so clearly needs the reassurance. “Not at all,” he says. “I had a lovely time. That was a good choice, with the shortbread. And the pie.”

“Proper British cooking,” Ed says with no shortage of disdain.

“I suppose it reminded him of home,” Stede responds, thinking again of Izzy’s face when he’d taken that first bite of the shortbread. “Of his family.”

Ed shrugs, the movement jostling Stede against him. “He doesn’t like talking about them,” he says. “Took me years to even find out he had a sister, y’know? Still don’t know her name, or fuck all apart from that she made biscuits, apparently.”

“I suppose he’ll share more in his own time,” Stede says.

“It’s weird,” Ed says. “Because you might be right. He’s—getting better. You’re making him better. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Well, it’s hardly a marked improvement, but he has stopped threatening to kill people as much,” Stede allows. “Only five times this week. Our feral cat may be on his way to domestication.”

“Fuck, Stede,” Ed laughs. He pulls Stede even closer, which is something of a feat given that Stede had sat almost on top of him to begin with. “What did I do to deserve you?”

Stede bends to kiss his shoulder. “You were yourself, for a start.”

There’s not a lot of talking after that.

Notes:

you can read the izzy pov companion to this chapter here

once again, i want to thank you all so much for the response this fic has been getting. all of the comments have been so lovely to receive, but a special shoutout to my fellow frenchie stans in the comments of the last chapter 💖

this chapter owes a huge debt to my beta reader, who wisely pointed out that i should probably establish where the characters are before launching into dialogue. their other comments included "this fucking guy" (about izzy) and "my stupid little meow meow" (about stede)

Chapter 4

Notes:

you may have noticed that this is a series now! if, after the last chapter, you were crying out for izzy's pov on the whole homoerotic dinner date situation, it's the next work in the series. i'm also working on something from ed's pov regarding the events in this chapter, so keep your eyes peeled for that.

and now on with the fic! fair warning, i may have lulled you all into a false sense of security about how good these guys are at communicating their feelings

Stede wakes to the thin light of dawn, his head nestled in the returning splendour of Ed’s beard. He smiles, content to revel in the floral-scented scratchiness of it and perhaps fall back asleep—but his nose has other ideas. Perhaps one sneeze wouldn’t have woken Ed, but the sudden volley of them is enough to have him jerking up like they’re being attacked.

“What—?”

“Sorry!” Stede says. “Just me!”

He sneezes again, as if for emphasis.

“You coming down with something?” Ed asks, brow furrowing with concern.

“Ah, no,” Stede says. “I believe it’s simply that inhaling your beard isn’t such a good idea as it seems.”

At that, Ed breaks into a volley of laughter, his face so nakedly delighted that Stede can’t even entertain the idea of feeling embarrassed.

It’s an especially welcome sight after the intensity that had emerged after Izzy’s departure the previous night. Stede is, by now, used to how being with Ed feels, how it can make the rest of the world melt away, but last night it had seemed as though Ed were trying to force it to melt. He hadn’t looked away from Stede’s eyes the entire time, had held his face with hands at once unbearably gentle and utterly immovable. It had been lovely—sex with Ed always is—but Stede hadn’t quite known what to make of it.

Now, with Ed pushing him down to rub his beard against Stede’s nose, laughing as he goes, Stede feels on surer footing.

 

---

 

It's while they’re eating breakfast that Stede begins to suspect that the strange mood has not left Ed entirely. He seems consumed by energy, only picking at his food while his leg bounces under the table. He takes coffee instead of tea, loading it with so much sugar that Stede can’t help but wince.

“Edward—” he starts after Ed finishes his second cup—but the word only serves to throw Ed into motion. He gets to his feet in a blur of leather and excuses, insisting that he needs to speak to Buttons and Oluwande about making port in New Providence.

Something about that jars—not least that when it comes to first mates, Oluwande is still more Stede’s than Ed’s. Leaving someone marooned on an island and sailing off with their partner doesn’t make for the healthiest of working relationships, Stede will admit.

“I thought we weren’t making port,” Stede says. “You and Izzy said it would be best to track down a suitable vessel.”

“Stupid idea,” Ed says, waving a hand dismissively. It’s shaking, a bit, but after that much coffee and sugar anyone’s would be.  “You know merchant ships, these days, they’ve all got cannons and hired security. Bloody nightmare.”

Stede’s brow creases. “Well, we’ve got cannons,” he points out. “And we’re pirates. I’d say we’ve been doing pretty well for ourselves these past couple of months, actually, with the raiding situation. Everyone’s really stepped up.”

“Yeah, but it’s easier to get stocked up on New Providence, like you said,” Ed insists. “No bloodshed, that way. Well, probably a little bit of bloodshed, place filled with pirates and the pricks who’ll do business with ‘em. Tricky bastards. We’ll get it sorted, though. As long as we steer clear of Nassau, kind of lie low, stay out of Jackie’s way. You just stay here, I’ll—”

He’s out of the door without even finishing the sentence, and Stede’s question about the sudden change of heart dies on his lips. He looks down at the crumbling remains of Ed’s breakfast and sighs, getting to his feet. The kipferls will keep. Probably.

 

---

 

“What the fuck did you say to him?” Izzy demands a few hours later, slamming the door of the cabin open. Stede jerks with shock, spilling his tea all over the lace cuff of his shirt. He watches in dismay as the creamy fabric stains brown.

For months, Izzy has avoided Stede like the plague, and now he’s confronting him for the second time in as many days. Between his behaviour and Ed’s, it really is shaping up to be a discombobulating sort of morning.

“Um?” Stede says, the very picture of eloquence. He’s not actually spoken with Ed since his strange departure at breakfast, and has instead spent the morning consulting Roach on the week’s menu, asking Frenchie about his progress on the Revenge’s official theme song, and giving Lucius some reading recommendations. He’s rather pleased with how productive he’s been, and as such has given himself leave to celebrate with a nice cup of tea back in the captains’ quarters.

“If you think,” Izzy growls, “that all your fancy wine and desserts are going to make me roll over and let you undermine me—”

“Izzy—”

“I had to find out from Mr. fucking Buttons, since neither of you thought it relevant to fucking tell me—”

“Izzy,” Stede says, holding up a hand. Miraculously, Izzy cuts off his rant, though his expression remains nothing short of murderous. “We’re not going to solve anything with you yelling at me. Why don’t you sit down and tell me what the problem is? There’s plenty of breakfast left, if you want anything.”

Izzy looks at the fruit bowl like the apples might, at any point, leap up and try to kill him. Then he sits down.

“Good,” Stede says briskly. “So. Would this have anything to do with our discussion last night about how best to resupply?”

“You know it does,” Izzy grits out.

“I don’t, actually,” Stede says. He pours himself more tea and then, as if by absent-minded habit, pours a second cup for Izzy. The man will either take it or he won’t, but Stede will feel better for having offered. “I thought the change of plan a little odd, too, but I assume Ed knows what he’s doing. Even if we’re heading to port first, there’s no reason we can’t raid a ship next week.”

There’s a look Izzy is fond of giving him, an expression of perfect condescension and disdain. Stede ignores it.

“There’s always a compromise,” Stede continues.

“I don’t give a fuck if we go to New Providence or out to intercept the trade routes,” Izzy says. “He’s supposed to fucking tell me. Your Mr. Boodhari was struggling to work the rigging, on Edward’s orders.” He scoffs. “So we’ll be reaching our destination some time next spring, assuming we haven’t drifted out to the middle of the fucking ocean.”

“Hey,” Stede says, chiding. “Oluwande is a perfectly competent sailor.”

“Maybe,” Izzy says, which is about as nice as he gets about anyone. “But he doesn’t know how to rig the fucking sails on this insane ship. None of your lot do!”

“Is that—?” Stede says. “That can’t be true. I suspect you’re underestimating them, as usual.”

He watches Izzy grind his teeth together.

“It doesn’t matter,” Izzy says. “I’ll sort it. Even though my captain thought it unnecessary to let me know about the sudden change of course.”

“I hardly see what that has to do with me,” Stede says, infuriation building in his chest. He wonders if interacting with Izzy will ever become less of a trial, or if it will simply continue this way until one or both of them dies.

“It has everything to do with you! Edward would never go for the safer option if you weren’t here—if he wasn’t trying to avoid proper fucking pirating—if you hadn’t told him to. And there’s no reason he wouldn’t have told me, unless—”

“Ah,” Stede says. “I see. You think I asked him to keep his plans from you?”

And it would almost be kinder, Stede thinks, to let Izzy believe that. Allowing him to blame Stede, rather than Edward, as he so clearly wants to.

But Izzy is too sharp for that. “You didn’t,” he says, with some wretched emotion beginning to dawn in his eyes. “Because you don’t care where we go, either.”

“Not particularly, no.” Stede pauses. “I actually thought you were right, once you explained it—we’d have more luck getting luxury items from a luxury ship. But I—I assume Ed knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course he does,” Izzy bites out.

“He wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Izzy says, as if he’s gathered the end of the sentence just from the halting, regretful way Stede said the first two words. He wouldn’t do something like this just to humiliate you. “If Blackbeard felt I spoke out of turn. Forgot my place.”

“That’s not it,” Stede rushes to say. But he can’t explain what’s actually going on—partly because he barely knows himself, partly because I believe that Ed feels more as though he spoke out of turn isn’t in the same continent as what Izzy wants to hear about his captain. Not when he’s back to saying ‘Blackbeard’ in that harsh, stilted tone of voice, like he’s wrenching himself out of intimacy by force. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Izzy.”

Izzy scoffs. Stede can feel whatever progress he and Ed have made with him unravelling in the sound.

He tries to get his own rising emotion under control.

“Israel,” he says firmly. “You didn’t. Ed made a mistake. He should have told you we were changing course, and he knows full well that you’re best qualified to be left in charge of the rigging and such. Perhaps it might be best for you to give Oluwande and the others some guidance, so we’re not solely reliant on—but that’s a conversation for another day. For now, would you just get it sorted? And drink your tea, it’s getting cold.”

Izzy’s eyebrows soar, but he picks up the cup, fingers clenching so hard around the handle that Stede fears it might crack, and takes a sip.

“There,” Stede says. “That’s a start. I’ll speak to Ed, alright? You have to remember he’s not the only captain aboard this vessel.”

“How could I forget,” Izzy murmurs, china cup held close to his lips. He looks rather absurd with it, in a way Ed never had despite the leathers, and Stede wonders what it is about Izzy that makes him so rigid, so entrenched in his way of being.

Stede looks away, trying to best phrase his next point. “I know it can seem like—like you’re Edward’s, and that Oluwande and I exist in a separate chain of command. But that’s not how I’d like it to be. You’re the ship’s first mate, and that means you’re mine, too.”

Izzy sets his cup down, empty.

It’s an answer of its own, Stede supposes.

 

---

 

For all that he’s promised Izzy, Stede still puts off speaking with Ed, holing himself up in the captains’ quarters with a study supply of nerves keeping him paralysed. He justifies his inaction to himself: Ed is surely very busy, making plans, and Stede will see him for dinner, as he always does. There’s no need to rush things. Besides, he has to figure out what to say.

It’s difficult, when so much of Ed and Izzy’s relationship is still a mystery to him.

Ed had clearly thought he crossed some sort of line last night, although Stede still finds it difficult to imagine what line that could be. Ed had touched Izzy all of three times, each with enough propriety that he’d barely have raised eyebrows at a formal gathering.

And Stede isn’t fool enough that he can’t appreciate the differences in context. For all that Edward had professed an awareness of Izzy’s feelings for him, Stede is beginning to doubt that he’d ever reckoned with them—at least not until Stede had forced him to by saying it out loud. Then there’s the fact that, for Izzy, each touch had carried with it the holiness of a benediction. Even the most innocent of gestures would be submerged in ambiguity under the weight of Izzy’s devotion.

But what’s frustrating is that Stede really doesn’t mind. There’s little chance of Izzy leaving the ship unless he’s forced off, which would upset Ed, and Izzy is significantly more tolerable when he’s getting what he wants—or at least some diluted form of it.

All that can be achieved by this sudden drawing back, as far as Stede’s concerned, is a return to Izzy’s worst behaviour. Perhaps not selling Stede and the crew out to the English again, but certainly Stede expects Izzy’s frustrations to boil out in relentless bullying of the crew. He warns Lucius of as much when he comes in to record Stede’s latest musings, but the boy only laughs.

“Yeah, like Iggy’s going to make any of us feel like shit when he’s the one hanging around like a spurned lover,” he says with a laugh. “Good one, Captain.”

“I’m being serious,” Stede says.

“And that’s very sweet of you,” Lucius says. He takes a seat on the couch. “Look. I know you’re working really hard on trying to make Izzy a decent person, or whatever, but you could probably stand to be less weird about it?”

An indignant flush worms its way up Stede’s neck. “I’m not being weird,” he says. “Am I?”

“You know I, like, talk to other people on the ship, right? Roach, for example?”

“Er,” Stede says.

“And, because I’m in charge of your schedule, I know for a fact that no other crewmembers are getting super special dinner parties thrown for them?”

“Um,” Stede says.

“And, because Izzy loves to make me keep track of our supplies, I happen to be aware of the comings and goings of bottles of very nice wine?”

By now, Stede is fully aware that the flush has spread to envelop his entire face.

Lucius taps his quill against the edge of his notebook. “O-kay,” he says. “This is clearly worse than I thought. Do I have to remind you that Izzy Hands is, like, objectively the worst human being I’ve ever met? As in, if there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve wine from Campania, it’s—”

“He’s not,” Stede says. “The worst human being.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lucius says.

“Ed sees something in him,” Stede continues, his heart beating faster than the situation really calls for. “And, really, he’s just—a man. Capable of being terrible, or of being kind.”

“Right. But there’s still the fact that he chooses being terrible literally all of the time.”

Stede rubs at his forehead. There’s no real point in trying to negotiate down to most of the time, even if Stede thinks that a more accurate estimation.

“I think,” he says, “that it’s worth trying. Seeing what would happen if he felt happy, and respected, and—”

Lucius’ right eyebrow completes a complicated manoeuvre that suggests both his awareness and his disapproval of the final word in that sentence. But no amount of judgement can change it: Stede would rather like to know what would happen if Izzy felt loved.

 

---

 

Lucius leaves with a somewhat unconvincing promise not to antagonise Izzy, and then Stede is once again alone with his thoughts. By now, there’s every chance that Ed and Izzy have spoken—perhaps even sorted things out amongst themselves. It’s not particularly likely, given everything Stede knows about their preferred methods of communication with each other, but it’s something to hope for.

He gets changed, for something to do, and then he reads through his favourite scenes in Twelfth Night (the ones between Orsino and Cesario), and after that he even drinks a fortifying glass of brandy, bringing them to the end of their supply. But there’s only so much he can do to while away the time, and the hours drag until Roach shows up with the food, followed by Ed.

Ed’s face illuminates when he sees Stede. It’s embarrassing, but Stede can feel every vestige of negative feeling draining out of him simply from the look in Ed’s eyes, that glow that always seems impossibly close to literal.

This is Ed, Stede reminds himself. Whatever misunderstanding has occurred between him and Izzy, he’ll fix it.

“Hey, love,” Ed says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Stede’s mouth. “I’m starving. What’ve we got?”

“Not a lot, I’m afraid,” Stede says. “Roach says he can stretch it a few more days, but fine dining’s on pause until we can stock up.”

There’s a silence, a not insignificant one, where Stede tries to will himself into saying something. Speaking of stocking up, he could say, and Ed would smile and intuit what he was getting at, would intercept it. Ed would explain the way Izzy and Stede misunderstood his intentions, because Ed was three steps ahead as usual, the same as he’d been with the clouds and the fog on the night they’d had to become a lighthouse. And it would all be fine.

“We still have the animals on board, though,” he ends up saying, like a coward, “so he managed to rustle up some gammon, and we’ll just have to do without the usual trimmings.”

Ed’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, mate, I think we can live without the trimmings,” he says.

Stede smiles, and Ed smiles back, and for a long moment it seems as though nothing could possibly go wrong.

But Stede dithers and deflects all through the meal, asking about Ed’s day and describing his own with such vagueness that it’s a wonder Ed lasts as long as he does before saying: “Alright, out with it.”

“It’s Izzy,” Stede says, like he’s a releasing a breath.

Ed sighs. “Do we have to talk about him?”

“Why didn’t you tell him about the change in plan?” Stede asks.

“Who told you about that?”

“He did,” Stede says. “But that doesn’t matter—”

“Doesn’t matter?” Ed responds incredulously. “My first mate comes to you bitching about something I’ve done, and—”

“He’s my first mate, too,” Stede says.

Ed lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“Believe me or don’t,” Stede says crossly. “It’s not the point. He only came to me because he thought I’d had some sort of hand in it. Manipulating you into undermining him.”

“I wasn’t undermining him,” Ed says, looking somewhat mollified. “I just didn’t need him.”

Stede takes a moment to be thankful that Izzy isn’t listening in. He can only imagine that Ed not needing him is several leagues worse than Ed undermining him, in Izzy’s estimation.

“I think you did,” Stede says. “I think you did need him, and that you left him out on purpose.”

“Okay, well—”

“And I think it’s because something happened last night,” Stede says. “Something I don’t understand. Something you’re not letting me understand, because you’re not telling me.”

Ed groans. “We already talked about this.”

“If the situation was resolved, I wouldn’t have brought it up again,” Stede says.

Ed looks past Stede’s shoulder, out of the window. Stede can tell by the light in the cabin that the sun’s going down. “You’re gonna be missing your favourite show,” Ed says. “Izzy and Frenchie’ll be starting up soon.”

“Ed—”

“Just go,” Ed says. “I promise I’m not—I just need to be alone.” He looks up, smiling ruefully. “You’re not meant to take his side.”

Stede hadn’t thought of it that way, like there were lines being drawn in a battle. He’d only wanted Ed to explain. Whatever hopes he’d had about this not being a serious issue disintegrate, leaving a sour residue in his mouth.

“He needs you to talk to him,” Stede says.

“Yeah?” The worst thing is that Ed doesn’t even sound angry. If anything, there’s a note of panic to his voice, discordant and sharp. “Well, maybe I need to not be at his beck and call all the time. He’s meant to work for me, not the other way around.”

It’s a shock to the system, hearing Ed speak about Izzy as an employee. The issue here is so clearly a personal one, rather than a matter of crewmembers doing their jobs—it hadn’t even occurred to Stede to think of it in terms of hierarchy.

But it doesn’t seem wise to argue the point further, not when it would only exacerbate Ed’s distress. Stede gets to his feet. He feels a little ill: he and Ed have barely argued since their confrontation over all the unpleasantness during their time apart. The worst of their disagreements in the months since have been over things like what they’d like to have for dinner, or who’s hogging the blankets.

“I’ll be out on deck,” he says. “It’s fine that you want to be alone, but if you need me—”

“I know where you’ll be,” Ed says, his lips twisting into a bitter sort of shape. Stede can’t bear to look at it, so he leaves.

 

---

 

It’s of some help to know that he’s not the only one in a state of stomach-churning distress over Ed’s mood. He can be sure of this, because ten minutes into their sword fighting lesson, Frenchie gets Izzy flat on his backside, the point of his rapier resting on Izzy’s chest.

“Holy shit,” says Wee John from his perch on a nearby barrel.

“Did you let me do that?” Frenchie asks. “It’s not cool if you let me do that. I’ve gotta earn it.”

“He’s distracted,” Jim calls.

“I’m fine,” Izzy says, getting to his feet and pushing his hair back into some semblance of its place. “That was a—decent move. Next time, put some force behind it.”

“Uh,” Frenchie says, “I don’t actually want to stab you, so—”

“Why not?” Jim asks.

Izzy grins, a surprising glint of humour in his eyes. “They’re right,” he says. “Why not?”

“We don’t stab our crewmates,” Stede says mildly. Izzy opens his mouth. “Anymore,” Stede hastens to add.

“Yes, Captain,” Izzy says. It barely even matters that he’s being sarcastic. Stede finds himself smiling, even as the unrest in the pit of his stomach doesn’t subside. Izzy glares back.

 

---

 

Frenchie performs well for the rest of the evening, aided as he is by Izzy’s lack of focus. Izzy doesn’t allow himself to be bested again, but even Stede can tell that he’s not up to his usual standard. His footwork seems heavy, and the sword is less like an extension of his arm than it usually is.

The lesson lasts until the moonless night has leeched all warmth from the air, until members of the crew start grumbling about when Stede’s going to put a stop to it and start reading their story.

Even then, Stede can tell that Izzy wants to keep going. He’d keep going until he passed out from exhaustion, Stede suspects. And so it’s up to him to request an end to the lesson, to call out that it’s time for everyone save those taking the midwatch to get themselves ready to sleep.

“That goes for you, too, Mr. Hands,” Stede says. “You’ve worked hard today. You could use some rest.”

Izzy makes a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. He tucks his sword back into its place at his hip, the movements sharp with tension.

“S’pose you want me to stay for your fucking fairy story, too.”

Stede considers. Izzy never stays for anything that could be considered group bonding—or if he does, he sits off in his own patch of shadow, as though determined to set himself apart. It might do him some good to make connections with other members of the crew, and Stede is a firm believer in the power of stories to bring people together.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Stede says, enough firmness in his voice that it could be construed as an order.

“Yeah, stay,” Frenchie adds. “Then you’ll know what I’m talking about, with the girl and the magic godmother and shoes made out of glass.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” Izzy mutters, and then sits down in what Stede thinks of as his favourite spot: halfway up the staircase, looking down on the rest of the crew, his dark form sliding into the shadows.

There’s a key difference. This time, Frenchie joins him, tripping over his sword as he goes. Izzy reaches up to steady him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his elbow. He barely even looks annoyed about it.

“Right,” Stede says, clapping his hands together. “Well, Frenchie’s requested Cendrillon ou la petite pantoufle de verre, which I suppose I can manage from memory. Is everyone comfortable?”

There are murmurs of agreement from the crew, some of whom are already dozing off. Stede clears his throat and begins the story.

 

---

 

Izzy lingers after Stede’s done with his tale, staying in his spot as Frenchie and Wee John go ahead to their room.

“Izzy,” Stede says quietly, “are you coming?”

“We should reach New Providence by first light,” Izzy says. “Best if I’m here to make sure things go smoothly.”

Stede narrowly resists rolling his eyes. He’s rather weary himself, and had wanted to go to bed without a fight. “Ivan and Buttons will manage just fine, I’m sure,” he says. “You’ll be no use at all if you’re tired.”

“I won’t be tired.”

It might even be true—there’s simply no way of telling when it comes to Izzy’s estimations of his own weaknesses. But at the end of the day there’s no reason for Izzy to be difficult about this, no reason for him to force himself up to his limits just to prove some ridiculous point. And Stede knows that the frustration bubbling in his chest can’t be solely attributed to Izzy, for a change, but that doesn’t much change the fact that Israel Hands is just about the most aggravating man he’s ever met.

“Everyone needs sleep, Izzy, there’s no weakness in it,” Stede tries.

Izzy, very slowly, looks him up and down. “And you’d know all about weakness, wouldn’t you,” he says. “Fuck off, Bonnet.”

Izzy’s mood doesn’t surprise Stede, precisely. He’d assumed Izzy would end up taking his frustrations out on the crew, but at the end of the day Stede provides a far better proxy for Ed.

“If you want to stay out here all night, I can’t stop you,” he says, a hand on his hip. “But it’s not going to make Edward proud of you. Chances are, he won’t even notice.”

Even as he’s saying it he knows it’s crueller than Izzy deserves, in a way that’s all the worse because he knows where Izzy’s wounds lie, now.

But Izzy smiles.

“That’s the difference between you and me, Bonnet,” he says, and it’s pitched low. “I don’t give a fuck whether he notices. I can serve my captain without getting fucking pats on the head. He knows that.”

“I’m sure you believe that,” Stede replies, just as quiet. “And perhaps there was even a time when it was true. But the truth of it is that you need him far more than he needs you.”

That one lands, Izzy’s face dropping into its deepest, most miserable lines.

“Think on that, won’t you?” Stede says, and then he turns to head below deck.

Notes:

you can read the ed pov companion to this chapter here

Chapter 5

Notes:

in which stede experiences regret, izzy has had enough, and ed is an agent of chaos

Though the hour is late, Ed’s still awake when Stede gets back to their cabin. He’s sat in the bed nook with his knees drawn up to his chest, Stede’s yellow-gold robe draped over his legs. Stede hesitates for a moment before sitting down beside him.

Once there, he’s not sure what to say. Ed seems calmer than he’d been earlier, his breathing steady, but Stede has some troublesome associations with Ed stealing this particular dressing gown. He frets for a minute or so, trying to find the right words, until Ed speaks.

“How was he?” Ed’s voice is quiet, contemplative.

Stede swallows past the lump of guilt in his throat. He had been quietly hoping that the topic of Izzy would remain off-limits, if only so he wouldn’t have to think any more about what he’d said. Regret had hit him almost as soon as he’d gotten below decks, slamming into his navel and making his skin go clammy. It’s hard to believe that he’d said such horrible things. He’s supposed to be better than Izzy. It shouldn’t be so easy for Izzy to bait him, to drag him down to the level of wanting to hurt someone just because he can.

But it’s done, now, and there’s no taking it back. And so here Stede sits, trying to figure out how to explain the situation to Ed without seeming an absolute villain.

“He wasn’t so bad,” Stede says, “but then—he didn’t want to go to bed.”

It sounds so petty; he wants to hit himself. He makes do with groaning and putting his face in his hands. Ed rubs a hand over his shoulder, soothing.

“Mm, he gets like that,” Ed says, like Stede’s reaction is because Izzy had been aggravating, rather than because Stede had gone and undone all the progress they’d made with him in a fit of pique. And there’s no way of justifying it, either: it wasn’t as though Izzy had been hurting anyone besides himself with his insistence on staying up. If he’d been threatening the crew, or Stede himself, such an outsized reaction might have at least been defensible, even if it still couldn’t be called gentlemanly.

Stede raises his head. Ed’s eyes are on his, gently probing.

“I said some things I shouldn’t have,” Stede admits. “Things he didn’t deserve, just because he was being stubborn.”

To his surprise, Ed laughs. It’s not in an unkind way—just a commiserating sort of sound, his hand still warm on Stede’s shoulder.

“That’s the thing with Iz,” he says, “every time you start to feel sorry for him, he goes and pisses you off. Don’t worry about it, love. He’ll probably respect you more for being a dick to him than he would after all the fancy dinners in the world. It’s the kind of language he understands.”

Stede shakes his head. “You didn’t see the look on his face,” he says. “It was—I was taunting him. About you.” Tears prickle at his eyes. “I felt so certain that I could be mature about this! And then the first time he irritates me, I use his feelings for you against him.”

His head falls to Ed’s shoulder, and he shuts his eyes against the judgement that’s sure to follow.

“What did you say to him, love?” Ed says gently.

“Oh.” Stede waves a hand without looking. He feels Ed catch it, thumb stroking Stede’s palm. “Just that he wouldn’t—that he couldn’t make you proud of him by martyring himself. And—and that he needs you more than you need him.”

Ed’s silent, then, for a very long while.

Then: “You know that’s not true, yeah?”

The shame boiling in Stede’s stomach gets worse. A tear slides down his nose and drips onto Ed’s collarbone. No, he hadn’t known that. He thinks about asking Ed exactly which part he’d gotten wrong, but it hardly feels like the moment.

“I think—I thought it was true,” Stede explains instead. “In the moment.”

“Fuck, Stede,” Ed says, his outtake of breath ruffling Stede’s hair. “Weren’t you just telling me off for being mean to him?”

“Well, you were,” Stede says. Pauses. “What changed?”

Because something has, clearly. Ed’s demeanour is more relaxed than it had been those few hours ago, his voice soft and understanding. Stede would be relieved about it if he didn’t feel so wretched.

“Just—” Ed cuts himself off. “Got to thinking, that’s all. Not much else to do. You drank the last of the brandy.”

“Mm, sorry about that,” Stede says. “What were you thinking about? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t know, Stede.” Ed sighs. “How does it not bother you more? That he’s—what he feels about me.”

Stede lifts his head. “I suppose,” he says, “it’s hard to imagine not loving you, really. I’ve never met anyone like you. That you could inspire such loyalty, such devotion; it seems the most natural thing in the world to me.”

Ed’s eyes have gone a little wet. “But it’s Izzy,” he insists. There’s a lot contained in the way he says his first mate’s name, and Stede feels helpless to unravel the whole of it.

“Yes,” he says, “it’s Izzy. And goodness knows he’s not always shown his affections in the most, shall we say, productive of ways—but I’m not logical when it comes to you, either, Ed. Perhaps the best way to put it is that I can’t help but empathise with his condition.”

“Fuck,” Ed says, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “What’re we gonna do with him?”

“I thought we were off to a good start already, actually,” Stede says. “He’s bonding with the crew. He’s been on good behaviour. And inviting him to dinner—”

“You’re still set on the dinners?”

“Yes, of course,” Stede says. “If he’s still amenable, that is, after what I said to him.”

“Right, yeah,” Ed says. “I should probably fix that.”

“In the morning?” Stede says.

“Nah,” Ed says, gently disentangling himself and getting to his feet. “You said he’s still up there, right? I’ll get him to bed.” Something twitches in his face, but before Stede can interpret it, Ed’s swooping down to kiss him. “You get some sleep, too, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” Stede says.

Ed snorts, unconvinced, and Stede smiles ruefully back.

“You’re both as stubborn as each other, you know,” Ed says, and before Stede can dredge up some kind of retort—he may feel guilty, but comparing him to Izzy like that is still beyond the pale—Ed’s out of the door, and Stede’s stomach goes back to churning. 

 

---

 

Ed returns all of fifteen minutes later, a grim sort of smile on his face. At the sight of him, Stede feels as though he’s tensing up and relaxing all at once. He’s relieved to see Ed back so soon, but finds himself unable to stand contemplating the dreadful things Izzy might have said in retaliation to Stede’s rudeness.

“Izzy’s gone to his quarters,” Ed says.

He approaches the bed, where Stede is doing an admittedly unconvincing impression of sleep, one of his eyes cracked open.

“That’s good, then,” Stede offers.

“Dunno whether he’ll actually sleep. You got him pretty riled up.”

“Oh,” Stede says, crestfallen even though he’d expected as much. “You mean he was terribly angry?”

“Something like that,” Ed says, shrugging. He rids himself of his shirt and pulls his hair down, a somewhat truncated version of his usual bedtime routine. “Can we sleep, now? You two are exhausting.”

Stede makes a tired, affronted noise. “I’m not half as bad as he is, surely.”

He reaches out as soon as Ed settles in bed, wrapping him in his arms and tucking their legs together. Ed goes easily into the embrace, a laugh on his lips.

“Yeah, love,” he says, “you get the high honour of being less work than Izzy bloody Hands.”

 

---

 

Stede makes up his mind to apologise the following morning. Ed may have had his conversation with Izzy, but that doesn’t give Stede any excuse to behave like a coward.

Of course, apologising to Izzy is easier said than done.

Stede sneaks out of bed early, just as the first rays of sun are beginning to slice their way into the captains’ cabin. Ed slumbers peacefully on, rolling into the warm space Stede leaves behind when he tiptoes into the washroom with a bundle of clothes in his arms and gets himself ready for the day.

Even so, he’s not surprised when Izzy turns out to already be on deck, drinking coffee from a tin cup and ordering Ivan to load the pinnace up with supplies. Stede can’t tell whether he’s slept or not just by looking at him, but he’s just as put-together as always, with his clothes neatly buttoned and his hair slicked back.

He scowls when Stede approaches, an expression that somehow extends throughout his body. Stede perseveres.

“Good morning, Izzy!”

“What do you want,” Izzy says without inflection.

Stede hesitates. The tone of Izzy’s voice is more than enough to summon Stede’s frustration anew, but he pushes it down.

“I wanted to apologise,” he says. “What I said to you last night, it was—”

“You can take your apology,” Izzy hisses, and proceeds to inform Stede of the numerous undignified locations in which it can be shoved. Stede tries to maintain his dignity, even after Izzy says dick hole.

“Well, I never,” he says, once Izzy’s run out of bodily locations. “You might consider accepting it, Izzy, when someone tries to do you a kindness.”

Izzy’s lip curls. “A kindness. Is that what you call it?”

Sensing a trap, Stede has little choice but to continue on. “…Yes?”

“I see. You can say and do whatever you want, so long as you bless us with your sainted apologies afterwards? Is that right?”

Stede shifts uncomfortably, aware that Ivan is watching them both.

“No, of course, I shouldn’t have said it in the first place,” he says. “But, seeing as I did, there’s nothing else I can really do except tell you I regret it, and that I’ll try very hard not to let it happen again.”

Izzy’s snort is almost unbearably mocking.

“You’re not sorry,” he says.

“I—what?”

“I saw your face,” Izzy says. “You can tell him that it was a mistake, but he wasn’t there. I fucking saw you.”

Stede sucks in an affronted breath. “I can assure you—”

“You liked it,” Izzy continues.

“I did not.”

Izzy’s mouth curves into a sharp, malicious smile.

“You might be able to fool Edward,” he says, with that peculiar sing-song inflection on Edward, “but you can’t fool me.”

“That’s quite enough,” Stede says, flustered. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Izzy—”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

By now, Stede’s aware that they’re being watched by everyone on deck who isn’t asleep. It’s still early enough for that to only constitute Ivan, Fang, Jim, and Oluwande (Buttons is at the helm, too far away to be eavesdropping), but Stede doesn’t like his chances of all four of them keeping things to themselves.

“Might we take this somewhere private?” he entreats.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Izzy says again, stepping closer. “I don’t give a shit what you think, Bonnet, about me and him. You don’t know—”

“Israel,” Stede says, quiet but firm. “We can have this conversation, if we must, but I’m sure you’d rather it take place elsewhere.”

Izzy blinks like a man coming out of a dream.

“Fine,” he says. “Ivan—”

“Yeah, boss, I got it,” Ivan says. He’s staring at Stede with an expression that’s difficult to read—all Stede can say for certain is that it’s not approving.

Izzy nods to himself, seemingly satisfied that the rest of the preparations for their landing can take place without his watchful eye. Then he begins stomping towards the companionway—leaving Stede to scurry in his wake, trying to retain his composure even as Jim and Oluwande start whispering amongst themselves.

 

---

 

There are enough rooms on the ship to keep their conversation truly private, but Stede thinks it likely that they’ll simply devolve into shouting at each other, given half the chance. It’s with this in mind that he elects to lead Izzy in the direction of the captains’ quarters, where he hopes Ed’s presence will force Izzy to remain something close to civil.

Ed’s still asleep when they enter, the blankets resting just below his hips. He’s on his stomach, nose pressed to Stede’s pillow, and Stede can’t suppress a smile at the sight of him. Of course, then he looks over, and Izzy’s glaring at Ed’s uncovered back like it’s personally offended him.

“Try not to wake him, won’t you?” Stede says, and watches Izzy’s eyes perform a guilty swoop in the opposite direction.

It’s interesting, Stede thinks: the way Izzy is so possessive of Ed, and yet so skittish about wanting him. It makes him wonder, not for the first time, what things had been like between them before Stede. Had there ever been a time when Izzy had felt able to look at Ed directly, unashamed in his desire?

Stede is no stranger to feeling ashamed of what he wants. He can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy breaking through the lingering excitement of their argument.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Stede says.

To his shock, Izzy elects to sit on the settee, rather than at the table. He supposes he hadn’t specified.

But it leaves Stede in the awkward position of either taking the place close beside Izzy, which will surely make the man uncomfortable, or standing above him, which really isn’t conducive to an intended outcome of mutual respect.

After a regrettable moment or two of dithering, Stede sits down next to Izzy. He wishes he had a cup of tea, or really anything to do with his hands.

“I did want to hurt you,” Stede says.

“Yeah,” Izzy says, the same way someone might respond to an observation that the sea is wet.  

“But that doesn’t mean I always want to hurt you,” Stede says. “Manners are important to me, you see, and I try my best to be civil whenever I can—”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You hate me,” Izzy says straightforwardly. “You think I’m the darkness that your precious Ed needs to keep at bay; you think he’d be happy making daisy chains and singing lullabies all day every day if it wasn’t for me. So why bother being polite? Why bother pretending that this—” He gestures to the small gap between them. “—is anything other than what it is?”

“I don’t hate you,” Stede says.

“Edward’s not awake; he can’t hear you.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, not everything is about him,” Stede responds. “I don’t hate you: Israel Hands, a separate entity from Edward Teach.”

Izzy frowns. “No.”

“The truth is, I find you extremely aggravating, quite unnecessarily vulgar, and often a bad influence on those around you. But I don’t hate you.” Stede pauses. “You’re hardworking. You care very much about—well, about Ed, but perhaps about Ivan and Fang, too—”

“Stop it,” Izzy says. “For fuck’s sake. Who says shit like that?”

“Like what?”

“Think he means the compliments,” says Ed.

“Oh!” Stede jumps to his feet. “You’re awake.”

“Mm,” Ed mumbles into the pillow. “Someone said my name.”

It doesn’t really narrow down exactly the point at which Ed had woken up, or what he’d heard. Stede twists his hands together.

“Oh,” Stede says, “well, we were just—”

“We’ve laid anchor, Captain,” Izzy interrupts. “I’ll be going over with the boys shortly. And—I’ll take a couple of Bonnet’s lot.”

“Good, that’s good,” Ed says.

He stretches out before sitting up, eyes half-lidded with sleep. Something inappropriate for the context swoops through Stede’s gut at the sight of him, at the sound of his voice—deeper like this, before he’s had the chance to fully wake up.

Stede’s eyes twitch to Izzy, who’s still on the couch, his head half turned in Ed’s direction. An unknowing observer probably wouldn’t catch the way he’s studiously avoiding actually looking at Ed.

Once again, Stede finds himself struck by this strange propriety, coming from a man who in every other way shuns decorum.

“There’s no reason we can’t make the trip, is there?” Stede finds himself saying.

Ed’s eyes blink open a little wider. “Well,” he says, “it’s grunt work, mate. ’specially in a place like this. This part of the island’s not exactly pretty, and there’s nothing to do except haggle with the arseholes that’re trying to bleed you dry. Captain usually stays on the ship.”

“Nonsense,” Stede says. “I won’t have my crew do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

Izzy scoffs. Ed makes a sound that’s a little too kind to be called a scoff, but which exists in the general region of one.

“You might need my help with negotiating,” Stede tries. “I’m rather a dab hand at it these days—or don’t you remember when I took the lead on Virgin Gorda?”

“We almost got fucking killed on Virgin Gorda,” Izzy says.

“We did, at that,” Ed says.

Stede splutters indignantly. “You said that was how it usually goes!”

Ed winces. “Yeah, well, it is how it usually goes when you completely piss off everyone involved in the trade. But you felt so guilty about Wee John getting shot—”

“Grazed!” Stede says shrilly.

“—we didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“I did,” Izzy puts in.

“And then I ordered him not to,” Ed says with an imploring smile.

“I’m not going to thank you for lying to me,” Stede responds. He takes a cleansing breath. “Hmph. If that’s the case, it’s all the more reason for me to come with you today. We’ll see about areas for my improvement.”

Izzy starts to speak, but Stede cuts him off.

“I’m not asking, Izzy.”

After a mutinous pause, Izzy says: “Fucking get changed, then. I’m not being seen with you like that.”

 

---

 

The auxiliary wardrobe’s an open secret on the ship by this point, so Stede has no qualms about leaving Izzy to wait on the sofa while he and Ed get dressed for their excursion.

“You look great,” Ed says in a murmur once the door’s swung shut behind them. “You don’t have to get changed just because he tells you to.”

And Stede, too, had rather liked the pale blue ensemble he’d picked out, but he thinks it’s worth making an effort with Izzy after his behaviour last night. Plus, there’s the chance that things will turn out like they did on Virgin Gorda, and getting blood out of silk is an absolute nightmare.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s a chance to wear something more—pirate-y. Really lean into the aesthetic.”

Ed looks slightly dubious, and Stede can see his point. Though there’d been a few weeks during which Stede’s wardrobe had consisted of little more than the ragged shirt on his back, he’d been reunited with the contents of his wardrobe soon enough. He hasn’t looked back since.

“Guess I’ll be wearing the uszh, then,” Ed says, reaching for where his leather trousers hang over the rail.

Stede hums in acknowledgement, trying to find some clothes in darker colours. There are a fair few jewel tones on offer, but he doesn’t think they’ll quite do the trick—and besides, they’ve never suited him. He manages to uncover some black breeches, but from there he’s at a loss.

When he turns around, Ed is holding his trousers contemplatively, a smirk on his lips. “We could swap again,” he says.

“Oh, he’ll only laugh,” Stede frets.

Ed’s smirk turns into a chuckle. “You know Izzy’s the only one who gets you into this much of a state about what you’re wearing, mate?”

“Well. He is quite fashionable, in his own way,” Stede replies, as though that hadn’t been the first thing he’d noticed about Izzy Hands. “Would a white shirt do? I could leave it unbuttoned.”

“Yeah, you could,” Ed says, drawing closer.

“That’s not helping,” Stede says, though the effect is ruined by the crack in his voice. Before the sentence is even out, Ed has him crowded back against the wall, his lips hot and searching on Stede’s.

“Oh,” Stede squeaks, only for Ed to draw back and put a finger to his lips.

“Shh,” he says, eyes sparkling.

“Right, yes, of course,” Stede says quietly. His heart pounds.

Slower, this time, Ed puts his hands on Stede’s face and reels him in, kissing languidly from Stede’s lips to his jaw to the side of his neck.

“Ed—oh!” Stede bites his lip.

“Quiet,” Ed reminds him. He undoes Stede’s cream-coloured breeches with one hand, rucking up Stede’s shirt with the other. “How fast d’you reckon I can get you off, hm?”

Stede doesn’t trust himself to speak. He surges in to reclaim Ed’s lips, muffling the sounds that pour out when Ed strokes him through his drawers. The wardrobe is constructed of the same high-quality wood as the rest of the ship, and Stede’s never had any issues with the soundproofing, but the thought of Izzy somehow hearing them—

“Ed,” he whispers, “please—”

“Yeah, I’ve got you,” Ed says, and goes to his knees.

“Oh, god,” Stede says.

“Gonna have to be quick,” Ed tells him conversationally. “My knee…and you don’t wanna keep Izzy waiting.”

Stede makes a low noise when Ed gets his mouth on him, his legs buckling until the wall’s the only thing keeping him up. Ed’s tongue is nothing short of magnificent, and under its ministrations Stede can only tip his head back and struggle not to let loose any of the noises building in his throat. Ed gets his hands underneath Stede’s open breeches and scratches at his thighs, just shy of being hard enough to leave marks. All Stede can hear is the wet sound of Ed’s mouth and the unsteady pant of his own breathing.

Within minutes, Stede is reaching his crest, spilling into Ed’s waiting mouth.

“There you go,” Ed says, pulling back.

“Christ, Ed.”

Ed laughs lowly. “Hurry up and get changed, love.”

 

---

 

Stede dons the dark breeches and white shirt, feeling shaky the entire time. Ed, meanwhile, hums jauntily while he pulls on what Stede thinks of as the Blackbeard ensemble.

“We need a cover story,” Stede says, “for why we took so long.”

Ed snorts. “No, we don’t. Far as Izzy knows, this is how long it takes to get you out of your usual getup. Don’t overthink it.”

Stede is fairly sure he’ll be overthinking this particular encounter for the next several years, but he declines to pursue the issue. He fusses over the buttons of his shirt, instead, dithering over how many to leave open.

“All of ’em,” Ed suggests.

“Not helpful,” Stede says primly. “I suppose I can leave it halfway undone. If you really think that’ll make me look like a proper pirate.”

“Mm,” Ed says, looking Stede over. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

“Oh, shush,” Stede says. He turns to the mirror, inspecting the outfit with a critical eye.

It’s rather plain, compared with his usual style, but Stede is surprised by how little he minds. There’s something of a rugged, adventuring effect to the ensemble, which is only intensified by the low scoop of the neckline.

“Right!” he says, clapping his hands together. “I think we’re ready to go out.”

 

---

 

He’s almost surprised to see Izzy still waiting on the couch when he and Ed spill out of the wardrobe, dividing rings between them. He supposes Ed hadn’t dismissed him, but it's nevertheless an unexpected display of patience.

“Took you long enough,” Izzy says.

Stede’s throat chooses this moment to close up in mortification.

“Couldn’t find my jacket,” Ed says smoothly.

Izzy rolls his eyes heavenward. “This is why you’re supposed to keep it—”

“On the back of the door, I know, Iz.”

“We’re already behind schedule—”

“Oh, is there a schedule?” Stede says, finding his voice. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s a—” Izzy looks over at Stede, and his sentence grinds to a halt. “You’re wearing that?”

Stede resists the urge to cover himself. He juts his chin out proudly and says, “Yes, I will be. Is there a problem with that, Mr. Hands?”

Izzy’s jaw works. “It’s better than the other one,” he says at last. “Now can you two fucking hurry up? I want to get back by nightfall.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Ed says with an ironic smile, tucking his pistol into its holster. “Lead the way.”

Notes:

#FreeTheStiddies

the missing scene where ed tells izzy to go to bed is here

Chapter 6

Notes:

izzy gets to be (mostly) competent this chapter! just a man in his absolute element: mortal danger

“This is your fucking fault,” Izzy says.

Stede flattens himself against the underbrush with a sigh. It’s just his luck that he and Izzy had run in the same direction after the first volley of shots were fired. Now he’s all scratched up from the shrubbery Izzy had pulled him down into, and he’s being berated before his heart’s even had the chance to slow down.

“How can this possibly be my fault?” he retorts in a whisper. “We don’t even know who’s after us!”

“Two of them are Spanish Jackie’s husbands,” Izzy says, as though this is information that Stede could possibly have known, between running for his life and never having laid eyes on any of Jackie’s husbands besides Geraldo. “So, taking a wild guess, I’d say Jackie’s not too happy about you being back on her island.”

Stede frowns. “I thought that was all sorted out.”

“I’d love the keys to the fucking fantasy world you live in, Bonnet,” Izzy says. “I bet it’s a magical place.”

“Oh, put a sock in it,” Stede says irritably. There are twigs poking into his stomach and the taste of gunpowder in the air; he’s had quite enough of this outing already without Izzy’s insults. “Did you see which way Ed went?”

“If I had, that’s where I’d be,” Izzy says.

There’s a hint of strain in his voice, and Stede more than understands it. The attack had taken them by surprise; everything up until that point had been going so well. Ivan and the majority of the crew are already on their way back to the ship in a pinnace loaded high with crates of flour, rum, and oranges. But Stede had stayed behind, determined not to leave without plenty of sugar for Ed (and himself, admittedly, because he’s felt rather bereft of cakes these past few days).

Only the three of them had remained on the island. There wasn’t much sense in doing it any other way, given the size of the second boat they’d made the crossing in: once it was loaded up with the sugar it was bound to be a tight squeeze. Stede had actually suggested Izzy go back with the rest, not opposed to spending some time alone with Ed, but Ed had nixed the idea.

(‘We might need him,’ he’d said, out of Izzy’s earshot. Stede wishes Izzy had been there to hear it, but he’d been too busy ordering the rest of the crew to put the supplies away the very moment they got back to the ship, or so help him god, and so on.)

Stede wonders how long it will take the others to realise that something’s gone wrong. As much as he admires Izzy’s skill with a sword and Ed’s whip-sharp intelligence, he’s not sure he fancies their chances against an unknown number of gunmen when separated. They may need saving sooner rather than later.

“Ed will be looking for us,” Stede says.

“He’ll be looking for you,” Izzy responds. Stede’s about to assure Izzy that Ed cares about him very much when the man continues: “Edward knows I can take care of myself.”

“Is that why we’re hiding in the bushes?” Stede asks, voice a little pointed.

“We’re waiting them out,” Izzy says. “Not much point in giving away our position, is there?”

“What if they hear us?” Stede asks. They may have lowered their voices, but, as tends to be the case with their disagreements, things are liable to grow heated at any moment.

“I’ll hear them first,” Izzy says.

Despite his misgivings, Stede trusts him. If there’s one thing Izzy has proven himself remarkably adept at, after all, it’s surviving.

“How long do you reckon it’ll be?” Stede asks.

Izzy turns his face so that’s looking at Stede head-on. With them both flat against the ground, the force of the contempt in his expression is somehow all the more intense.

“You’ll have to forgive me for not providing a timetable, Captain.”

Stede puts his nose against the dirt. It’s better than looking at Izzy.

“I’m just worried about Ed,” he says into the weeds.

“Edward’s dealt with worse than Jackie’s shit-for-brains husbands,” Izzy responds. He sounds fiercely protective, and Stede’s reminded yet again of the immense history that Ed and Izzy share. The number of life-or-death situations they must have been in—

“Has he really?” Stede asks. He sets his right cheek back onto the ground, meeting Izzy’s eye.

Izzy’s mouth twitches. “What do you want to know, Bonnet?”

“Well, we’ve got some time on our hands,” Stede says, “and just about the only thing we have in common is, er—” He tries to phrase it delicately. “—caring for Ed, so that seems like the safest topic we can discuss without fighting.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says, flat, “we’ve never fought about Ed.”

Stede gasps out a laugh.

“Shut up, Bonnet, you’ll get us caught,” Izzy says.

“That was a joke,” Stede says, delighted.

“I regret it already.”

“You shouldn’t,” Stede says. “It was really rather funny.”

“Oh, fuck off, Bonnet.”

“Come on, now. If I promise not to argue,” Stede wheedles, “will you please tell me something I don't know about Ed? It might take my mind off worrying about him.”

Izzy sighs, and it’s with surprise that Stede feels the exhalation on his own face. He hadn’t realised they were so close.

“What do you want to know?”

Stede thinks about it. “I suppose he’s been captured before.”

“Many times.”

“But he always escapes.”

The corners of Izzy’s mouth twitch upwards: not a smile, quite, but the beginnings of one.

“There was a time when he could talk the devil himself into letting him go,” Izzy says. “He always knew exactly how to get to a man. Money, protection, threats. Back then, me and the boys would break into some jail only for him to meet us on his way out. He was—magnificent.”

“He still is,” Stede says quietly.

The shine in Izzy’s eyes goes dull. “You didn’t know him back then, Bonnet. It’s not the same.”

“Because he was more violent, you mean?”

“It’s who he is,” Izzy says, and when Stede tries to interrupt he kicks him, surprisingly gently, in the shin. “No, I know what you’re going to say.” He notches his voice into an unflattering falsetto: “‘He doesn’t kill people’—as if I don’t know that. But that doesn’t make him like you. He’s never going to flinch at the sight of blood, or shy away from a fight. That’s not an option for men like us. He knows that just as well as I do, and if he wasn’t so busy trying not to offend your lordship’s sensibilities—”

“Hey,” Stede interrupts, struggling to keep his voice low. “It’s not like that. Ed doesn’t hide who he is from me, and nor would I want him to. But he also—you must know that he’s more than that.”

Izzy blinks at him, stunned. “Of course he is,” he says. Like it was never in question—and perhaps it wasn’t. Stede feels abruptly wrongfooted. “He’s the most brilliant man I’ve ever known,” Izzy adds, a quiet enough whisper that each word seems to get swept up by the light breeze and carried away. So quiet that Stede thinks Izzy would deny ever having said it if asked.

“If you can see that he’s more than—than those parts of him, why…?”

“Again with the—” Izzy huffs out a frustrated breath. “Do you even know how many people want him dead? Do you have the slightest conception of how hard we’ve had to work to keep him alive? No, of course you don’t, because you still see pirating as a fucking lark, and Edward seems hell-bent on keeping it that way for you.”

“I was just shot at,” Stede points out.

“It isn’t the same,” Izzy says, stubbornly.

“Alright,” Stede says. He’s almost surprised to find himself unangered by Izzy’s mulishness; but anger doesn’t seem to have a place here, with their voices hushed and their faces close enough that they’re breathing the same air. “I’m not going to sit here—lie here—and pretend I’ve had anywhere near as hard a run of it as you and Ed have. But, if you’d allow me to—oh, you think I’m dreadfully sentimental anyway, what does it matter—I think you deserve better. Both of you.”

Izzy blinks rapidly. “It’s not about deserving,” he says, voice as rough as the ground they’re lying on.

“Mm, perhaps not,” Stede agrees. “Let me put it this way, then. I’d like things to be better for you. Whether you deserve it or not.”

 

---

 

Stede can’t say for certain how long they lie there. The uneasy blend of anxiety and peacefulness conspire so that the minutes seem to dilate and contract all at once, and the cloudy sky above is no help.

Izzy speaks haltingly when Stede continues to question him about Ed’s most daring escapes. He’s no gift for storytelling, but it hardly matters when the subject is so enthralling: Stede has no reason to doubt that Ed once jumped from the roof of a prison with nothing but a coil of rope and the sheets from his cell.

“It’s how he fucked his knee,” Izzy says.

Stede winces. “Was he alright?”

“No,” Izzy says bluntly. “We had to carry him back to the ship. One of the lads got himself shot. Musket wound: we left him behind.”

“Goodness,” Stede says. He shouldn’t allow himself to be surprised by Izzy’s tales of violence—it only proves the man right about Stede’s disposition, after all—but something about the way Izzy says it sends a chill down his spine. “And—”

“It’s been an hour,” Izzy says suddenly. How he can possibly know this, Stede has no idea, but he doesn’t argue.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we should move.”

“Oh,” Stede squeaks. “Really? Won’t they be sort of—lying in wait?”

Izzy grins at him. “Scared, Bonnet?”

“Of course I am! They have guns.”

“Fine,” Izzy says. “Stay where you are. I’ll find Edward.”

He gets up with more caution than his taunting had led Stede to expect: first rocking back onto his knees, then rising just above the cover of the bushes, before finally getting to his feet. A few seconds tick by.

“I’m coming with you,” Stede says.

He shifts himself onto his back and sits up, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. Izzy watches with a raised eyebrow.

“You’ll regret not stretching soon enough,” Stede tells him haughtily.

“Fucking hurry up,” Izzy says, extending a hand.

Stede looks at it. Izzy looks at it, too, as though remembering too late that it’s his hand and he has autonomy over it. Before he has the chance to snatch it back, Stede reaches up and lets Izzy haul him to his feet, the leather of his glove soft and smooth against the abrasions on Stede’s bare hand.

“Come on,” Izzy says, pulling his hand out of Stede’s grip the moment he’s upright. “We’ll start at the clearing.”

It’s further away than Stede expects; he supposes they’d covered more distance during the frantic escape than it had seemed at the time. Izzy keeps ahead of him as they walk, his hand on the hilt of his weapon. Stede wishes he’d thought to arm himself.

The clearing where the sugar trade had taken place is abandoned; only one overturned sack remains, its contents pouring from a bullet hole in the side into a shimmering heap.

“Fuck,” Izzy says, and Stede follows his gaze.

At first, he thinks one of their assailants simply dropped his gun. He has no great interest in weapons, after all, and would be hard-pressed to differentiate one from another. But then he notices the fabric tied around the handle: red silk.

Ed doesn’t keep the handkerchief on his gun—ever since Stede returned it to him, he’s kept it in whichever pocket is closest to his heart.

“It’s a message,” he says, voice shaky.

“He’s not dead,” Izzy says. “They wouldn’t bother with this shit if he was dead.”

It’s of little comfort. Stede picks up the gun with care and runs his thumb over the silk.

“How far are we from Jackie’s?”

Izzy’s mouth presses into a hard line. “Four hours, if we walk.”

“And they’ve had an hour’s head start,” Stede says.

At this, Izzy’s lips turn white. “Thereabouts.”

“I’m not blaming you,” Stede says quickly. “I’m just making sure—”

“You should stay behind,” Izzy cuts him off. “There’s no telling how long it’ll take those imbeciles you call a crew to figure out something’s gone wrong. Could be tomorrow morning, with how they were eying that rum—but it could be sooner. You should wait for them.”

“I think not,” Stede says, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. “Ed’s in danger. I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t even have a sword, Bonnet.”

Stede—carefully—waves Ed’s gun. “I have something better.”

Izzy sighs, his eyes flicking upwards. “Jackie’s husbands may be idiots, but they’re not so stupid that they’d leave a loaded gun behind.”

“Oh,” Stede says. “How do I check?”

“Give it here,” Izzy orders, grabbing the gun before Stede has a chance to comply. He inspects it briefly and hands it back. “Useless,” he confirms.

“I’m still coming,” Stede says, tucking the gun into the waistband of his trousers. “Surely you’ve a weapon I could borrow?”

“No,” Izzy says.

“To which part?”

“Both.”

Stede tries another way. “I order you to take me with you.”

“You really think that’ll work?”

“Yes, actually,” Stede says. He meets Izzy’s eyes, challenging. “Now, we’re wasting precious time. Lead the way, Israel.”

In response, Izzy lets out an inarticulate sound, something halfway between a groan and a yell. Stede takes it as compliance.

 

---

 

The pace Izzy sets is punishing; the terrain even more so. Stede’s ankles are both throbbing in protest before long, but he knows he can’t ask Izzy to go easier on him when Ed’s been kidnapped. He grits his teeth and bears it, even as sweat pours down his spine and his throat turns arid with lack of water.

They don’t speak. Izzy’s in the lead, a good few paces ahead of Stede no matter how Stede tries to catch up. Every so often Izzy glances back, as though to make sure Stede’s still there, and each time Stede is struck anew by the grimness of his face, the way his eyes have turned the harsh grey of the sky before a storm.

He’s beginning to suspect that Izzy is deliberately trying to leave him behind, but then he stumbles on an exposed root and yelps, and Izzy’s there before he has a chance to hit the ground, grabbing him roughly by the upper arm and holding him in place.

“Try to keep your balance, Bonnet,” Izzy grumbles.

Stede pants shallowly. “Gosh,” he says, regaining his footing. “Thank you, Izzy. That could have been a nasty tumble indeed.”

“Can’t have you grazing your fucking knees, can we?” Izzy says.

Stede struggles to think of a suitable response to that. In the end, he simply gives Izzy a nod when his hand slips from Stede’s arm—as much an expression of thanks as Izzy can manage, evidently.

Their walking speed slows a little in the aftermath. Not enough that Izzy could be accused of going easy on him, but—

Stede doesn’t trip over again.

 

---

 

Izzy seems to know where he’s going, for which Stede is exceedingly grateful. He wouldn’t have had the first clue of how to approach the Republic of Pirates on land, let alone how to skirt around the island’s inhabitants in the process. Izzy has them duck for cover a few times, keeping out of sight of some errant tradesperson or other, but for the most part their progress is unimpeded.

“Do we have a plan?” Stede asks. Evening is beginning to close around them with alarming speed. Stede remembers what Izzy had said about wanting to be back on the ship by nightfall, and shivers.

“Yeah,” Izzy says, slow, “I’m going to kill the fucking lot of them.”

Stede balks. “Even Jackie?”

“If it comes to it,” Izzy says.

“What if it’s all a misunderstanding?” Stede asks, speeding up to bring himself alongside Izzy.

“Then they’ll be dead, and we’ll be alive, and it won’t fucking matter.”

“Look, I’m rather peeved at Spanish Jackie myself,” Stede says, “but we can’t go murdering her without giving her the chance to explain. It’s—it’s just rude!”

“Rude?” Izzy spears Stede with a sidelong glance. “You think killing somebody is rude?”

“Well, among other things, yes.”

“Jesus,” Izzy says.

“Promise me you’ll hear her out,” Stede says.

“What if she’s killed him?” Izzy responds.

Stede swallows. “I thought you said—”

“It’s unlikely,” Izzy says. “Not impossible. What if we walk in there and see Edward lying on the floor, dead?”

It’s a rhetorical question, clearly, but Stede finds himself compelled to answer.

“Then we should lock every one of them inside and burn the place down,” he says, something vicious threading through his voice. Izzy’s eyes widen.

“I can agree to that,” he says. “And if Ed’s fine? I’m still killing the bastards who took him.”

Stede presses his lips together. “I’d expect nothing less,” he says.

 

---

 

“Stay here,” Izzy says when they reach Jackie’s. He pushes Stede bodily into the slip of an alleyway between two buildings, and then he’s reaching up to devastate Stede’s hair, fingers pushing roughly through the curls. “Can’t believe the fucking walk through the fucking jungle didn’t take care of this,” Izzy mutters.

“What are you doing?” Stede asks, strangled.       

“You need to fit in,” Izzy says.

Stede splutters. “I’m already dressed like you told me to! What’s wrong with my—”

“I didn’t tell you to dress like that,” Izzy growls, and the viciousness in his voice is such that when he takes his knife from his belt, Stede half thinks he’s about to get stabbed. But Izzy simply takes it upon himself to cut strips off of Stede’s clothing, stopping just short of breaking skin.

“Hey,” Stede says, smiling, “this is how we met.”

Izzy snarls. “Shut up.”

“I’m beginning to think you like this,” Stede comments. “Messing me up. Destroying my clothing.”

“It’s necessary,” Izzy hisses. “You stick out like a sore thumb otherwise.”

“I hardly see what my hair has to do with that,” Stede says.

“It has everything to do with it,” Izzy says darkly.

Stede submits to the indignity, then, hardly even protesting when Izzy scoops up mud from the ground and smears it liberally over Stede’s exposed chest, neck, and face.

“Do I get to do this to you next?” Stede asks hopefully.

“People know who I am,” Izzy says. “You need to blend in.”

“Because you’re leaving me out here.”

“What help are you going to be, exactly, once we’re inside?” Izzy asks. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“Two is always better than one,” Stede says.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Izzy replies. “How am I supposed to focus on getting Ed out when I’ve got to look after you, too?”

“Then don’t look after me,” Stede says with a frown. “I don’t recall asking you to.”

“You—” Anger turns Izzy’s face a dark shade of red. “I’m not letting you get yourself killed. Edward would be—insufferable about it.”

Stede tries to ignore the pleased little tingle that pings through him—it’s only that it’s rare for Izzy to acknowledge what Stede and Ed are to each other, and each time feels like its own victory.

“You might need me,” Stede insists. “It’s reckless to go in alone, and I know Ed would be upset if I let you get yourself killed, too.”

They stand there a moment, breaths coming quick, a staring contest with far higher stakes than Stede's used to. Then, finally, Izzy looks away—glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to Spanish Jackie's.

“Have I ever told you how annoying you are?” Izzy says, turning back and treating Stede to his most hateful glare. Stede smiles in response.

“Not today, yet,” he says.

Izzy bares his teeth, pushes Stede further into the narrow alleyway, and takes him through the plan.

 

---

 

Concealed in the shadows of Jackie’s backroom, Stede breathes as quietly as possible. It’s still too loud, if the vice-tight grip Izzy has around his wrist is anything to go by.

Sneaking in had gone better than Stede expected. Izzy possesses a surprising knowledge of the layout of Jackie's, and once the bar area had been attended to, Izzy had led Stede through a passage leading from behind the bar to the backroom where the additional stock is kept. As well as the corpse of one of Jackie's husbands, which Stede's trying not to look at.

Instead, through a crack between crates of questionable-looking liquids, Stede observes Ed.

He seems relaxed, for all that he’s tied to a chair. There are no visible injuries to be seen, and he’s smiling—a lazy, confident smile that Stede associates most strongly with certain nights in bed.

He wonders if it’s inappropriate to notice how good Ed looks like this: his hands bound behind his back, legs spread, with each secured to the front two legs of the chair. Ed had mentioned something about bringing rope into the bedroom, once, but Stede had thought it a joke. It seems it’s a conversation it may be necessary to revisit—provided, of course, that tonight’s escape plan goes smoothly.

Jackie’s sat in a chair of her own, regarding Ed coolly.

“Not sure what else to offer you,” Ed’s saying.

“The Gentleman Pirate’s head, for a start,” Jackie responds.

“Nah, you don’t want that,” Ed says. “Thought you’d put that grudge behind you, anyway.”

“The British haven’t. Can’t imagine they’ll be too happy to find out that, not only is the little fucker alive, but he’s sailing with Blackbeard again.”

Ed makes a huffing sound. “Jackie. I thought you hated those guys.”

“We all do,” Jackie says. “And we all also need to survive. You know how close the English are to tearing the entire Republic to the ground? Why not give ‘em a little of what they want?”

“Give them something else,” Ed says.

“Bet they wouldn’t turn down the chance to hang Blackbeard for his crimes,” Jackie says. “Seems he signed himself over to the king’s service not too long ago, only to skip out before he’d been there a full day. You really thought they’d forget?”

“That was pretty much what I was hoping, yeah,” Ed says.

“Be best for Jackie if I got both of y’all,” she says. “But I’ll settle for one.” She pauses. “Or the other.”

“Okay,” Ed says, “you got me.”

Jackie leans forward. “Thought you’d put up more of a fight. Seems like the rumours of you going soft are true.”

“Eh, this isn’t the first time I’ve faced execution by the crown,” Ed responds genially. Stede can see the twist of his hands behind his back; he’s untying himself, or trying to. “Scary the first few times, sure, but it’s starting to feel a little routine.”

“You can get out of this,” Jackie says. “I got love for you, Blackbeard, you know that. Tell me where the Gentleman Pirate is, and I’ll let you go.”

“No deal,” Ed says.

“This is your life we’re talking about. You’re really gonna throw it away for that guy?”

“No,” Ed says. “What’s gonna happen is that you’re gonna let both of us go, and in exchange my first mate won’t kill you.”

Izzy’s hand leaves Stede’s wrist, and in the next second he’s materialised behind Jackie, knife held to her throat. It happens so quickly that Stede can’t help but gasp. Ed’s eyes flick in his direction. He’d known they were there from the start.

Jackie laughs, even as Izzy twists her arm up behind her at a degree that must be painful. “Very good,” she says. “But you’re not the only one with a guard dog, Blackbeard.”

She whistles, a long, low note.

Silence follows.

Izzy grins. “I don’t think anyone’s coming.”

The men who’d attacked them during the trade are dead already: Stede had waited outside for that part, but he’d seen the bodies when Izzy had led him through and into the backroom. Eight men, each with their throats cut. Stede had been right outside while Izzy killed them, and he hadn’t heard a thing.

“Looks like someone put your dogs down,” Ed says. He smiles, shows teeth. “Good boy, Izzy.”

Stede watches with interest as Izzy seems to glow under the—could it even be called praise? Ed’s voice is light, mocking, and he’s comparing Izzy to a dog. There seems no reason for Izzy’s eyes to light up, his proverbial tail wagging.

“That’s what happens when you train ’em early,” Jackie comments. She seems perfectly relaxed, though Izzy’s blade is biting into her skin. “Perfectly obedient. Loyal to their masters. In the end, though, he’s still a dumb animal.”

Jackie raises her free arm, and Stede almost cries out when the sleeve falls back and a hidden mechanism provides a gun to her hand. He’s about to launch himself from his hiding place, but Izzy is too fast: he whirls to face Jackie, pressing his belly against the barrel of the gun. Ed makes a choked noise.

“I won’t hesitate to kill you, Hands,” Jackie says. “Stand down.”

“No,” Izzy says.

“Izzy,” Ed says.

“You have one shot in that gun of yours,” Izzy says, his teeth bared. “You best make it count. If I live through it, I’ll spend every breath I’ve got protecting them. And you won’t stand a chance.”

A smile slides over Jackie’s face. “A dog with two masters, huh? There’s a new one.”

“Shoot me,” Izzy goads, and Stede can see that he’s got the gun snug against the left side of his abdomen. For all that Stede’s used Ed’s left-side rule to his own advantage, he’s not at all sure about Izzy’s ability to fight through a bullet wound.

“This is why two is always better than one,” he mutters, and rushes to intervene.

There’s no time to think; he dashes forward and slams his entire weight into Jackie’s chair, toppling them both to the ground. Once there, he’s unsure how to proceed.

“I’m sorry!” he says. “I normally wouldn’t—with a lady—but I’ve grown rather fond of him and—”

He keeps his grip tight, but without the element of surprise it’s clear that Jackie is both stronger and more skilled. He tries to grab the gun, at least—and it goes off.

Stede’s ears start ringing. The shot was loud, for one, and for another he hasn’t felt panic like this since Chauncey Badminton shot himself in the eye. He scrambles away from Jackie and towards the chair where—

Where Ed isn’t anymore.

“Bonnet,” he hears through the buzzing in his ears, and it’s Izzy’s hand on his arm, Izzy dragging him up and pulling him towards the door with his blade drawn. Stede stumbles along beside him, calling out for Ed.

“Here, I’m here,” Ed says, close behind. “Iz cut me free, I’m fine.”

Then they’re out of the door, and they’re running.

Notes:

jackie can have an anachronistic gun, as a treat

Chapter 7

Notes:

my beta reader and i are on holiday together and so i've been accosting them at various moments like 1) "please read my fic rn" and 2) "please extensively discuss it with me while we walk up to the acropolis". my friday posting schedule may be arbitrary but i'm invested in it, and no group trip is going to throw me off my game

cw: stede experiences a panic response to the gunshot from the end of the previous chapter; neither ed nor izzy know what to do and they don't deal with it especially well

Stede’s lungs burn. They’re right outside of Jackie’s, still in the thick of danger, but he can’t move. He can’t breathe.

“Bonnet,” Izzy’s saying, trying to tug him forward by the arm. And Izzy’s strong—Stede can feel the strength of him, the pull of it—but it’s not enough. Stede stumbles only a step and a half before falling to his knees.

“Stede,” and it’s Edward, now, crouching in front of him with hands gentle on his face, “love, we have to go, we have to, come on—”

Stede wishes he could explain about the thousands of tiny knives that are embedding themselves in his lungs, but his voice is lost somewhere in Jackie’s, in the room where the gun went off.

“No one was hurt,” Ed continues, cupping Stede’s neck. “I mean, those blokes out front were, but—other than that. Everyone’s safe. Iz, some help here?”

“What do you expect me to do?” Izzy asks, and he sounds—sort of how Stede feels. Desperate, panicked. Of course he is: Stede is putting Ed in danger. He’s putting them all in danger. Stede can’t pretend to know how long it takes to reload a gun, but he’s giving Jackie plenty of time to do it.

“Fuck,” Ed says. “Shit, fuck. We might have to lift him.”

“Yeah, alright,” Izzy says, his eyes flicking around. “Anyone asks, he’s drunk as a skunk.”

“Should work,” Ed agrees. “I’ll take his right side, you—”

Before the sentence is even finished, Stede is being hoisted by each arm into some semblance of a standing position. It’s not a comfortable arrangement: for all that Ed and Izzy had been perfectly in sync while lifting, there’s no compensating for the disparity in their heights, and Stede’s shoulders twinge as he’s pulled away from the scene of the crime and towards the same alley from earlier, which seems to have become smaller in the interim. Stede alternates between panting and not breathing at all.

The three of them are forced to move sideways through the alley, and once they turn a corner it’s even worse. In the near distance Stede can hear singing, carousing, and even a few screams: the Republic of Pirates’ nightlife, he presumes. Maybe a man unable to stand won’t be so much of an oddity in a place like this.

Stede loses track of the twists and turns: he can hear Ed asking Izzy, the leader of their chain, where they’re going.

“Trust me,” Izzy says, and Ed must, because they keep going where Izzy leads them.

They come to a stop in a side street littered with less-than-encouraging debris, including a few bloody teeth and some dead rats.

“Bonnet,” Izzy says, “I’m not dragging you any further. You said you wouldn’t be a fucking liability.”

“That’s a bit harsh, mate,” Ed says. “It was a stressful situation.”

“It’s still a stressful situation,” Izzy replies in a sort of whisper-screech. “Jackie has connections on this island like you wouldn’t believe, and she’s not going to give up on you two that easily.”

“Yes, well, I’m actually aware of that, given this isn’t my first day on the job,” Ed snaps.

“Don’t fight,” Stede says. It’s more of a croak, really; his voice sounds as though he’s spent the last several hours screaming his head off.

“Stede, mate?” Ed’s tone gentles, and as he speaks he carefully lowers his arm to settle around Stede’s waist. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, wretched,” Stede says. “How are you?”

“Better now,” Ed says. He kisses Stede: first, gently, on the cheek, and then on the lips, sighing his relief into Stede’s mouth.

“I’m ready to get a fucking move on,” Izzy interrupts sourly.

Ed pulls his face back by a few inches.

“C’mon, Iz, give him a second,” Ed says. “Think you can stand on your own, love?”

“I don’t know,” Stede replies. “Let’s give it a try, shall we?”

It’s Ed who lets go of him first. Stede clutches at Izzy’s hip, feeling as though he might topple over any moment, but after a minute he manages to regain his equilibrium. He takes a few more steadying breaths before detaching himself.

“Gonna have fucking bruises,” Izzy mutters, rubbing at the hip Stede had used for his anchor.

“Know how much you hate those,” Ed says benignly.

“Fucking—shut up, Edward.”

Ed smiles, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Stede supposes he isn’t immune to the tension, though he’s better at concealing it than Izzy and Stede.

“Iz,” Ed says. “What you did back there—”

Izzy looks horrified. “Captain—”

“No, let me say it.”

Ed proceeds to lapse into silence. Stede, still getting the hang of standing upright and breathing normally, finds himself grateful for the reprieve.

Eventually, Izzy’s patience breaks. “What?”

Ed exhales. “I don’t want you getting yourself killed for me. Goes for either of you.”

“Christ,” Izzy says. “If you’re pissed at me for bringing him along, you can just say that.”

Stede frowns, confused.

“No,” Ed says, “this is about you almost getting shot, Iz. Fucking hell.”

Izzy’s mouth sets, stubborn. “There was no other way.”

“No other way?” Ed snorts without humour. “You could’ve tried to disarm her! Signalled to Stede! Or left it alone, because she would’ve wanted to turn me over to the British alive, wouldn’t she?”

They’re not bad options, Stede concedes. While he was watching, it had seemed as though Izzy had taken the only logical step to save Ed’s life—but then, Stede hadn’t exactly been thinking clearly, what with the gun.

“Didn’t think of that,” says Izzy, castigated. His head dips; he stares hard at the ground.

“No, because you were too—you just—fucking fuck—” Ed says, and strides towards Izzy with such furious intensity that Stede half-expects to witness a punch. When Ed reaches Izzy, he slams into him, pushing him back against the wall—but his arms are around him, a crushing embrace.

Stede hears a distinct, “what the fuck,” coming from Izzy.

It’s the strangest hug Stede has ever been witness to. The clutch of Ed’s limbs reminds Stede rather forcefully of illustrations he’s seen of boa constrictors, and for a few seconds Izzy resembles every bit the unfortunate victim, struggling against Ed’s grip. But Ed holds him there a long time, long enough for Izzy to give up and let his arms hang limp, his head dropping to Ed’s shoulder. Anyone else, coming across the scene, would think Izzy hated it, but Stede thinks he understands him a little better than the average observer. He’s at a vantage where he can see Izzy’s face; can see that his eyes have drifted shut and that his lips are lax, parted.

Ed reaches a hand up into Izzy’s hair, and Stede hears a sound he never in a million years would have expected to hear from Izzy. It’s a sigh of pure contentment, so sweet that Stede looks away. This isn’t a version of Izzy’s he’s supposed to see.

Eventually, inevitably, Izzy stiffens again. “Edward,” he says. He almost sounds confused. “Can we—we need to go.”

“Where?” Ed asks, his hold loosening. Izzy slips away the moment he can, his gaze everywhere but Stede.

“I know a place,” he says.

 

---

 

Ed keeps a hand on Stede’s arm as they follow Izzy. It helps—Stede still feels shaky, and each step requires far more effort than usual. Izzy isn’t walking especially quickly, up ahead, but Stede and Ed still fall behind in short order.

Darkness has well and truly fallen on the Republic, blanketing everything in deep shadow. Though Izzy is fewer than a dozen steps ahead, his form is indistinct, recognisable mostly by the glint of the cutlass at his hip.

“Alright?” Ed asks. They’re out of Izzy’s earshot, or so it seems; the man gives no sign of hearing them. “Just a little while longer now.”

Stede doubts very much that Ed knows their destination, let alone their likely time of arrival, but he appreciates the reassurance all the same. He leans into Ed’s side and continues forcing one step in front of the other.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m just—a little embarrassed, to tell you the truth. Izzy already thinks me such a useless pirate, and here I am—”

“Mate,” Ed cuts him off. “You saved his life back there. Jackie’s not exactly famous for her restraint.”

“Oh. Right. Yes, I suppose I did.”

Ed laughs. “You’re a nutter. Jumping out at her like that.”

“I thought it was rather gallant, actually,” Stede says, getting into the swing of Ed’s jovial tone. “Dashing, even.”

“Shut up, you did not.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m Izzy’s hero.”

Before he’s even finished the sentence he’s casting an anxious look ahead, making sure that Izzy hasn’t heard him.

“Don’t expect him to thank you for it,” Ed says.

“Oh, I know he’ll keep it inside.” Stede smiles. “But he did—it did seem rather like he was protecting both of us, back there.”

“Noticed that, yeah,” Ed says. “Good luck getting rid of him now. You can fault him for a lot, but I’ve never met his match for loyalty.”

Stede feels something warm settling into his chest. “You really think—loyal to me?”

“Seems like it,” Ed says. “Guess you’re his captain after all.” He squeezes Stede’s arm. “Never been happier to be wrong about something.”

“Oh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Stede says, blushing. “You’re still—well, you know what you are to him.”

“Yeah, about that,” Ed says, the lightness draining from his voice. “Back there, I wasn’t thinking properly. He almost got himself killed, and I just needed to—”

“Hold him?” Stede suggests.

“Shit,” Ed says. “Sorry.”

“For goodness’ sake, darling, you can stop apologising for caring about him. If something bothers me, rest assured that I’ll tell you.”

Ed takes a deep breath. “When he got in front of that gun, I was fucking terrified. Don’t remember ever worrying about him like that before.” He shakes his head, as though dispelling a thought. “Not as if I don’t know that he’d die for me. It’s not—great—but I never thought he’d be that stupid about it.”

Ahead of them, Izzy glances back before he turns a corner—making sure they’re still following. There’s no indication he’s listening in.

“You should tell him,” Stede says gently. “How it made you feel.”

“He doesn’t want to know.” Ed laughs ruefully. “Blackbeard isn’t supposed to get scared.”

“You’re not just Blackbeard to him, though,” Stede says.

Ed stops—actually stops, stuttering to a halt, and Stede yelps with surprise, his feet slipping in the dirt.

“What are you fuckers doing back there?” Izzy shouts back at them.

“I’m not?” Ed says to Stede.

“Ed…” Stede says, his heart cracking, but then Izzy’s stomping back around the corner, levelling them both with a glare.

“We’re nearly there,” he says. “Can you fucking hold it together for five more minutes?”

“Where, exactly, is there?” Stede asks. Ed just blinks, still looking stunned.

“Hurry up,” Izzy says, and turns on his heel.

 

---

 

After a few more squirrelly turns, they land in front of a two-storey building with no sign—no way of telling who it belongs to or what’s inside. Izzy pushes the door open without pause.

Inside is quiet. Compared with the chaotic bustle of Nassau, the silence is almost oppressive.

“Shio?” Izzy calls out.

The silence stretches a few more seconds, and then Stede hears footsteps coming down the stairs. He glances sideways at Izzy, trying to figure out what to expect. He gleans no answer, and when he looks at Ed he sees only the mirror of his own confused expression.

The footsteps stop at the bottom of the stairs. They belong to a woman: short, with a cascade of curly black hair streaked through with silver. She’s wearing a robe that recalls Stede’s collection of banyans, though hers is black, patterned with constellations of shimmering stars.  

“Israel,” she says.

“You owe me.” Izzy’s voice is hard, but there’s something unfamiliar in his expression: if Stede didn’t know better, he’d be inclined to call it playful.

Shio sighs, heavily, through her nose. “Too much to expect a social visit, I see.”

“Spanish Jackie wants these two idiots dead,” Izzy says, jerking his head in the direction of Stede and Ed. “We need to lie low, figure out a way to get back to our ship without being followed.”

“That can be arranged,” Shio says. “You’ll take the usual route.”

“Still secure?” Izzy asks.

Shio purses her lips.

“Right,” Izzy says. “You can get word to the ship?”

“Stop asking useless questions. You can take the guest room tonight. It’s late. We’ll speak in the morning.”

She turns without another word—without so much as glancing in Stede and Ed’s direction—and heads back up the stairs.

“Who is that?” Ed asks, the very second she’s out of earshot.

“Come on,” Izzy says. “Guest room’s through here.”

He leads them through a hall decorated with what appears to be an extensive collection of human skulls, laid alongside crystals and gemstones of astonishing sizes. Hundreds of sprigs of lavender are hanging from the high ceiling above, resembling nothing so much as an upside-down meadow. Stede gasps, and even Ed seems a little startled. But Izzy doesn’t seem inclined to explain the décor. He walks briskly to the door on the far wall and pulls it open, ushering Stede and Ed inside.

Upon entry, Stede breathes a sigh of relief: the guest bedroom is plain and bare, and features no human bones—only more lavender, surrounding the door and window.

“Izzy,” Ed says, his eyes flitting around, from the bed jutting out from the centre of the wall to the lanterns casting candlelight through the room, “you mind explaining what’s going on?”

Izzy shrugs. “You sent me on business here a lot.”

“So she’s your—”

Izzy looks so comically disgusted by Ed’s assumption that Stede can’t hold back a laugh. It’s especially funny, he thinks, on account of how Shio doesn’t look dissimilar to Ed.

“Jesus Christ, Edward, no. It’s a safehouse. I’ve had use of it now and then.”

“What did you mean when you said she owes you?” Stede asks.

“Sometimes word spreads to the wrong people,” Izzy says with another shrug. “I get rid of those people.”

“Thought I was the only person you killed people for, Iz,” Ed says, landing just shy of the joking tone he’s clearly aiming for.

“Get over yourself,” Izzy mutters.

After the hug, Stede suspects Izzy will be testing Ed’s limits for quite some time. He can only hope Ed doesn’t take the defiance too personally before it burns itself out.

Trying to prevent the comment from becoming an altercation, Stede pulls Ed’s attention back to him. “Here,” he says, pulling the gun and cloth from his waistband. “I’d really rather you stopped losing this.”

“Why would I, when you always find it for me?” Ed responds cheerily, taking the silk in hand with the same reverence as always. He folds it the way Stede taught him and tucks it into his breast pocket. The crimson ends up poking out, nestled between the two shark’s teeth. After he’s satisfied with its placement, Ed takes his gun and, with somewhat less care, replaces it in its holster.

When he’s done, Stede leans forward and takes the liberty of kissing him the way he’s wanted to since he saw him tied up on that chair. Ed kisses back with enthusiasm, and after a few moments there comes the sound of Izzy scoffing and slamming his way into the next room.

Ed breaks away.

“He’s just riled up,” Stede says.

“Yeah, I know,” Ed replies softly. “He’s a nightmare sometimes.”

“I can fucking hear you,” Izzy calls out, which at least goes to prove that he’ll call attention to himself when he hears conversations going on behind his back.

“You’re a nightmare sometimes!” Ed calls back, breezy.

“Is that a washroom?” Stede asks. Izzy’s voice is coming from behind a door on the opposite wall to the one they’d come through.

“Yeah,” Izzy says.

“Oh, excellent,” Stede says. “I’m rather dirty—as you well know.”

Ed snorts. Stede elbows him.

“Not like that—Izzy just took it upon himself to slather me in mud, earlier.”

“I was wondering about that,” Ed says. “Not that it’s not a good look for you. Rugged, and all.”

“Thank you!” Stede grins. “He had quite the vendetta against my hair.”

“Shut up,” Izzy groans.

“What are you doing in there?” Ed asks.

“Having some goddamn alone time, Edward.”

Ed starts to speak, but Stede puts a hand on his arm, holding a finger up to his lips. He certainly can’t relate to Izzy, in this as in so many other things—but Mary had behaved similarly, sometimes, needing time by herself to decompress. Stede hadn’t always respected her needs, to his shame, but he can at least give Izzy a moment to himself after over fifteen hours of being glued to Stede’s side.

While Izzy stews, Stede sits down on the chair in the corner and pulls his shoes and stockings off, wiggling his sore toes in relief. Next to come off is his shirt, filthy and torn. He looks down regretfully at the fabric once it’s off. It’s unsalvageable, thanks to Izzy’s mutilation. And for lack of an alternative, he’ll be forced to wear it again tomorrow regardless.

Sighing, he folds it as best he can manage under the circumstances and lays it on top of the chest of drawers.

 

---

 

After ten minutes or so, Izzy emerges from the washroom, his expression still dour.

“May I?” Stede asks, gesturing at the open door behind him.

“Fine,” Izzy says.

The bathroom is well-outfitted, and Stede looks longingly at the tub in the corner before he makes do with the basin of cold water and a cloth. He manages to scrape most of the mud off himself, though with Izzy’s thoroughness it’s hard to be entirely sure. At the very least, he’s presentable.

When he emerges, Izzy and Ed are on opposite sides of the room, not talking to each other. Stede can’t quite tell whether it’s a comfortable silence or not—but he’s never done well with either type.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s go over the plan for tomorrow.”

“The plan is to not die,” says Izzy unhelpfully.

“And that’s a good start!” Stede says. “But I’m still rather fuzzy on the details.”

Izzy shakes his head. “We’ll make a move at first light,” he says. “Shio will get word out to the ship. Fang and Ivan will make sure to meet us to the east of here—there’s a cove Shio favours for delicate operations. It’s serviceable. As long as the Revenge doesn’t draw attention to itself, we’ll be fine. Now, will you two just go to bed?”

Stede takes a moment to digest all of this.

“And where will you sleep?” he asks.

“I won’t.”

“Now, that just won’t do,” Stede says.

Izzy gets a dangerous look in his eyes, like he’s remembering just as clearly as Stede the fallout from Izzy refusing to go to bed last night.

Thankfully, Ed cuts in. “Did you get any sleep after I left you yesterday? Be honest, now, Iz.”

“It won’t be a problem, Captain,” Izzy says quickly.

“None of that,” Ed says, decisive. He gestures at the bed. “Hop in.”

“Edward,” Izzy says. His face is growing steadily more red.

“Izzy,” Ed mimics, in such a pitch-perfect northern accent that Stede giggles, to Izzy’s clear displeasure. “You’re really gonna be difficult about this?”

Izzy shifts in place. “Bonnet’s been through an ordeal,” he says, not especially convincingly. “He needs his sleep.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Stede, love, get in.”

Stede looks between them. If Izzy had been red before, he’s burning now, his mouth agape with horror. Ed, meanwhile, seems to be suppressing a smile.

After some hesitation, Stede approaches the bed.

“We’ll take it in shifts,” Ed says, “but I know if you take first watch, Iz, you’ll never wake me up.”

“Ooh,” Stede says, thinking this arrangement eminently logical, “so am I going next, then?”

“No,” Ed and Izzy both say.

Ed continues apologetically. “You’re not best suited to taking a watch yet, mate. Better leave it to me and Iz.”

“Ah,” Stede nods, and sits decisively on the side of the bed closest to the window. “Because I haven’t killed anyone on purpose yet?”

“No, it’s just—” Ed starts.

“Someone came to kill us, you’d likely invite them in and offer them tea,” Izzy says.

“I wouldn’t—”

Izzy sweeps a hand to indicate himself.

“That’s different,” Stede says. “You haven’t tried to kill me in ages.”

“That you know of,” Izzy mutters.

“Izzy,” Ed says, “stop teasing him and get into bed with him.”

“Fuck,” Izzy spits. “Can’t I just sleep on the floor?”

Without the benefit of Ed’s support, Stede might be inclined to let him. Izzy is so red in the face that it looks painful, and his voice is brimming with loathing. Stede tries not to let it get to him—he’s under no illusions about Izzy’s feelings towards him, after all, even if he’d hoped the rescue mission had softened them a little.

Thinking that if it doesn’t work, he’ll simply offer to take the floor himself, Stede decides to try something.

“But you were such a help to us today,” he says, employing a tone both matter-of-fact and ever-so-slightly patronising—the way one might speak to a beloved pet. “I think you’ve more than earned a nice soft bed. Come on, Israel. Up.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, he knows it’s worked. Izzy’s mouth is parted, his eyes dark and wide. It’s a compelling expression, and reminds Stede a little of how Izzy looks at Ed on occasion—trusting, with a shade of vulnerability.

“God, Stede,” Ed murmurs.

It’s Ed’s voice that finally sparks Izzy into motion; he walks stiffly to the side of the bed that Stede had left free for him, closer to the door, and sits down with his back to Stede.

“I don’t suppose you’d remove your boots and waistcoat, would you?” Stede suggests, feeling underdressed to the extreme with his shirt rolled up atop the dresser. “I’d like for you to be comfortable.”

Izzy’s shoulders shake with his sigh.

“You heard him, Iz,” Ed says. There’s something coolly evaluating in his tone.

Once again, Stede provides the tinder, Ed the flint: Izzy begins unbuttoning himself with careful fingers. Although Stede can only really see his back, he finds himself entranced, eyes glued to the fastidious motion.

“Anything else?” Izzy asks once the boots and waistcoat are off. His voice is only about half as snide as it usually is.

“Hm,” Stede says. “Your tie, I should think? It can’t be comfortable to sleep in.”

This time without prompting, Izzy does as he’s told.

“That’s lovely, Izzy,” Stede says instinctively, making sure to retain that lick of condescension.

“Lovely,” Ed echoes.

Izzy’s fingers fumble on the tie. His ring slips and clatters to the floor.

“I’ve got it,” Ed says, dashing to Izzy’s side and kneeling to retrieve the ring. When he’s got it, he closes his palm around it and puts it in his pocket, alongside the red silk. “Safekeeping, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Izzy says agreeably.

Stede can’t see Izzy’s face, but he can see Ed’s where he’s crouched in front of him. As he watches, it seems to him that one half of a conversation is carried out in Ed’s eyes: first an eyebrow lifted in question, followed by an innocent widening, then a firm blink.

God, how Stede wishes he could see Izzy’s answering expressions. He wonders if the flush has left his cheeks by the point, or whether it’s still blazing there.

He makes do with getting himself under the blanket and laying his head on the reasonably soft pillows, waiting for Izzy to join him.

“Lie down,” he hears Ed say, quietly authoritative.

“Wake me after midwatch,” Izzy responds. “Please.”

Ed’s answering hum is pleased. “Since you asked nice,” he says. “Go to sleep, now.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says. He must be tired: the word is almost slurred. “’kay.”

He lies atop the blanket, which is disappointing, but Stede thinks better of asking any more of him. It’s warm enough that he doesn’t have to worry about Izzy taking a chill, at least.

“Goodnight, then,” Stede says.

“’Night, Bonnet,” Izzy responds.

Stede looks up at Ed, who’s on his feet and turning towards the chair by the door. They grin at one another.

“G’night, loves,” Ed says, and Stede continues smiling to himself as he drifts off.

Notes:

ed is out here directing his very own "there was only one bed" scenario for his boys

the watch switchover scene between ed & izzy can be found here

Chapter 8

Notes:

longest chapter so far! this one just would not stop going

Stede must sleep through Ed and Izzy’s watch change, because when he wakes it’s with Ed, not Izzy, breathing deeply from the space beside him. Ed’s lying on his stomach, as is his wont, his hand tucked securely under Stede’s pillow, and Stede feels a warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of him. He’d almost lost him, yesterday—or it had felt that way, at least. He knows the pirate life is dangerous—he’s not quite as naïve as Izzy likes to complain—but he’s yet to become accustomed to how narrow some of the escapes are. Perhaps, with a few more years’ practice, he’ll become as blasé as Ed about their brushes with death. For now, he turns over onto his side and carefully tucks a lock of hair behind Ed’s ear.

He stops when he hears a small, pained breath from elsewhere in the room. Of course. He hadn’t thought.

Rolling onto his back and lifting his head, he searches for the source of the sound.

It’s still dark outside, but the shutters allow moonlight to peek through, and Stede can just about see Izzy. He’s chosen the darkest corner of the room in which to situate himself, and he’s crouched there with his knife held tightly in his gloved hand. His eyes are sharp, trained on Stede.

The remarkable thing is how safe the sight of him makes Stede feel. He knew he’d sleep easily with Ed keeping watch, but he hadn’t expected the same to be true of Izzy. Indeed, it’s a struggle to pinpoint when the sight of Izzy with a weapon had become reassuring to him, rather than worrisome.

As far as Stede can see, Izzy’s redressed, though the ring is still missing from the knot of his cravat.

“Good morning,” Stede whispers. “Did you sleep well?”

Izzy nods, a sharp little movement.

Stede thinks better of attempting to lure him into conversation. Ed needs his rest, and besides, it doesn’t take more than a second of observation to realise that a few hours of sleep have sent Izzy’s walls slamming back up. Gone is the docile facsimile from last night. Stede can’t quite say whether he feels more disappointed or relieved. He’d liked an Izzy who’d followed direction, certainly, but a small part of him had missed the version who bites back.

Not that he’d ever admit to that, naturally.

Instead of speaking, Stede gets to his feet and makes his way to the washroom, picking up the ruined shirt as he goes.

He gets himself dressed and ready as best he can, though the looking glass confirms that presentability is a lost cause. He looks every bit the ruffian, with his shirt gaping at the chest and his hair falling messily into his eyes. How anyone lives like this is beyond him; he feels dreadful.

By the time he re-enters the bedroom, Ed’s awake and about, shrugging back into his jacket. He looks wonderful despite the ordeal, with half his hair gathered up in a tie and his clothes just the right side of dishevelled. Stede would be annoyed at him about it if only he wasn’t so lovely.

“Hey, love,” Ed says, voice languid with sleep. “Iz was just telling me it’s gonna be a pretty long walk today. You up for it?”

“Bearing in mind that you have no other choice,” Izzy contributes. He’s put his knife away now that Ed’s up, but there’s no change to the level of defensiveness in his demeanour. “And it’s no worse than yesterday. He’ll be fine, Edward.”

Ed’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Just making sure.”

 

---

 

They take breakfast with Shio, who informs them that she’s already contacted the Revenge.

“But how?” Stede asks. When their host only smiles mysteriously, he turns with desperation to Izzy. “Some sort of messenger bird, perhaps?”

“Dunno,” Izzy says. He eats some more of his porridge, which he’d insisted on taking plain despite Shio’s table boasting everything from honey to blueberries to fresh, sliced lemon, and takes a sip of his similarly unsweetened coffee. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

It starts to occur to Stede why Izzy and Shio get on. Stede can’t stand not knowing her methods, and he’s sure Ed would feel the same if he weren’t so enthusiastically loading sugar into his second cup of tea—but Izzy really doesn’t seem to care how the job gets done, just so long as it gets done. The revelation goes a little of the way towards explaining his methods as first mate.

“But…you’re sure?” Stede says. “The crew will get the message? They’ll be there?”

“Your friend is rather rude,” says Shio to Izzy, who snorts.

“I meant no offence—” Stede tries to explain.

“Shut up, Bonnet,” Izzy says. It takes a moment for Stede to get over the unfairness—telling someone to shut up is surely ruder than asking for clarification on an important step of an escape plan—but he doesn’t want to sour the atmosphere at the table even further by bringing it up. Not when he’s going to have to ask Shio to pass him the raspberries any moment now.

“There’s a passage,” Izzy says, only once his coffee’s down to its dregs, “under the house. That’s how we’ll get out of the Republic. From there, it’s a few miles to the cove. All goes well, we’ll be back by lunch.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Ed says, toasting them all with his teacup.

 

---

 

They are back by lunch, but it’s a close thing. Stede appreciates the underground tunnels on a theatrical level, but he can’t purport to be their biggest fans once he’s actually inside and crawling in the dirt, his face inches from Izzy’s backside while Ed snickers behind him.

Then, once they’re out of Nassau proper, Izzy holds a passer-by at knifepoint for looking at them the wrong way; Stede insists, using his best captain-voice, that Izzy let him go—and Izzy actually does, only for Ed to step in and mention that he’d seen the guy last night, skulking around outside Jackie’s.

They let him go with a light maim, in the end.

“Not like you could have known,” Ed says to Stede with a shrug, wiping the blood off Izzy’s knife and handing it back to him. “You were a bit out of it last night, mate.”

Stede continues to stammer out apologies, though, until Izzy stops dead in his tracks and threatens to cut off Stede’s thumbs if he doesn’t stop talking.

For some reason, it makes Stede smile.

“You wouldn’t,” he says, cheerful.

“I—” Izzy shuts his mouth, his teeth clicking together. “You don’t know that.”

“Think he does, actually,” Ed says. “Face it, Iz, you’re not as scary as you used to be.”

Izzy scowls. “Neither are you.”

Ed actually cuts a rather intimidating figure with another man’s blood splattered up his arms—but, then, Stede hadn’t known him before. Maybe he used to cut off the whole hand, rather than just the thumbs.

“Nah,” Ed says, slinging an arm around Izzy’s shoulders. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Izzy makes an affronted noise, his shoulders rolling under Ed’s arm—a token protest, if the way he settles into Ed’s stride right afterwards is anything to go by. Stede doesn’t know what exactly to make of the way they fall into step together: watching Ed and Izzy behave casually with one another is simply too rare for him to have a frame of reference handy.

“’m not nice,” Izzy says after a pause.

“I don’t think anyone’s accused you of that,” Stede puts in.

“Yeah, you’re terrible,” Ed grins. “Good to have around in a pinch, though. We close to this mysterious cove yet?”

“Almost,” Izzy says. He ducks out from under Ed’s arm. “We need to hurry up.”

From there, they make it to the cove without incident (Stede struggles with climbing down the rocky embankment, but he thinks anyone would) and, as if by magic, are greeted there by Fang, Ivan, and Frenchie.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Stede says.

“What happened, boss?” Ivan asks Izzy.

Izzy sets his jaw and starts stomping over the white-gold sand towards the ship’s boat. “I would rather,” he says, “not talk about it. Can we fuck off back to the ship, now?”

Frenchie smiles, swinging his lute around. “Want me to play you something?” he asks. “Might make you feel better.”

“You just want to get out of rowing,” Izzy says.

“Uh, yeah, rowing sucks. What about the one with the bit about the lonely monster? You like that one.”

Izzy sighs, as though extremely put upon. “Fine,” he says. “But wait until we’re underway. I don’t want your squawking getting us caught.”

The boat’s a tight squeeze once they’re in it, which leads to a bit of grumbling from Izzy about how only Fang and Ivan needed to come—but the actual journey back to the ship doesn’t take too long, and Frenchie’s songs make for a welcome diversion.

“Would you like to join us?” Stede asks Izzy, once they’ve made the ascent and are back on the deck of the Revenge. “For lunch?”

Izzy looks between him and Ed with an unreadable expression. “I’ve got four more days before I’m s’posed to eat with you again,” he says.

“Oh,” Stede says, feeling bizarrely disappointed. It’s perfectly natural that Izzy should want some time to himself, and that he’d still see the weekly dinners as a chore. “Well, that’s alright, then. Make sure you get Roach to make you something; we’ve had a difficult morning.”

Izzy leaves, then, without so much as a tetchy comment about how the morning must have been especially difficult for some people. Watching him go, Stede experiences the sensation of trying to stay upright on choppy waters—but when he looks over the side of the Revenge, the sea is just as placid as it’s been all morning.

 

---

 

Lunch ends up being a picnic on the deck with the rest of the crew, all of whom are desperate to know about Stede and Ed’s adventure.

They take turns with the telling. The tale flows easily, their styles of narrativizing different but complementary, if the crew’s appreciative gasps, chuckles, and claps are anything to go by—and by the time they’ve reached the end of the tale everyone is bursting with feedback.

“Was the safehouse lady a witch?” asks Frenchie.

“Aye, to be sure,” Buttons says, with a significant look. “Explains the lavender.”

“How, exactly?” Stede asks.

“For protection,” Buttons explains. “Mark of a good safehouse, there, Cap’n. Not enough of ’em up to snuff, in my experience.”

“Plus, the note just sort of appeared,” contributes Ivan. “Didn’t it, Fang?”

“Always does,” Fang says, nodding sagely.

“I’m sorry,” Lucius bursts out, “are we just going to ignore the fact that Iggy slept with Stede?”

“Well—” Stede says, feeling himself go red. He’d only said that Izzy and Ed had taken turns with the watch, but he shouldn’t be surprised that Lucius has managed to fill in the blank. “It was a—large bed, and nothing untoward—”

Lucius cackles with laughter. “Bet he loved that.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t have been his first choice—”

“Really,” Lucius says, with a significant look at Ed.

“—but we got on alright! Right, darling?”

“Hm?” Ed says, blinking innocently. “You mean, you don’t want me to tell ’em about the cuddling?”

“Oh, hush, there was no cuddling,” Stede says.

“There wasn’t,” Ed confirms. “Would’ve been cute, though.”

Stede wonders if it’s possible for a blush to quite literally reach his toes.

“I must request that you don't tease poor Izzy about this,” he says in a strangled sort of voice. “He was—really rather heroic, actually! I can’t guarantee your captains would still be here without him.”

Lucius covers his mouth with a hand, but his eyes still manage to make Stede feel as though he’s being dreadfully obvious about…something or other.

“Dunno if I trust him as much anymore, actually,” Frenchie says, “seeing as how he’s friends with a witch. Did she have a cat?”

“Um,” Stede says. “Not that I saw?”

Frenchie frowns. “S’pose that’s alright, then.”

 

---

 

After the questions have died out, Ed announces his desire for a nap and starts pulling Stede down to the captains’ cabin while the rest of the crew whistle behind them, clearly imagining that they’re heading for some sort of tryst.

“Poor Izzy?” Ed inquires, once they’re out of earshot.

Stede throws his hands up. “Sometimes they give him a rough time!” he says. “Not that—I’m sure he brings a lot of it on himself, but can you imagine if rumours started to spread about the bed situation?”

“Can, actually,” Ed says. “He’d kill whoever brought it up, then some others to make sure everyone got the message.”

“Oh,” Stede squeaks, “surely not.”

“Maybe not these days,” Ed says consideringly. They’re in the cabin, now, the door swinging shut behind them. “He’s mellowed a bit.”

Stede genuinely tries to imagine a version of Izzy more highly-strung than the one he knows, and feels his eyes going wide with the horror of it.

Ed continues: “He, uh—he did, actually. Kill some people, once, for spreading rumours about me and him. So we should, yeah, probably keep an eye on that.”

Fighting to keep his expression neutral, Stede chews at the inside of his mouth.

“Sorry if that’s—a lot,” Ed says.

“No, no.” Stede sits down on the couch; his legs feel rather wobbly all of a sudden. “It’s just—goodness. You weren’t joking when you said he’d killed people for you.”

“That one wasn’t really for me,” Ed says, scratching at his beard thoughtfully. He takes his place on the other side of the settee, swinging his legs up so they rest over Stede’s thighs. “Though, come to think of it, I’m not actually sure. It’d be just like him to be more worried about Blackbeard’s reputation than his own. Shit. Guess that really was why he stopped—” He breaks off, sounding guilty.

Stede makes an encouraging noise.

“Our—thing.” Ed waves a not-particularly-illuminating hand. “Ended after that.”

“Ah,” Stede says, nodding, “I see.”

“Always thought he was just, you know,” Ed says. “Being a bitch about it.”

Stede purses his lips, but chooses not to express further disapproval. Ed isn’t saying that’s how he feels now, after all.

“Poor Izzy,” he says instead, meaning it fervently this time.

Ed tips his head back against the arm of the settee, making a sound that might be agreement. After a long pause, he says: “There’s something I need to talk to you about, actually. I’ll give you three guesses who it’s to do with.”

“What about him?”

“You’re no fun.” Ed looks up, pouting. “Y’know last night?”

“I’m…aware of it,” Stede says, feeling abruptly nervous.

“Things got a little—I let ’em get—out of hand. Not your fault.” Ed swallows. “You didn’t know.”

“I still don’t know,” Stede points out.

“What you did—I know you didn’t mean anything by it. But with Iz, what you’ve gotta understand is that there’re different types of orders,” Ed explains. “And sometimes it can get pretty hard to tell where the line is, but. Yeah. Last night we went pretty far over.”

“Ah,” Stede says, his brain ticking as uselessly as an unwound pocket watch. “He’s not angry, is he?”

“No,” Ed says, then amends: “Probably not. He was a bit tetchy when I woke him up, but I think he’s over it.”

“Then…?”

It seems to Stede as though he watches Ed march right up to the point and then decide, at the last second, to continue skirting around it.

“It can get weird pretty easy, since we’re his captains, and that means there’s times when we’re going to be telling him what to do,” Ed says. “Can’t avoid it. But there are orders that have to do with running the ship, and all that shit, and then there’s—the other stuff. Like, last night, was it Izzy’s captains giving the orders? Or Ed and Stede?”

Stede considers. “Hm…Ed and Stede, I suppose. If we’re discounting the fact that he really does need to get some sleep if he’s going to work at his best.”

“Yeah, we’ll go ahead and discount that for now,” Ed says, his eyes twinkling.

“I’m afraid I still fail to see the significance of the distinction,” Stede says. He rubs his thumb over the knob of bone on Ed’s ankle encouragingly.

Ed sighs. “He likes it.”

“Well, yes,” Stede responds, remembering the way Izzy’s eyes had changed—had softened—after he’d issued that first command. “I had noticed.”

“You had?”

“It calms him,” says Stede, only for Ed to laugh, his whole body shaking with it.

“Sort of. But I meant—fuck, Stede, it turns him on.”

“Oh!” Stede claps a hand over his mouth. “No…”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

Stede’s heart thumps wildly; his forehead breaks out in a sweat. “But—I’m me!” he protests.

“You are,” Ed says. The same wry amusement from the previous night is back, playing at the corners of his mouth. He looks gorgeously smug. “Wouldn’t have you any other way, mate.”

“But you’re sure he—even when it’s me? Couldn’t it just have been—well, you were there, too.”

“Meaning?”

Stede rolls his eyes. “You’re quite aware of the effect you have on him, Ed, there’s no need to be coy. Especially when we’re talking about—feelings of a certain nature.”

“It wasn’t me,” Ed says. Then he adds: “It wasn’t just me.”

“Gosh,” says Stede. “Just a few days ago he was saying he hated me.”

“I mean,” Ed says, “I still wouldn’t say he’s your biggest fan.”

“No, of course not.”

“But…”

“I turned him on,” Stede says, rolling the phrase around in his mouth. It tastes decadent, like a piece of chocolate cake so rich you have to stop after only a few bites.

He looks over at Ed. It could be the way the sun’s starting to make its afternoon descent, light spilling into the cabin, but Stede thinks he sees his pupils dilate.

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Think so.”

Stede gulps in a breath. He wants to go and get some water, but he also can’t contemplate getting up. The moment feels fragile, as though any sudden movement will send them back to the world Stede knows and understands. And—he’s not quite sure he wants to return to that world, not just yet.

“So,” he says briskly, “it would be the same with anyone giving him orders, then? He’s not…picky?”

“He’s the pickiest little bugger I’ve ever met,” Ed replies.

He can’t possibly mean what it sounds like he means, Stede thinks. That Stede is special in some way. There’s no way—Izzy—about him. It’s akin to finding out that Olivia the Seagull is harbouring carnal feelings for Calico Jack. Or vice versa, since Stede would really rather not be Jack in this, or any, scenario.

Stede’s throat is very, very dry. “And last night—he—?”

Ed’s reply is quiet, his face difficult to read. “Wanted you to fuck him.”

Stede feels the words go through him like a jolt. He feels as though his mind is a ship being tossed by a storm. Each thought is a wave slamming into him, spinning him helplessly in every direction.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Because that’s the important thing, surely. Stede needn’t think about how it affects him, because it’s not like he’s ever been in any sort of relationship with Izzy. Attraction, after all, is easy to choose not to act on: Stede had been managing just fine with that his entire life, before Ed came along.

But whatever’s between Ed and Izzy is messier than all that. Stede’s not so blind that he can’t see that there’s something there, still; something not entirely of Izzy’s creation.

After a long pause, Ed replies. “It’s never been anyone except me before.”

Something about the way he says it—the ache in his voice—

“Are you…jealous?” Stede asks. “Of me?”

Ed sits up. His expression is so intense that it almost resembles anger—but Stede thinks he knows better. In the next moment, Ed’s launching into movement: swinging around and getting his knees around Stede’s thighs, straddling him.

“Shouldn’t be,” he says, dipping his face to hide it in Stede’s neck.

“I didn’t ask if you should—”

“He’s meant to be—” And Ed cuts himself off, his breath loud and close to Stede’s ear.

“Is he,” Stede murmurs, running his hands soothingly up and down Ed’s thighs, “meant to be yours?”

Ed shudders, and his hips roll into Stede’s stomach, and—oh. There he is.

At once, Ed stills, and he gasps out a horrified little breath.

“That’s okay,” Stede says, his heart hammering. “It’s fine, dearheart. I’m not angry.”

“You should be,” Ed insists. He tenses as if to move away, but Stede holds him firmly by the hips. “It happened—I did it—at your dinner, too, right in front of you—”

Stede’s mind flashes to the night in question. He thinks of Ed telling Izzy to finish his drink, followed by Izzy’s panicked flight, and a few things start clicking into place—chief among them the way Stede’s blood had quickened, watching them. It hadn’t made sense at the time. Now, he feels quite the fool.

“I’m not upset about any of it,” Stede reiterates, trying to project a calmness he doesn’t feel. If he’s asked to absorb any more information today, actually, he thinks he may explode. But that isn’t what Ed needs from him; this is a situation requiring a delicate touch. “He obeyed you wonderfully that night, didn’t he?”

Ed makes a sound a little bit like a whimper.

“You were on this couch, weren’t you? And he—” Stede almost gasps, thinking about Izzy sat there, wanting, and holding himself back. “He got worked up. Is that what happened?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, voice unsteady. “I hadn’t—for a while—and he—”

“Shh,” Stede says, slipping his hands underneath Ed’s jacket and shirt to hold his waist. “It’s okay. It’s okay that you wanted him to be good for you.”

“Oh, fuck—”

“I must confess that I see the appeal,” Stede murmurs, thinking back to last night: Izzy shedding his clothes on Stede’s order. It feels absurd, at this point, but it really hadn’t seemed sexual at the time. “He follows direction so well, once you get past all the brittleness.”

“Yeah,” Ed agrees breathlessly. His hips have started moving again, seeking out friction.

“You know, I couldn’t have done it without you, yesterday,” Stede continues. “He wouldn’t have listened to me alone. That was the beauty of it.”

“The beauty?”

“Mm,” Stede says. “He was, wasn’t he? Your Izzy.”

“Fuck,” Ed hisses through his teeth. “Fuck, Stede, what’re you—?”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare.” And there are Ed’s lips, soft on his neck, almost as though waiting for permission. Stede tilts his head to the side, allowing for better access, and Ed licks his way up to Stede’s jaw, sucking on the spots that he knows, by now, are most sensitive.

“Ed, Ed, that’s lovely,” Stede says, one of his hands drifting to Ed’s hair. He’d be lying if he said his head wasn’t still spinning, but he can’t bring himself to worry, not truly, when he’s got Ed in his arms like this. “I love you so much,” Stede says. And then, knowing very well that he’s testing the very limits of this experiment: “So does your Izzy.”

Ed makes a muffled noise, and then he’s pulling away to say, “Fuck me, Stede, please—”

“Yes, of course,” Stede says, half the blood in his body pulsing in the direction of his cock. “Shall we move to the bed?”

Ed lets out a whine of disapproval, but then he shakes his head and it seems to clear. “Yeah, we should,” he says, “yeah.”

Stede cups his face before he gets up, leaning in to kiss him properly. There’s desperation in it, but there’s sweetness, too, Ed going almost pliant in his hold.

“Lovely,” Stede says again, pressing the lightest of kisses to the tip of Ed’s nose. “Up you get, then.”

The noise Ed makes in response to that seems rather extreme, until Stede recalls the way he’d spoken to Izzy the night before. He hesitates—in this fantasy, it’s hard to tell whether Ed wants Izzy or wants to be Izzy, and Stede doubts he’ll gain a useable answer if he asks. Perhaps it’s both, and Stede will simply have to find a way to incorporate the contradiction of that.

“Come on,” he says. “On the bed.”

Ed does as he’s bid. The way he follows instruction is remarkably different from Izzy—far from calming him, it only seems to rile him up. He shifts restlessly in the bedclothes once he’s there, tugging at his own clothes in an artless attempt to get them off as quickly as he can. Stede can’t help but smile devotedly down at him; he’s never experienced love—or lust—like this, and sometimes it still threatens to overwhelm his heart.

“Would you like some help, dear?” he asks.

“You’re such a dick sometimes,” Ed says, but the look in his eyes matches Stede’s, and Stede knows it isn’t a real complaint. Still—

“That’s not very nice,” he says, setting his hands to Ed’s boots and pulling them off. “Oh, that was one of your orders for Izzy, wasn’t it? To be nice? Not sure if we can truly say he’s followed it—but perhaps he’s doing his best.”

“He is,” Ed gasps out.

“Yes, that seems right,” Stede says. “I do wonder what else we could tell him to do.”

Ed manages to wrestle his trousers off, and with that he’s naked, propped up on his elbows and waiting for Stede’s next move.

Stede considers it, reaching for the oil they keep by the side of the bed and rolling the jar in his palm. He could drop the subject of Izzy entirely from here—and perhaps it would be for the best, strictly speaking—or he could keep using it to work Ed up.

Put like that, it isn’t really a choice.

“Did he ever fuck you?” Stede asks.

“Stede…” Ed whines, splaying his legs further apart.

“Really,” Stede says. “I’m curious.” And he is—to say nothing of the way he’s breathlessly, hopelessly aroused. “If you tell me, sweet, I’ll let you have my fingers.”

Ed’s eyes are like molten obsidian. “A few—few times,” he says. “Usually did it the other way.”

“I can imagine,” Stede says, and then tamps down on that thought before he spills in his trousers. “Was he good for you?”

As he speaks, he coats a finger with oil and begins dragging the tip of it over the tight furl of Ed’s entrance, teasing him. The sound Ed makes is equal parts loud and desperate, and Stede rather fancies he could be heard from any number of other locations on the ship: the kitchen, perhaps, or somebody else’s cabin.

“Ed?” Stede prompts, affecting sternness. He’s not sure what’s come over him: he only knows that the way Ed’s responding to him is addictive, from the sweat shimmering over his exposed skin to the straining weight of his hardness, all coalescing to make him as irresistible as Stede’s ever seen him.

They’ve never done it quite like this before. There’s never been any sort of powerplay, and conversation in the heat of passion has consisted primarily of endearments, professions of love, and a few awkward asides to crack the tension. These are uncharted waters, as dangerous as they are exciting.

“He was…” Ed gulps in a breath. “He’d do whatever I told him.”

“Would he?” Stede says gently, cupping his free hand around Ed’s face. Ed nuzzles into the touch gratefully. “Just tell me about one time, darling. Then I’ll give you what you want.” 

“You’re kind of—a bastard,” Ed says, rocking his hips without success. Stede finds himself smiling widely at the sight. “Fine, I’ll—there was this one time he got laid up, can’t remember why. They were always handing out punishments in those days, could’ve been that.”

“Mm?” Stede encourages, trailing his fingers up the length of Ed’s cock in reward for his candour. It twitches beautifully in response.

“Only went in his room to sneak him some food or something,” Ed says, shutting his eyes. “But I could tell—he used to get this look—and so I—” He takes his lip between his teeth, worrying it before he releases it with a heave of a breath. “I ordered him to stay completely still for me.”

“Oh,” Stede gasps, pressing a finger into Ed more quickly than he intends. Ed rolls his whole body into it, his dick jerking wetly against his stomach. Stede can feel his own length throbbing in the confines of his trousers.

He can’t help but picture it: a younger Izzy, wearing that same devoted—almost pained—look he sometimes gets around Edward, lying still as a statue in his bed, waiting for whatever Ed chose to give him.

“What did he look like?” Stede asks.

Ed grins is wicked, if a little dazed. “You asking about his dick?”

Stede flushes, and thrusts his finger meanly to cover for it, making Ed’s eyes roll back. “So what if I am? I’m allowed, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Yeah, it’s—he’s uncut, like you. Nice and thick—” Stede brings him up to a second finger on the word thick, and Ed makes a high-pitched sound. “—god, Stede, I wanted it for ages. Little bastard never even let me suck him off.”

“Poor darling,” Stede says, referring quite equally to both of them. A life without experiencing the pleasures of Ed’s mouth certainly doesn’t bear thinking about, but Stede’s also come to rather enjoy delivering a good cocksucking (after a few false starts). “What happened after you told him to stay still?”

“I got him inside me, and—fuck, Stede—he wanted to move so bad.”

“I can imagine,” Stede manages to say. The steadiness has abandoned his voice; he now sounds almost as wrecked as Ed.

“But he didn’t,” Ed tells him, quiet, as though it’s a close-guarded secret. “He lay there, and he took it, and even when he came he managed to hold himself there for me—fucking hell—” The last because Stede has three fingers in him, now, rolling his wrist gently.

“That must have been hard for him,” Stede comments. His voice is so rough that he barely recognises it.

“He even stayed still ’til I—I was just using him—fucking hell—”

And then Stede has the distinct pleasure of watching Ed fall utterly apart, his cock spurting up his belly and chest more or less untouched. He tenses around Stede’s fingers before his body goes lax, drained.

Before he’s even got his breath back, Ed’s raising his head to say, “You should still fuck me.”

“Are you sure?” Stede asks. He trails his fingers through the mess of Ed’s release, relishing in the way it makes him shiver.

“Still want it,” Ed replies. “C’mon, please, I’ve been—”

He cuts himself off.

“You’ve been very good,” Stede confirms, finally opening his trousers and slicking himself up. Ed makes a low, contended noise—either in response to the praise or to the feel of Stede pushing in, in, until he’s sheathed in the clutch of Ed’s body. “Finish your story, now.”

Ed sighs out a moan, and Stede begins to move. He knows he won’t last long; he can already feel the coil of heat in his abdomen that warns him release is near.

“That was pretty much it,” Ed says. “He started crying, after. That used to happen sometimes.” His voice drops even quieter, guilt wrapping around his next words. “I liked it.”

Stede tilts his head. “When you say he was crying,” he murmurs, “do you mean like you’re doing now?”

Ed looks up at him, confused, and Stede bends down to kiss the tears at the corners of his eyes, one by one. Ed raises a hand to trace the tear track from his right eye down his temple. “Didn’t even notice,” he says wonderingly.

“Are they bad tears?” Stede asks, slowing down just in case, though it pains him to do so.

“Fuck no.”

“That’s alright, then,” Stede says, punctuating the statement with a slightly rougher thrust. Ed sighs happily, one leg coming up to wrap around Stede’s hip.

“Guess so.”

Stede goes on—though he doesn’t want to speak on Izzy’s behalf, it feels more important to ease Ed’s mind: “I’m sure they were nice tears for Izzy, too. It doesn’t seem like he gets a lot of opportunities to have a good cry.”

“Prob’ly not,” Ed slurs.

“Nothing to worry about, then,” Stede says. He bends down, almost folding Ed over in the process, and kisses him. Ed responds in kind, though he’s still languid with orgasm, his mouth lush and lazy.

They kiss like that, wet, deep, until Stede finds his release, emptying himself into Ed with a cry.

In the aftermath, both of them collapse to the bed, spent. Stede is still wearing the disgusting clothes from their adventure, stained even worse than before by a combination of sweat and semen. He divests himself of the shirt and lies back down, willing his heart to slow from the wild pace their coupling has set.

“Didn’t expect that,” Ed says, yawning. He’s always tired after he comes, and today is no exception; when Stede glances over, Ed seems close to sleep already, heedless of the spend drying on his torso. Stede, on the other hand, doubts he’ll be sleeping any time soon.

“I’ll get something to clean you up,” he says, earning a vague sound of affirmation in response.

Stede gets shakily to his feet. He’s not unused to feeling a little out of sorts after sex. He loves Ed, and all that they do together, but the voice of his father lives on in his mind, offering snide recriminations about the love between two men, and Stede isn’t always able to ignore him.

Today is no different—except for all the ways it is.

Stede manages to make his way to the bathroom, where he clothes himself in a clean robe and sits on the edge of the tub, putting his head in his hands. He’s playing with fire, here—worse than that: he’s playing with Izzy Hands. What had seemed hopelessly arousing only minutes before now seems, frankly, terrifying. If Izzy had heard even a fraction of what they’d said in there—Stede shudders. Izzy may have—lustful feelings for him, but Stede highly doubts that would stop him from cutting out Stede’s tongue, given the right provocation.  

He pushes the panic aside. That, back there, had been about Ed. If he can just keep thinking about Ed, and not himself—or Izzy—things will be quite alright.

With that in mind, he dampens a cloth in the basin and heads back to the main room, where Ed is now—surprisingly—sat up and waiting for him. The lethargy of orgasm seems to have abandoned him; his eyes have gone sharp once more.

They stare at each other for a long while, a swath of space in between them.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Ed says finally. “Sometimes people say some fucked up shit during sex, mate, ’s just how it goes.”

Stede wonders if the ‘fucked up shit’, in this instance, refers to Izzy.

Something about that is wrong, deeply so, but if Stede forces a discussion about everything that’s just occurred, he’s not sure he’ll be able to cope. The things he’d said; the things Ed had said…

It’s one thing, he’s realising, to be fine with Izzy being quietly in love with Ed. Contemplating things the other way round, or in whatever strange triangular shape Stede has managed to twist them into, creates a rock in the pit of his stomach, too heavy to carry. What Ed feels for Izzy: it may be different to what he feels for Stede, clearly so, but that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous.

Besides—the sooner they restrict this tryst to the safety of memory, the sooner Stede can come around to the idea of ever looking Izzy in the eye again.

He supposes, at heart, he’s always been a coward.

“Alright,” he says, and approaches the bed to wash Ed clean.

Notes:

big shoutout to all the top!izzy tweets that blatantly influenced this chapter! also, i'm so sorry

if you want more angst, i wrote about young izzy in the aftermath of the scene ed describes here

Chapter 9

Notes:

working hard to get time to pass in this fic. this chapter covers three and a half days, which is about the same as the last five chapters combined

The next few days pass in a blur of avoiding the subject.

Stede spends the remainder of Monday afternoon with his head in his copy of As You Like It, scarcely taking in a word of it. He feels unbearably conscious of Ed’s presence in the room—of his silence.

After a strained, quiet dinner, Ed puts himself on the last dog watch and disappears in short order, leaving Stede to a private crisis in the bath followed by a subpar bedtime story for the crew.

He can’t help but think bitterly about how it had seemed, after he and Ed had reunited, that he’d had everything figured out. He had his crew, and his ship, and the love of his life: there was nothing else to come to terms with, no emotional obstacle in his way. He should have realised that fate has rarely been so kind to him.

That night, he and Ed lie beside each other as they always do. Stede has had the sheets changed since their afternoon activities, and everything feels new and fresh beneath them. He closes his eyes, listens to the undulation of Ed’s breathing, and tries very hard not to think about anything else.

 

---

 

Tuesday morning is worse. Seconds after Stede steps out on deck, a cup of tea in hand, whatever faith he’d had in his own ability to act natural disintegrates. Izzy is there. He seems every inch his usual self, storming around finding fault with how the ship had been run in the twenty-four hours of his absence, and Stede finds himself diving for cover behind the mainmast at the mere sight of him. Intellectually, Stede knows that nothing about Izzy’s appearance has changed since yesterday, besides the fact that he’s rid himself of the layer of dirt bestowed by their island excursion, but Stede feels hyperaware of all the skin-hugging leather—not to mention the fact that Izzy’s ring is back in its usual place, which means that Ed must have sought him out last night, after—

After.

Stede stands with his back pressed to the mainmast and his teacup trembling in his hand, his intestines tying themselves into a knot that—unlike most of his efforts to date—would do Izzy proud.

Of course, it isn’t long before he’s discovered. Izzy is nothing if not thorough.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks—a little rude, though no worse than Stede has come to expect of him.

“Everything’s fine!” Stede chirps, avoiding Izzy’s eye. “Just…inspecting the mast, here. Making sure it’s in working order. Tip-top condition, I’d say. Very well done.”

Izzy frowns at him. “Yeah. Weren’t you the one who had it made out of the strongest wood known to man, or whatever?”

“Right! Yes! Well done me, then. Excellent…mast picking.”

Izzy’s frown slips into a concerned squint. “You hit your head or something?” he asks, which is terrible. Izzy should be calling him an imbecile by now. How, and why, has Stede created a world in which Izzy is not calling him an imbecile right now?

“Nope!”

Izzy sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Stede squeaks, and then he wishes, rather fervently, that Izzy would stab him again. They’re in roughly the right position for it to be nostalgic.

“Right,” Izzy says. “That’s—yeah. Whatever. Come find me if you need me, Captain.”

At that, Stede’s heart starts beating so fast it makes him feel dizzy. He puts a hand on the mast for support. “Will do,” he manages.

Izzy studies him critically for a few more interminable seconds, and then he takes his leave. Stede breathes a sigh of relief—right before he notices the Swede, watching curiously from a nearby barrel, and hears a combination of Pete and Lucius’ laughter from the maintop above.

 

---

 

He and Ed take lunch together, which should be a welcome return to normalcy, if only Stede would let it. But the very moment they’re both sat down, he launches into a nervous bombardment of questions about ship maintenance. It’s a desperate attempt not to talk about Izzy—and, what’s worse, it doesn’t even work.

After the third time Ed responds to one of his queries with, “I dunno, Izzy normally takes care of that,” Stede switches to asking about weather patterns and navigation, knowing as he does that Ed’s expertise far exceeds Izzy’s on those topics.

Ed answers his questions with admirable thoroughness, though Stede doubts he’s unaware of the reason for Stede’s sudden interest. Even as they both dance around the topic, it’s there in the room with them. Stede isn’t sure whether Ed’s as eager to avoid it as he is, or whether he’s simply taking his cues from Stede—but either way, the result is the same.

“Could probably show you how to navigate by stars, later,” Ed says thoughtfully, picking at his scone. “It’s a good night for it.”

“Ooh, Ed, how romantic,” Stede says, a genuine thrill running through him at the prospect. “But I don’t know if I’ll have time—I hear Frenchie’s swordfighting lessons are starting up again.”

“You’re still planning on going?”

There follow several seconds of silence, during which Stede devours a jam tart.

“I suppose I don’t have to,” he says, when all that’s left are crumbs, sticky fingers, and a vague feeling of guilt. “It’s been a good morale booster for the crew—but I can be along for the story afterwards.”

“You can,” Ed confirms.

“And we needn’t even worry about Izzy injuring anyone, at this point.”

“We can leave him unsupervised and everything.”

“Right,” Stede says around the lump in his throat. “Well. That’s settled, then.”

 

---

 

He has Roach put together a romantic picnic for two, and then lets Frenchie know that he and Ed will be otherwise engaged during the evening’s lesson. Neither seems thrilled with him.

“Just the two of you?” Roach asks, raising an eyebrow at the wicker basket Stede sets in front of him.

“Of course!” Stede says, chuckling nervously. “I know the crew rather relies on its captains, but sometimes we really must spend some quality time with one another.”

“Yeah,” Roach says slowly, “sure. You do that.”

Stede leaves the galley shortly thereafter, shaken both by Roach’s attitude and the fact that they’re apparently running low on red wine—so low that he and Ed only have the one bottle to split between them. They haven’t replenished their stock of brandy, either, and Stede had been saving the white wine for—well, it doesn’t matter what he was saving it for. He supposes there’s always rum, but that doesn’t really fit with the picnic under the stars vibe.

And after that uncomfortable exchange there’s Frenchie, sounding confused: “But you always watch us.”

“It’s only been a week and a half,” Stede points out. “I’d hardly call my presence a tradition, or anything.”

“Yeah, but you called the bedtime stories a tradition after one night.”

“Well,” Stede says, “that was because I had every intention of making them so! This is different.”

“Clearly,” Frenchie says, sounding rather put out. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“You’ve got a date with Captain Edward tonight, I get it. But will you be back tomorrow?”

Stede thinks about what that would entail: standing and watching Izzy demonstrate his swordsmanship for hours on end, the way he’s done for ten lessons now. And then he thinks about the look on Ed’s face when he’d been—reminiscing, and his gut clenches.

“We’ll see,” he says, unconvincingly, and makes his escape to the captains’ quarters.

 

---

 

That night, Stede does his best to stay focused. The deep blue sky is vast and beautiful above them, given meaning by Ed’s formidable knowledge of each star, and yet only a fraction of Stede’s attention is there on the mizzentop. His mind keeps straying, inexorably, to the sounds coming from the main deck.

Every time he hears Izzy’s voice, shame rears its head once more.

Izzy does seem to be on exemplary form tonight, if the crew’s groans are anything to go by. Their casting of Izzy as the villain during the swordfighting lessons seems mostly good-natured, so Stede hasn’t discouraged it—but he’s always made sure to cheer for Izzy and Frenchie equally, as an observer.

“What did I fucking tell you about your stance?” he hears Izzy saying—and he wishes he was close enough to see Izzy’s face. Izzy always speaks with the same crudeness; in Stede’s experience, meaning is far better derived from the nuances of his facial expressions and body language. There’s a way his shoulders relax when you get him in the right mood, Stede’s noticed, and it changes every inch of his posture, making him seem almost approachable. He wonders if he’s stood like that now, or whether he’s—

Stede gulps down his second glass of wine, cursing himself for his inattention. Ed pauses midway through telling him about the two constellations that—in Ed’s opinion—look like they’re fighting each other.

“I’m sorry,” Stede says with feeling. “I’ve only read about the composition of the night sky in books—the practical application is more difficult than I’d—”

“You’re fine,” Ed says easily, reaching for his hand and squeezing. “Not expecting you to learn all of it tonight, or anything.”

“Thank goodness,” Stede says. He looks over at Ed and—for the first time all night—concentrates solely on him.

He’s always so beautiful in the moonlight, and tonight is no exception: in the dark, his eyes seem far brighter than the stars he’s trying to teach Stede to remember. Stede’s banyan rolls loosely over his shoulders, revealing the planes of inked, scarred skin beneath. He’s all Stede has ever wanted.

“Perhaps we should keep doing this,” Stede says, “until I learn.”

“Mm. I’d like that.” Ed tips his head onto Stede’s shoulder. “Tell me you at least know where the guide star is.”

“Polaris?”

“Doesn’t matter what you call it,” Ed says. “Point it out for me.”

“Er,” Stede says, scanning the dark blanket of sky above. 

Ed laughs gently. “Find the saucepan, remember? Once you’ve got that, you just hop on up to the bright bugger.”

“Yes,” Stede says, “right. The…saucepan.”

He stares fruitlessly at the heavens.

Ed’s laugh, this time, is louder. “You’re worse than—” He breaks off, suddenly, with a cough. “Worse than anyone I’ve ever taught.”

“Have you had many students, then?”

“Only a couple,” Ed says. “Here. I’ll point it out for you again.”

 

---

 

By the time Stede climbs down to deliver the bedtime story, Izzy is gone. And while it’s clearly for the best, Stede can’t do anything about the pang of disappointment his absence induces.

Afterwards, he takes Frenchie aside. “It all went well, then?”

“Eh,” Frenchie says. “I keep asking him to teach me how to do that shirt cutting thing Oluwande told me about, but Izzy says it’s a waste of a shirt.”

“It was a waste of a shirt,” Stede grumbles. Between Izzy and Ed’s destructive tendencies, it’s a wonder he has any clothes left at all.

“Bet it looks cool, though.”

“It’s…certainly a good way to show off,” Stede says. He does remember being impressed, though any admiration had been suppressed once he’d realised what a huge arsehole Izzy was. Is. “I imagine he’ll be wanting you to get the basics out of the way before he moves on to anything that advanced.”

“Yeah,” Frenchie says. “He’s a good teacher, actually. Once you get past all the yelling.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Stede says diplomatically. “I’ll—try to be back, tomorrow. But you know how captaining is: busy, busy, busy.”

The look Frenchie gives him is, Stede thinks, unduly sceptical. He takes it on the chin and wishes Frenchie a good night before he turns to where Ed is waiting for him.

“I might stay out here,” Ed says. “Haven’t been on midwatch for a while.”

“Oh,” Stede says, feeling a peculiar mix of disappointment and relief. He’d been all too aware of the natural conclusion to a romantic date under the stars, and nerves had flooded him at the thought of being with Ed like that again, so soon after— “Buttons usually has it well in hand.”

“Bet he does,” Ed says with a smile. “Maybe I want a turn basking in moonglow.”

His Scottish accent is a sight worse than his northern one, but Stede laughs all the same.

“I can’t imagine the crew would object to your doing that.”

Ed winks, grinning impishly. “Better not. Only you get to see the goods, these days.”

It’s almost enough for Stede to pretend that nothing’s changed between them—that things can go on as they have, without a second thought for Izzy’s involvement in their lives. But then Ed’s eyes dim, and his expression turns questioning, as though he’s asking for something Stede hasn’t the first hope of giving him.

He’s not Izzy. He hasn’t had the better part of three decades to study each of Ed’s expressions, tucking them away for future reference. This is the first time Ed’s looked at him like this, and Stede doesn’t know what it means.

“Sweetheart,” he says, inadequate.

Ed’s lips quirk, and he steps forward to brush them against Stede’s. “See you in the morning,” he says.

“Goodnight,” Stede replies, briefly clenching his fist around the back of Ed’s robe before releasing him. He watches as Ed turns and approaches the bow of the ship, his hair whipped into a frenzy by the wind. As his robe billows out behind him, he looks briefly like the figurehead of a ship: bold, beautiful, and untouchable.

Stede wonders if this is how Izzy feels about him all the time.

 

---

 

On Wednesday morning, Stede wakes to find Ed beside him, snoring softly. He’s blocking Stede’s exit, which seems as convenient an excuse as any to indulge in a lie-in, putting his head back to pillow and shutting his eyes.

Unfortunately, the door chooses that moment to burst open.

“Captains,” Izzy says, reminding Stede that the door doesn’t have any choice in the matter. Anxiety seizes him; he lets out a wheezing little breath and raises his head. Izzy looks for all the world like he’s been up for hours already, and is ready to cast judgement on those without his own penchant for sleep deprivation.

Ed, meanwhile, mumbles, “make him go away,” and rolls halfway on top of Stede.

“Might this wait for a more convenient time?” Stede asks lightly. He addresses his question to the patch of wall behind Izzy, rather than the man himself.

“No,” Izzy says bluntly. “We can’t keep going around in circles while you recover from your ordeal, Bonnet. One of you needs to decide where we’re going.”

Annoyance descends on Stede as though sent from the heavens. He looks Izzy right in the eyes as he replies. “And is there a particular reason that can’t wait until after breakfast?”

“It can’t,” Izzy says stubbornly, his chin jutting up, and—

Stede’s heart jumps into his throat.

If he told Izzy to leave, made it an order, Izzy would leave. It would be easy, except for how Stede would rather parade naked in front of the entire crew than start giving Izzy orders again.

He deflates under the combined weight of Edward Teach and his own cowardice.

“Where do you suggest we go, then, Izzy?”

“I—” Izzy says, and then his mouth just keeps working, soundless.

“Really. I defer to your expertise,” Stede says. “You can have full run of the place while Ed and I—how did you put it?—recover.”

“I don’t want full run of the place,” Izzy says. “Edward—”

“Y’can do it, Iz,” Ed mumbles into Stede’s collarbone, not really sounding like he’s been listening. “Y’can do anything you set your mind to.”

Izzy looks equal parts bewildered and furious.

“Those fuckwits out there won’t listen to me,” he tries, the vein in the centre of his forehead throbbing. “So if you lazy arseholes don’t get up and do something, we’re like to sail into the path of the British by mistake, because this ship is a floating carnival of ineptitude, and your miserable excuse for captaining won’t—”

He’s not even interrupted. He just seems to run out of steam.

“Do you even care?” he asks.

“I might,” Stede temporises, “in about an hour’s time. Or whenever Ed wants to get up.”

“Never,” Ed says helpfully.

Izzy just stands there, marooned in the centre of the room, his shoulders rising and falling with his laboured breaths. Eventually, he manages to say, “Am I dismissed, Captain?”

Stede’s skin prickles unpleasantly. “If you like,” he says. He works hard to keep his voice polite. “And you’re welcome to come back in a few hours.”

Izzy looks as though Stede has struck him. It’s a reaction Stede has longed for intermittently over the time he’s known Izzy—but, at this moment, it provides less satisfaction than he’d hoped. Stede watches Izzy’s hands curl into fists, then uncurl, until without another word he turns on his heel and marches from the captains’ quarters. Stede exhales with relief.

“Th’was mean,” Ed contributes, halfway back to sleep already.

It isn’t very difficult to resist the urge to ask him what he means by that.

 

---

 

Izzy doesn’t approach them again until that evening, after Ed and Stede have eaten but before the swordfighting lesson has begun. Ed’s on the settee, smoking, while Stede piles up their plates and cutlery for collection.

Izzy hovers in the doorway of the captains’ cabin as though waiting for permission—though he’s certainly never been so inclined before.

“Was there something you wanted?” Stede asks carefully.

“Just—is it—I told Mr. Buttons to set our course for the Dutch trade route. If we play it right, get them coming out of Santo Domingo, we can nab a ship with sugar, wine, brandy—the essentials,” he adds mockingly.

“Right,” Ed says. He looks like he wants to say something else, and Izzy’s face is certainly tilted towards him, waiting.

“There,” Stede says, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Izzy’s mouth curls into a sneer. “If it was so easy, why didn’t you come up with it?”

“Delegation is an important part of leadership,” Stede says. He’s pleased by how calm he sounds—and there’s no reason Izzy would be able to hear the frenzied beating of his heart, not from all the way across the room.

“I don’t know what delegation fucking means, you ponce.” And then Izzy—oddly, given it’s clearly Stede he’s speaking to—looks at Ed.

“No, I shouldn’t have assumed,” Stede says, when it becomes clear that Ed is simply going to sit there smoking his pipe, tension radiating from his every pore. “I was simply referring to the fact that a captain can’t be expected to do everything. Sometimes decisions have to be made by those below them in the chain.”

“I know that,” Izzy says.

“Why all the kerfuffle, then?”

Izzy makes a sound in his throat that almost resembles a growl.

Then Ed speaks, his voice as level as Stede’s ever heard it: “Frenchie’ll be waiting.”

“Will he, now?” Izzy responds belligerently. He keeps staring at Ed, something strange and reckless in his countenance. It’s not quite aggression—never mind that Stede can’t imagine Izzy raising a hand to Ed—but there’s a level of antagonism there that seems geared towards something.

“Yeah,” Ed says without looking up. Nothing else.

It’s still enough to get Izzy to leave.

 

---

 

Stede makes no pretence of going out to watch Izzy and Frenchie that night, or even considering it. He stays in the cabin and asks Ed to explain the various trade routes to him, as well as how best to exploit them. In his previous life, he hadn’t had to think much about where all the stuff was coming from; most of the time, it was just there. But piracy has taught him that it’s all a lot more complicated than that, and he’s eager to move past his ignorance.

It’s easier going than it was with the stars. They find a book with maps of the West Indies inside, and Ed traces over the movements of various nations’ merchants with a confident finger, explaining as he goes the risks and rewards of intercepting each line.

“Best place to get ’em is when they’re heading back to Europe,” he says. “That’s when they’ve got the good stuff, and lots of it. Only the best for their own.”

“I see,” Stede says, nodding. “So…Izzy made the right choice, then?”

“Probably,” Ed says with a shrug. “It’ll take about six days to get that far south, if the wind’s on our side. But it’ll be nice to have brandy again.”

“God, yes,” Stede says. He’s looking forward to being able to get soundly drunk.

 

---

 

On Thursday, Stede barely leaves the cabin at all. He summons Lucius, who takes notes on all Stede has learned about the shipping routes, and then he takes a leaf out of Ed’s book and mopes around all day in a dressing gown.

It’s not like there’s anything else to do: Ed is out on deck, and their course is set, and the weather is fair and beautiful.

Only—Stede does not, as a rule, enjoy sitting and thinking. So he paces the cabin, gives himself a few good talking-tos, and reorganises both his wardrobes.

By the evening, he’s more aware than ever that he’s royally fucked this. He’s supposed to be Izzy’s captain, and he’s barely even able to look at the man. Worse—he’s Ed’s co-captain (and all that comes with that) and he hasn’t been talking things through with him. All of their conversations this week have, by Stede’s own design, involved Ed imparting information and Stede revealing as little as possible in return. Even knowing as he does that bottling everything up is a bad idea, that feelings like this will end up festering inside him if he doesn’t let them out, he can’t bring himself to talk openly with Ed—not about this.

He doesn’t want to admit that, after everything, after all his assurances, he’s jealous.

It’s only—Izzy is a real pirate, and he’d been Ed’s partner long before Stede had. He’s still Ed’s partner, Stede thinks, in many of the ways that count. If the ship ran into peril, Stede knows that Ed would go to Izzy about it first, not him. It wouldn’t even be the wrong choice, for all that it would hurt. Stede can’t compete with Izzy’s level of expertise—not when he’s still a novice in the art of pirating.

He doesn’t doubt Ed’s love for him. Even though he still can’t quite see himself as deserving of it, Ed’s devotion is as clear as day once one knows how to look. But Stede isn’t so naïve as to think that he’s the only person to ever capture Ed’s affection. And now he has to reckon with the fact that one of those other people is here and present in their lives, day after day, holding his own love close to his chest.

In truth, it had been easy to dismiss what existed between Ed and Izzy when Stede had thought of Izzy as an unpleasant nuisance in both of their lives. A few short weeks ago, he simply hadn’t seen Izzy as lovable—let alone by someone as wonderful as Ed.

But one only has to look at the evidence. Even setting aside the way Ed had spoken about Izzy during that intimate moment, the sheer desperation in his voice—for decades, Ed has kept Izzy by his side. Stede can’t help but think that, on some level, they’ve obeyed marriage vows better than Stede and Mary ever did. He doubts Izzy would even object to the promise: Wilt thou obey him, serve him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?

Maybe. But then again, on some days it seems like there’s more pain between them than affection. Some days Stede can’t help but wonder if they’d be better off sailing as far away from one another as they can get. Maybe the separation would do them good. Or perhaps it would destroy them entirely.

The more Stede thinks about it, the more he realises he doesn’t understand them at all.

Moreover, he doubts anything would be gained by sitting Ed and Izzy down and attempting to force them to explain. Izzy would rather jump off the ship than discuss the matter, Stede’s sure, and Ed would try to sweep it under the rug again, the way he’d done when Stede had first asked about his and Izzy’s dalliances: ‘Couple times. More trouble than it’s worth.’

Couple times. Stede would throw all his remaining clothes into the ocean if Ed and Izzy had gotten up to what Ed had described on time number two.

It’s all just—a lot to contend with. He doesn’t even want to start thinking about how now, after all these years of absolute fidelity, Izzy has apparently found it within himself to want someone other than Ed, and it’s Stede. Of all the cruel jokes for the universe to play.

It’s practically the stuff of one of Shakespeare’s comedies—all of them jealous of one another, for various and conflicting reasons. He just doesn’t quite see this getting resolved by pairing Izzy off with a supporting character in the final act, lovely and convenient though that would be.

 

---

 

On Friday morning, Ed sits down beside a listless Stede on the couch and says, “We can cancel.”

“Dinner?” As if they could be talking about anything else.

“It’s not like he’ll mind.”

“He won’t?” Stede asks in a strangled sort of voice. “No, of course he won’t. We should cancel—or perhaps invite another member of the crew…?”

As he’s trying to work out which crewmember would most appreciate lemon cake, the door slams open. Stede expects to see Izzy—the only person on board who tends towards such violence with inanimate objects—but, to his relief, it’s only Frenchie.

“Frenchie! Are you free for dinner?” Stede says brightly.

Frenchie’s face, already blighted by an uncommon frown, turns stormy.

“No!” he says loudly. “I’m not! Izzy is!”

“Steady on, mate,” Ed says.

“Sorry, Mr. Blackbeard, sir,” Frenchie says. It’s a bit of a faux pas—they mainly reserve the Blackbeard mantle for raids, these days, and stick with Captain Edward or Captain Teach on-ship—but Stede’s too confused to correct him. And then Frenchie looks Stede right in the face and says: “You’re fucking him up again, Captain.”

Ed stands up from the couch, but Stede pulls him back with a tap on the wrist.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says, knowing exactly what Frenchie means.

“You came back from the Republic all ‘Izzy’s so great, Izzy saved our lives’, so what happened?” Frenchie demands. Stede feels himself turning roughly the colour of a beetroot. “Why are you being all weird?”

“I’m not being weird!”

“You know neither of you's given him an order in days?” Frenchie asks.

Stede is, in fact, incredibly aware of this. He thinks about it pretty much constantly, but Frenchie doesn’t need to know that.

Frenchie isn’t done, however: “And you’ve stopped coming out to watch the swordfighting lessons, and you’re basically pretending he doesn’t exist, right up to cancelling your weird fancy dinner party thing!”

He seems genuinely upset. Stede feels awful.

“I thought you were, um, captaining him, darling?” he says without looking in Ed’s direction.

“Kind of,” Ed contributes, a bit shiftily. “I mean, he’s got the whole sugar shortage thing pretty well under control, and when I asked him about his plan—”

“You asked him?” says Lucius, appearing in the doorway like a spectre. “About his plan?”

Stede yelps. Even Ed seems a little spooked.

“Are you both idiots?” Lucius demands. It’s as sharp a tone as he’s dared to take with Ed since the attempted drowning. “Is that it? Or do you just enjoy fucking with him?”

“Hey,” Stede says, vaguely aware that he should be offended, but unable to identify any emotion beneath his mortification. “You don’t even like Izzy. You didn’t think these dinners were a good idea in the first place!”

“You made him sad,” Lucius says, sounding utterly disgusted. “He’s barely even yelling at us. It’s bringing the whole mood down.”

“Him…not yelling is bringing the mood down?” At some point, Stede is going to have to sit these people down and explain to them that yelling is not a good thing.

“I don’t know what to tell you!” Lucius throws his hands up. “Maybe you just get used to it after a while! Maybe you just—ugh—get used to him.”

“It’s not so bad, really,” Frenchie says, patting Lucius on the arm.

“It’s terrible,” Lucius says. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s skulking around like a kicked puppy, and you two need to fix your mess.”

“Ed?” Stede says. Over the past few days, Ed hasn’t been avoiding Izzy, to the best of Stede’s knowledge. Stede has been relying on just that fact to make his own actions justifiable.

Ed makes a noise both non-committal and extremely suspicious.

“You knew,” Frenchie says, pointing a finger accusingly. Then he seems to remember who he’s pointing at, and his arm slams back down to his side.

“He’s been worse,” Ed says, shrugging.

“So that’s alright then,” comes Ivan’s hard voice.

“Where do you all keep coming from?” Stede asks.

“Up on deck,” Frenchie says.

“Where Izzy is,” Lucius adds.

“He’s swabbing the deck, boss,” Ivan says, like this is significant in some way.

“Okay,” Ed says. “That’s not great, but—”

“Just got done trimming the sails,” Ivan continues.

“Fuck,” Ed says.

“What?” Stede asks. “What’s wrong?”

Ed sighs. “Izzy being Izzy. He’s giving himself grunt work. Punishing himself because I—because we won’t do it.” He rubs at his forehead. “I really was talking to him!”

All of the assembled, with the exception of Stede, give him a scathing look.

“Why would he think he needs to be punished?” Stede asks. He earns himself a disbelieving look from Ed, which feels unfair.

“The blatant insubordination?” Ed says. “It was two days ago, mate, you remember it.”

“Oh,” Stede says. “Well, he wasn’t—that wasn’t so different from how he usually is, is it?”

“To you, maybe,” Ed says. “Normally when he mouths off like that with me, he gets—um—”

“Put in his place,” Ivan suggests.

“I’m sorry?” Stede says.

“Punished,” Ed says. Then, quietly, “Physically.”

Stede remembers the way Izzy’s gaze had kept flicking to Ed during their altercation on Wednesday—although he hadn’t seemed scared at all. If anything, he’d been spoiling for—whatever it is Ed usually does to him.

“Oh-kay,” Lucius says. “You and Izzy’s weird sex thing aside—”

“Watch your mouth,” Ed growls.

“Or what? You’ll throw me overboard again?”

Ed clams up.

“Thought so.” Lucius smiles. “You and Izzy’s weird sex thing aside, something’s got to give, because that man is about an hour out from a full-on breakdown. Trust me. I know his type. They bottle everything up until one day—bam. Explosion. It gets pretty messy.”

“How do you know his type?” Stede asks sharply, but Ed’s taking the reins before he can get a response.

“I’m not going to beat him up just so he’ll go back to normal.”

“Beat him up?” Stede asks, unsure how that can possibly relate to Lucius calling it a ‘weird sex thing’.

“Not always,” Ed says. “Sometimes it’s just, you know, slam him into a wall, let him struggle a bit, get it out of his system.”

Stede’s eyes are so wide it feels as though they must have subsumed his entire face.

“Right, well,” he says weakly, “clearly that’s not a solution here.”

Lucius coughs pointedly, and Stede glares at him. Lucius can hardly use the attempted drowning line on him, after all.

“It’s not,” he repeats. “We’ll speak with him tonight. Over dinner. We’ll let him know that there’s nothing he needs to be punished for—we speak freely aboard the Revenge—and that he’s a valued member of the crew.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll do it,” Lucius says sarcastically.

“Well, what exactly would you suggest?” Stede asks crossly.

Lucius gives him a pitying look. “If you don’t get it by now…”

“There’s no need to be rude.”

Lucius looks at Ed. “You know.”

“No,” Ed says, without any particular strength behind it.

Stede turns to Frenchie. “Do you understand what’s going on?”

“Er, no. Lost the thread a couple of minutes ago, m’self.”

“Alright, then.” Stede feels a little better just having somebody else confused in the room. “Can someone come up with a plan, here?”

“Go up there and slap some sense into him,” Lucius says. “I’m talking about literal slapping, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“No physical violence,” Stede says. “Anyone else?”

“You could give him a hug?” Frenchie suggests.

“Already tried that,” Ed responds. “Fuckin’ weird.”

“But lovely,” Stede adds. For all his complicated feelings about the grand Greek tragedy of Ed and Izzy, he still thinks of the hug fondly.

“Punish him some other way,” Ivan says.

“I thought I said—”

“Doesn’t have to be violent,” Ivan says, though he sounds a little regretful about it. “Give him the shit jobs, take away his leisure time—he won’t mind what it is s’long as it’s coming from you.”

“You really think he deserves to be punished?” Stede asks Ed.

“Not…really,” Ed says, unconvincingly. “Like you said, we’re not really the kind of ship where hierarchy means keeping your trap shut. But—he wants to be. It’s why he was working so hard to get a rise out of you.”

“Oh.” Stede hadn’t thought of it that way. “Okay. If we must. But then—dinner?”

Ed heaves a sigh. “Guess we’re doing the fucking dinner.”

Notes:

izzy would just really like for people to stop ignoring him, please. and then also to get slapped around a little bit

Chapter 10

Notes:

huge thanks to @sanguinewerewolf for stepping in with a last-minute beta!

In the aftermath of Ed’s pronouncement, the assembled crewmembers stare down at them, as though expecting them to burst into motion at once.

“Might we have a minute?” Stede says, flustered.

“Oh, of course, you take your time,” Lucius says, with just enough plausible deniability on the sarcasm front that Stede can’t reasonably reprimand him. “But, just so you know, if you’re not out in the next ten minutes I’m sending Wee John to drag you.”

Frenchie nods in decisive agreement. Ivan just shrugs, already backing out of the room with the air of someone having said more than they intended. He’s closely followed by the other two.

And then it’s just Stede and Ed and the quiet of the captains’ quarters pressing in on them.

“Sorry,” Ed says, “this is my fault—”

“Your fault?” Stede replies, aghast. “It’s me who’s been an—an absolute prick!”

“Steady on, love,” Ed says, halfway smiling. “You’re not that bad.”

“Thank you. But that’s not the point!” Stede shifts uncomfortably on the plush couch, staring straight ahead. It’s easier to speak when Ed is only a vague shape in the corner of his eye. “I’ve been a terrible captain this week. And a terrible, um—”

“Boyfriend?” Ed suggests.

“That too.”

“I’ve had worse,” Ed says, and Stede thinks of Calico Jack with a sniff.

“Yes, well, that’s no excuse.” Stede puts his hands on his knees, nervously kneading the fabric there. “I’ve been—scared.”

“Of what?”

“Why—all of it! How you feel about Izzy. How Izzy feels about me. I’ve never—this isn’t a situation I’m familiar with,” Stede finishes pathetically.

“And you think I am?” Ed asks.

“No, of course not. But I’m the one who’s messed everything up. Izzy can’t have had the faintest idea of why I’ve been treating him like he’s not even part of the crew all of a sudden.” Stede wrings his hands together, feeling worse by the second. “And all because of a little bit of scandalous talk in the bedroom.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who said we didn’t have to talk about it,” Ed points out. “Thought it might be better—you seemed pretty freaked out.”

“So did you,” Stede says.

“I’ve been pretty freaked out since your last bloody dinner, mate,” Ed says. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine! I should have realised something was wrong. Worked it all out for myself—I was a fool not to, looking back. I should have…told you it was okay to,” Stede swallows, “to have feelings for him.”

He hears a shocked intake of breath from his left.

“It is?”

And—oh—Ed sounds so soft, so hopeful, with just those two words, that Stede can’t regret having said it. It occurs to him that, in his own spiral of panic, he hadn’t even stopped to consider how heavily everything must have been weighing on Ed.

“You can’t very well help it, can you?” he says. Part of him wants to say more, to offer Ed whatever reassurance he can, but he’s not sure he’s ready to hear Ed use the word they’re both skirting around. There’s knowing something and there’s knowing it, after all.

“Guess not,” Ed responds, and he, too, seems to be selecting each word with care. “I’ve been trying to.”

“Yes,” Stede says, recalling Ed’s abrupt snubbing of Izzy after what Stede now recognises as the moment between them on the settee. “And I’m—grateful, in a sense, that you tried. But it doesn’t seem to be doing either of us any good.”

“Let alone Izzy,” Ed murmurs.

“Ah, yes,” Stede says. “We may have fucked up, somewhat, there.”

“Fuckin’ right, we did,” Ed says. “But he’ll get over it. Always does.”

This, Stede thinks, may be an oversimplification of how the forgiveness process works between Ed and Izzy—and, as such, does not pertain in any sense to how Izzy will react to Stede wronging him.

But Stede feels conscious of their Lucius-imposed deadline, and decides to stick to the most salient points.

“What are we going to say to him?” he asks. “An apology, to start?”

Ed snorts. “Sure, if you want him to bite your head off.”

“Ah,” Stede says, disappointed. He’d been relying on an apology to fix things. “Surely we can’t go right forward with punishing him for something that wasn’t his fault?”

“Stede. He called us miserable excuses for captains and insulted your entire crew.”

“Because his feelings were hurt!”

“Right,” Ed says. He looks like he’s fighting a smile. “Yeah. Uh, Izzy’s not gonna see it like that.”

Stede sighs. “I expect you’re right. What would the punishment usually be, for something like that?”

“Depends,” Ed says. “Izzy used to get a bit of leeway, because of years served and loyalty to his captain and all, so probably—ten lashes? And then only if it happened in front of someone else. In private, it was more—you heard what Lucius said.”

“Ten…lashes? Like of a whip?”

“Mm,” Ed responds. “Cat o’ nine. He’s good at taking a flogging, though, Iz. Saw him take fifty lashes, once. Before I was captain. Little bastard stayed standing ’til near the end.”

Stede takes a gulp of air. He feels weak at the knees; something about the image is obscurely compelling, though Stede wishes it wasn’t. “Did you ever do it to him?”

“Sometimes,” Ed says slowly. “There were a couple years—we were just starting out with our own crew; the name Blackbeard didn’t mean much yet—and the only quartermaster we could find couldn’t aim worth a damn. Best to do it myself.”

There’s an insane moment where Stede almost—he wants to see it, he realises: the whip in Ed’s firm, steady hand, the slice of the tails through the air, Izzy stripped to the waist and wanting it. He surges to his feet and begins pacing around the rug, heart slamming against the insufficient prison of his ribcage.

“Not on this ship,” he says, almost to himself. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Sure,” Ed says, a lick of curiosity colouring his tone. “Maybe later. We’d better get a move on if we don’t want the boy to follow through on his threats.”

Stede claps his hands together. “Right! Yes. Once more unto the breach, and all that.”

Ed’s face takes on that fond expression it acquires when he doesn’t understand a word Stede’s saying. “And all that,” he confirms.

 

---

 

They find Izzy on the forecastle with a mop in his hand—and once Stede takes in the sight for himself, he realises why the others had been so disconcerted by it. Izzy is a picture of distressed tension: his head bowed; his hands curled so tightly around the wooden handle of the mop that Stede half-expects it to snap in his grip.

Stede feels like an utter bastard.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Izzy gets there first.

“Bonnet,” he says tightly.

“I deserve that,” Stede says.

“Not about to call you captain,” Izzy says. “Not when—”

“No, you’re quite right.”

Izzy’s head comes up, then, a glare warring with the defeated downturn of his mouth. “You said you wouldn’t do it again,” he accuses, looking past Stede—at where Ed is hovering.

“What?” Stede says.

“I know, Iz,” Ed responds. “I tried not to.”

“Do what again?” Stede asks.

For a moment, it seems as though neither Ed nor Izzy will be able to generate a decent answer. They’re just staring at each other, having one of those wordless conversations that Stede never has any hope of interpreting.

But then Izzy’s gaze flicks back to Stede. “When I fuck up,” he says slowly, “he’s supposed to do something about it.”

Ed explains, looking a little bit like he objects to Izzy’s characterisation: “After the whole thing with the restocking, and me not, uh, respecting Izzy’s input. Or talking to him. I said I wouldn’t treat him like that again.” He pauses. “You didn’t fuck up, though, Iz. Either time.”

“Then what the fuck,” Izzy spits, his eyes gleaming with what might be rage—or despair, “is going on?”

Ed and Stede look at each other.

“Perhaps this is a conversation best suited for this evening?” Stede suggests.

“You fucking—”

“Let me rephrase!” Stede says quickly. He injects his tone with as much authority as he can muster, given the circumstances. “We’ll be expecting you for dinner tonight, Israel.”

“Bonnet,” Izzy snarls. “It isn’t a fucking magic trick, it’s just my fucking name.”

“Bit of a magic trick, sometimes,” Ed comments. For all that the situation is undeniably fraught, Ed’s voice isn’t free of humour. It reminds Stede of the way Ed deals with captives, sometimes, on the ships they raid: calming them down, getting all of their focus on him. Sometimes Stede forgets that Ed knows full well how magnetic he is, and that he’s very aware of how to use it to best advantage.

“How would you know?” Izzy snaps. His eyes are fixed on Ed.

“Always thought it’d sound weird coming from me,” Ed says. “Israel. Israel. Yeah, I dunno. Guess you’ll have to make do with being my Iz.”

Stede’s breath catches. Izzy’s does, too, audibly.

“Edward—”

“You love a full name, don’t you?” Ed smiles, and he’s—oh, god—he’s flirting, isn’t he? Even directed at Izzy, Stede fancies it must be effective on everyone in a seventy-foot radius, himself very much included. His pulse quickens.  

Izzy’s hands are now loose around the mop. “Captain—”

“Nah,” Ed says with a click of his tongue. “If Stede doesn’t deserve it, neither do I. Tell you what—you come for dinner with us, we’ll just be Stede and Ed and Izzy. Just for today.”

“Just for today?” Izzy sounds uncertain.

“Tomorrow, me and Stede are going to give you your punishment for all the mouthing off,” Ed says, and Stede doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Izzy’s face slackens with relief. “Gives us time to think up a good one.”

Izzy rolls his eyes. “A good one. You mean I’ll have to go without a few extra slices of cake? Won’t be allowed to listen to the bedtime story?”

“Almost sounds like you want to be punished, Izzy,” Ed says lightly. “Weird. Hey, what food d’you want tonight?”

“We’ve got a surplus of dried meats,” Izzy replies promptly.

“Do we now?” Ed says. “Doesn’t really answer my question.”

Izzy looks between them, as though expecting a trick. “Last week was fine,” he says after some consideration. “But if you have Mr. Roach make any more sugary shit, we’ll be fucked for the next five days at least.”

Ed taps a finger theatrically against his chin. “We’ll see what we can do,” he says. “Oh, and Izzy?”

“Yes, Ca—Ed?”

“Best behaviour tonight. Yeah?”

Izzy’s spine straightens, his chin tipping up. “Got it,” he responds, casual words belied by the pleased way he says them.

Stede isn’t sure what to add—he’d so expected a disaster, going into this interaction, that Izzy’s acquiescence makes him feel like he’s stumbling headfirst down a hill. There’s going to be a hell of a crash at the bottom, he can’t help but think.

“Thank you, Izzy,” he settles on.

Izzy’s answering scoff, he supposes, is less contemptuous than it might have been.

 

---

 

By the time he and Ed get back to their quarters Stede feels shaky with something that isn’t quite fear—something that’s jolting through him like sparks of lightning, setting his nerves alight. He gasps out a laugh. There’s relief in it, alongside a simmering arousal.

He’d loved seeing Ed like that, in a way that baffles him not only because it had been directed at another man, but because he would never want Ed to speak to him like that. The few times Ed has been condescending towards him, Stede has felt horribly insignificant, like an intruder on Ed’s time. But towards Izzy—

“Too much?” Ed asks.

“No!” Stede replies instantly. “That was—you were—wonderful. I hadn’t realised—”

How easy it was isn’t quite the way to end that sentence, he realises. Whatever Izzy is, he isn’t easy. Even Ed’s influence over him isn’t absolute, with Izzy’s mood as volatile as the tides. But Ed proves, at least, that it isn’t impossible to temper Izzy’s worse moods.

“Stede?” Ed prompts. His smile still carries the edges of flirtation, and even though it had all been for Izzy, Stede finds himself striding forward and claiming Ed’s mouth in a kiss.

When he pulls back, Ed’s laughing.

“Tell me you’re okay with this,” Ed says, his eyes bright with mischief. “Tell me again—”

“I’m okay,” Stede assures him. “More than okay. I’m sorry for making you think otherwise.”

“Nah,” Ed says, drawing Stede towards the reading nook and trapping his body against the bookcase. “No more apologies, come on.”

He fits one of his legs between Stede’s, as clear an invitation as any Stede has received.

“I’m not having sex with you,” he says—though it’s more of a gasp, really.

Ed pouts. “Really?”

“That’s how we got into this mess in the first place,” Stede reminds him. “We need to talk, not just—fornicate!”

“Ooh, talk dirty,” Ed teases, kissing Stede’s jaw.

“I’m serious!” Stede bats at Ed’s head, not especially hard. “Stop distracting me.”

“But we haven’t had sex in—” Ed leans back, doing the mental count. “—too fucking long, man.”

“I quite agree,” Stede says, if only because the evidence is tenting his trousers as they speak. “But I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. We need to have a proper chat about—our Izzy issue.”

Ed sighs theatrically.

“You can want to fuck people you’re not actually fucking, love,” he says. It’s quite the turnaround from the guilt he’d expressed not an hour ago, and that’s how Stede knows that he’s touched one of those exposed nerves that Ed tries so hard to pretend he doesn’t have.

“You don’t just want to fuck him, though, do you?” Stede says quietly. He puts a little more emphasis than necessary on the word ‘fuck’—it’s good to give positive reinforcement, after all.

It works: Ed’s eyes turn wide and dark. He’s still caging Stede in against the bookcase, but Stede knows he’s got the upper hand. If Izzy’s easy when it comes to Ed, then the reverse is just as true.

“I don’t?”

“No,” Stede says. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but I think you want—all of him. Everything.”

Ed’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “Would you please—”

“No,” Stede says. “I’m serious. We’re not having sex until we’ve sorted this whole thing out.”

Ed looks at him disbelievingly. “The whole thing?”

“Well,” Stede says. “For a start, I’d like for you to tell me more about your relationship with Izzy. Not in a titillating way,” he adds, before Ed can get any ideas. “Just—an overview, would be nice.”

“An overview?” Ed arches an eyebrow. He’s drawn far enough away that Stede feels like he can breathe again.

“I don’t require all the sordid details,” Stede says, though he’d quite like them. “It’s only that I sense I haven’t got the full picture, here. And I’d like to do what I can to understand.”

“Not sure I understand,” Ed mutters, but he steps back and leans against the wainscoting. “What d’you want to know?”

Stede gulps, intimidated by the scope of Ed and Izzy’s history. “I’m not sure,” he admits.

“It’s not—if you’re thinking it was some kind of romance—” Ed scoffs, shaking his head. “We fucked around a bit. And he—yeah, he probably loved me. I probably loved him. But that doesn’t change anything. I—he tried to get you killed, Stede. I cut off his toe. There’s no getting ’round that. You know he still—when I gave him back his ring, I went down to his cabin. He hasn’t even washed the blood off the sheets.”

Stede’s belly tightens; he feels sick, though he knows with surety that giving Ed the slightest impression of such will be disastrous.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah. So whatever you’re thinking we are, or were, it’s not—”

“Hey.” Stede reaches for Ed’s arm and, gently, pulls them both down onto the rug. They haven’t stolen any new chairs for the reading nook, yet, but he wants to stay in the relatively enclosed space for this. It feels—necessary, and intimate.

Once seated, Ed stretches out his bad leg and pulls the other one up to his chest, hugging it there.

“If there’s something I’ve learned, since coming to sea,” Stede says, “it’s that love—and, yes, romance—take on more forms than I was ever told could exist. There are plenty who’d claim that you and I are incapable of loving one another, and I think we can both say rather decisively that nothing could be further from the truth. I think—just because you and Izzy have had a complicated history, it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t call it what it was.”

“We’re different,” Ed says. “You and me.”

“But not the exception, surely? The way Pete and Lucius love, or Jim and Oluwande—” Stede can’t claim to pay the closest of attention to his crew’s romantic lives, but he feels like he’s onto something. “They’re not the same as us, but that doesn’t make their love any less real.”

“S’pose not,” Ed says thickly, his forehead knocking into his drawn-up knee.

“Why shouldn’t the same be true for you and Izzy?”

Ed’s inhale sounds a little wet. “If we were in love,” he says, “why did it hurt so much?”

“Oh, Ed,” Stede says helplessly.

“Loving you feels good,” Ed says. “Apart from when you—weren’t here. Obviously.”

Stede resists the urge to apologise for leaving once again. Ed had told him to knock it off after the first month, and he’s done his best to respect that wish.

“Loving him feels like it’s going to kill me,” Ed whispers.

No more past tense, then. It doesn’t hurt as much to hear him say it as Stede had thought it might. His only distress in response to the way Ed’s crying, now, as badly as Stede’s seen from him in months. He knows from experience that there’s a fine line to walk between comforting Ed and making him feel smothered, so he takes hold of the ankle that’s stretched out, within his reach, keeping his touch light but grounding, and watches Ed’s shoulders shake with a sob.

“I don’t think it has to,” Stede says quietly. “I won’t deny that you’ve both tied yourselves into quite the knot. And untangling it may take some work. But I think—I think you should try.”

“What do you mean?” Ed sniffs.

Stede doesn’t know what he means. He presses on regardless.

“Have you ever thought about telling him?” Stede asks, though it seems clear the answer will be a resounding no. Ed describing the way he feels for Izzy as love seems like quite the new development—so new, in fact, that Stede doubts he’d even thought of it that way when he was talking to Izzy out on the deck not fifteen minutes ago.

But Ed surprises him.

“I used to try—showing him, a little.” Ed smiles through his veil of tears. “He fuckin’ hated it. I’d try and touch him when we weren’t having sex, or right after, and he’d just—shut down. Go completely still. Figured that just wasn’t what he wanted from me.”

“I think,” Stede says softly, “maybe he wanted it too much.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Get that now, don’t I? Too late.”

“But that’s what I’m saying. I don’t understand how it can possibly be too late when you’re both right here!”

“It’s not—” Ed wipes a hand down his face. “Don’t think this is the kind of thing that gets fixed by talking it through, or being extra nice, or fancy fuckin’ dinners. It’s not like I’m leaving you for him—”

“Well, I never thought that was on the table,” Stede says quickly.

“—so it’s not like any of it matters anyway.”

Stede just gapes at him, honestly baffled. “You’re saying there’s no point in improving your relationship with Izzy because you’re not planning to break up with me?”

“Uh,” Ed says. “It sounds a bit shit, when you put it like that.”

Stede widens his eyes demonstratively.

“Okay, okay,” Ed says. He leans forward, his hair falling to obscure his face. “But what’re you actually suggesting here, love? Do you want me to just—make nice with him? Be ‘friends’ again—whatever that means? Or—?”

Stede selects his next words with care. “I’d like for you to be friends,” he says. “I think it would do you both good. And as for—the rest of it, I think we’d better not get ahead of ourselves.”

His hand, still wrapped around Ed’s ankle, feels slick with sweat. It’s too much to hope that Ed hasn’t noticed.

“Ahead of ourselves?” Ed muses, looking up. “You mean—”

“Yes,” Stede says.

“Shit, man.” Ed lets out a shocked, tear-soaked bark of a laugh. “You’re fucking insane.”

Stede feels a smile spreading over his face. “I know,” he says. “I’ve been told it’s one of the best things about me.”

 

---

 

There’s something different about Izzy when he enters the cabin for dinner that evening. Several things, actually.

Stede notices the missing glove first. He’s never seen Izzy’s right hand uncovered before, and part of him is surprised to see a perfectly normal hand, albeit one lined with plenty of scars.

Gone, too, is his waistcoat. Without it, Izzy’s shirt hangs loose and over-large, prevented from swamping him only by the waistband of his breeches and the ties around the sleeves. It seems to Stede that Izzy could do with some clothes in his size, or at least with a bit of tailoring. Perhaps he’d even accept it, if it was Frenchie who carried out the alterations.

He’s also not, as far as Stede can see, carrying any weapons.

“How lovely,” Stede says, before he can help himself. Izzy scowls.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says.

Ed, sprawled out on the couch with a glass of white wine already poured, sing-songs: “Best behaviour.”

Izzy’s scowl, if anything, deepens.

“Now, we thought, because we’re just Ed and Stede and Izzy this evening, we’d go for a bit of a relaxed vibe,” Stede says. Izzy looks horrified.

“He just means we’re not eating at the table,” Ed says.

He seems so calm: if Stede hadn’t been there, he would never suspect that Ed had been crying over Izzy just this morning. Stede can’t help but wish that there was a way he could come out and tell Izzy about it—without betraying Ed’s confidence and pushing Izzy away, that is.

Stede herds Izzy further into the cabin. “Ed said you’d be quite alright sitting on the floor—but of course he’ll budge up if you’d like to be with him on the couch.”

“The floor’s fine,” Izzy says promptly.

It still goes against every hosting instinct Stede had been raised with, but he’d at least laid out a blanket and cushions in the space before the couch. There are five cushions to choose from, all arranged around the picnic basket, candles, and wine.

“We’ve got sandwiches—using up those dried meats you were talking about—and some other nibbles,” Stede says. “Cornish pasties, leftover scones—we don’t have any clotted cream, I’m afraid, but there’s plenty of jam—”

“Stede,” Ed says, clearly suppressing laughter, “he gets it.”

“Right.” Stede grabs a couple of glasses and begins pouring wine just to give himself something to do, turning his back on Ed and Izzy in the process. He and Ed hadn’t spoken much about how they intended for tonight to go—it would have been putting the cart before the horse, after all, to plan anything without taking Izzy’s reactions into account—but he imagines it will be best for Ed to take the lead.

“Oh,” he says, turning back around, “forgive me, Izzy, I didn’t ask whether you wanted any.”

“Don’t be cute, Bonnet,” Izzy says, which Stede takes to mean, I’d love some wine, please and thank you.

While he pours a healthy serving into the second glass, he hears the rustle of fabric that signifies Izzy setting himself down, and tries without success to convince himself not to read into wherever Izzy’s placed himself.  He wonders whether it will be the cushion closest to Ed or the one furthest away.

“Alright there, Izzy?” he hears Ed ask. “Comfy?”

“Fuck off, Edward.”

And that’s how Stede knows he’s gone for the closest option.

 

---

 

Stede’s worry fades away somewhere around his third glass of wine, replaced by a benign sort of curiosity about what he’d thought the big deal was. So he and Ed had spoken of Izzy during an intimate moment! Izzy is rather lovely to look at, once you get past all the glaring, and his history with Ed is—tantalising. Though perhaps his future with Ed is even more so.

There’s hope for them yet, Stede thinks, even if neither of them can see it. He’s sat across from them, in a perfect vantage point to observe the way that Izzy has drifted steadily closer to Ed with each sip of his wine. He’s ended up with his head resting against the seat of the couch, only a scant few inches between him and Ed’s thigh. And the way Ed keeps looking down at him—furtive, guilty little glances, like he’s trying his luck—is more intoxicating than any wine.

“Are you going to explain what this week was about, or what?” Izzy asks once his plate is empty, his head lolling back far enough to meet Ed’s eye.

Stede clears his throat. Then he clears it again. Unsure what else to do to buy himself time, he holds his empty glass to his lips and pretends to drink from it.

“You’re a weird person,” Izzy comments.

“Yes, well, maybe,” Stede says. “Can’t we just write it all off as an aberration? A moment of madness.”

“A week of madness.”

“Three days,” Stede responds. “My goodness, you’re dramatic.”

Izzy scoffs.

“You really want to know?” Ed asks consideringly.

“Wouldn’t have asked otherwise, would I?” Izzy says, folding his arms over his chest before promptly unfolding them to pick up his glass again. “Weirdest week—”

“Three days.”

“—of my fucking life.”

“Stede?” Ed asks. “Can I tell him?”

“Um,” Stede says, his face glowing with heat. He can’t imagine that Ed will actually tell the truth—but how close he’ll get is anyone’s guess. “Of course, darling.”

“I told Stede about some of the stuff we used to do,” Ed tells Izzy, enough inflection on stuff that Izzy can’t fail to understand his meaning.

Izzy bolts upright, stumbling to his feet. “You what?”

“It was going to come out eventually,” Ed says, unmoving. He’s watching Izzy closely. Stede is, too, on the basis that he isn’t sure if he’s about to get stabbed. Izzy isn’t armed—at least not visibly—but then Stede had gone and given him a knife for the scones.

“No it bloody well wasn’t,” Izzy says. “How’d you suppose he was going to find out? Was Jack going to rise from the grave and tell him?”

“Um,” Stede says. “Jack knew?”

Ed and Izzy exchange a look.

“Never mind!” Stede says quickly.

“You mad with me, Iz?” Ed asks, tilting his head back to look at him and practically batting his eyes.

“Yes,” Izzy says. “What the fuck.”

“There’s this wild thing Stede and I do where we tell each other stuff, man,” Ed says, shrugging. “I’ll apologise for some stuff, if you want—” There follows a significant pause, during which all three of them look anywhere but Izzy’s foot. “—but I’m not apologising for being honest with Stede.”

“I’m sorry,” Stede says. “It was never my intention to invade your privacy.”

Izzy fixes him with a suspicious look.

“Honestly!” Stede says. “Sit back down, please.”

For a long moment, it seems likely Izzy will disobey. But then Ed says, “Iz,” with a hint of steel in his voice, and Izzy goes down so quickly he blurs in Stede’s vision.

“There,” Stede says. “That’s better.”

“You’re such a twat,” Izzy says. “Talk.”

“I’m really sorry—”

“I didn’t ask for more apologies,” Izzy says with revulsion. “You—what, he told you what he used to do to me and the two of you were so disgusted you—”

“Fuck, Izzy, no,” Ed says, a little frantic.

“Absolutely not,” Stede says. “If you must know, the truth is that I was embarrassed, and jealous, and I didn’t handle it well. But none of that is your fault.”

“You were jealous.” Izzy snorts with honest amusement.

“Why wouldn’t I—”

“Can we stop talking about it?” Izzy asks abruptly, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “I don’t—you said these dinners were meant to be enjoyable, and I—”

Stede isn’t sure that’s the best idea. He wants to know what Izzy had meant by ‘what he used to do to me’, and he wants to understand why Izzy had thought Stede would be disgusted by him—let alone Ed, who’d been an active participant in everything they’d done together. But he does also want Izzy to enjoy himself, as much as possible, during these dinners of theirs.

“Alright,” he says eventually. “You can catch us up on what we’ve missed this week, then.”

He refills his and Izzy’s glasses, then tilts the bottle Ed’s way. Ed shakes his head, looking slightly nonplussed.

“How’s Frenchie coming along?” Stede prompts.

“Slightly less fucking abysmal than he was last week,” Izzy replies, caution locking his shoulders with tension. “We still shouldn’t let him loose with a sword when we find a ship next week, mind.”

“I think he prefers being the musical accompaniment to our raids anyhow,” Stede says.

“Yeah. Music. But he’s coming along alright.”

“He’s got a good teacher,” Ed offers.

Izzy takes a large gulp of his wine.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You’re forgiven. You’re always forgiven.”

Ed looks down at him tiredly, his fingers twitching against his own thigh. “That’s not how forgiveness is meant to work, Iz. It’s not meant to be automatic.”

“Well, it is,” Izzy says. “So you can stop with all the—the being nice, and smiling at me.”

He sounds so angry about the prospect of kindness that Stede isn’t quite sure whether to laugh or cry. He thinks he’s edging towards the latter, and that must be why Izzy bares his teeth at him, sensing pity.

“I want to be nice to you, Iz,” Ed says, his clear frustration lending irony to the words. “Can you just let me?”

And for a moment it seems as though this, against all odds, will be Izzy’s breaking point—that this is the moment Ed finally goes too far. But then his shoulders settle, and he seems to regain control of himself.

“As long as you’re not a fucking twat about it,” he says petulantly.

“Fucking hell, Izzy,” Ed says, and he starts laughing so hard he almost falls off the settee. In response, Izzy’s mouth twitches into a semblance of a smile. “Yeah, love. I’ll try not to be a twat about it.”

Notes:

all our boys get a badge for emotional honesty this chapter. ed gets two

Chapter 11

Notes:

in which izzy's attempts to neg his captains do not go as planned

In bed that night, Stede feels giddy—buoyed by the wine and by how, for the first time, Izzy had left without it seeming as though he was making an escape. He’d stayed relaxed at Ed’s knee until the sounds of the watch changeover had drifted in from above, at which point he’d straightened and departed with a polite (by Izzy’s standards), “Goodnight.”

Stede sighs happily, snuggling in to Ed’s side. They’ve kicked the covers to the bottom of the bed in deference to the warmth of the night, and Ed’s skin is pleasingly bare against his.

“That went well,” he says.

“Getting him sloshed, you mean?”

Stede butts his forehead against Ed’s shoulder chidingly. “No. Well, that too. He’s a lot…softer when he’s drunk, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, I dunno,” Ed muses. “He used to just get even pissier if you tried to liquor him up. And then sick.”

“Oh, heavens,” Stede says, struck through with worry. “I don’t suppose I’ve made him ill, have I?”

“With a few glasses of wine?”

“Five glasses,” says Stede, having kept track.

“Probably less than a whole bottle of rum, that.”

“Gosh.” No wonder Izzy had been sick. Stede feels a little ill at just the thought.

“What about you? You drank even more than he did.”

“Did I?” Stede says, feigning innocence.

Ed snorts. “Never thought I’d watch you and Iz get pissed together. Bloody lightweights, both of you.”

Stede takes the assertion on the chin. He’s always thought himself able to handle his liquor—one of the few ways he hadn’t disappointed his father—but wine has a way of going to his head. Still, he doesn’t think he embarrassed himself during the latter half of their evening, besides telling a long and rambling story about the nature walks he’d gone on as a young man. Izzy hadn’t seemed to mind all that much, even making encouraging sounds in the right places.

“Maybe we should try red wine next week,” Stede says. “Or perhaps a nice rosé! Has he tried those before, do you think?”

“Mm, remember what we talked about?” Ed asks. “How there’s some things you take for granted, that me and the crew never had?”

Stede does, vaguely, remember such a conversation. It had come after he’d begun making inquiries about various crewmembers’ schooling, and hadn’t understood why he’d attracted so many glares.

“Right, yes.”

Ed’s expression softens. “He might’ve tried ’em before. Maybe that sister of his gave him wine as well as shortbread. Don’t think so, though.”

“It does seem a shame,” Stede says. “He’s had to go without so many lovely things.”

Ed shifts underneath him, perhaps a tad uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” Stede says, because this is one of the subjects it’s best to step cautiously—and soberly—around. “I only meant that it’s nice to get these opportunities to spoil him a little.”

Ed makes a humming sound of agreement.

“It almost makes up for having to punish him.”

“Does it?” Ed asks, a hint of humour lighting up his voice.

“He’s right, of course,” Stede says. “I don’t have the spine to come up with a truly pirate-y punishment. I’m afraid he’ll be dreadfully disappointed by anything I suggest.”

“Hey, come on,” Ed says, squeezing his waist. “You’re thinking about it all wrong, mate. What does Izzy hate most in the world?”

“Well, a few weeks ago I would’ve said me.”

“Exactly! You shouldn’t be trying to punish him the pirate way,” Ed tells him. “You should be trying to punish him your way.”

Stede rolls onto his back, staring contemplatively up at the ceiling of the bed nook. “My way,” he says, evaluating the feel of it on his tongue. “I like that.”

 

---

 

By the next morning, he’s come up with a plan. He’s rather proud of it, in fact, and it’s a struggle to wait until Ed’s awake to share it with.

There’s plenty to do in the meantime, however. Stede rings for tea and uses it to wash the stale taste of wine from his mouth, then selects a leather-bound notebook from his desk, along with a quill and ink. Lucius had mentioned that Izzy knows how to write, but Stede is unsure of whether he has the necessary materials in his possession—and wouldn’t want to assume.

He's just debating whether Izzy might prefer red or black ink when he hears Ed yawning, followed by the sound of his spine cracking in a stretch.

“Morning, love,” Ed says, and a little thrill runs through Stede at the memory of Ed using the same endearment to refer to Izzy the previous night. It hadn’t been so far out of the ordinary—Stede’s heard Ed refer to everything from the Revenge itself to Olivia the Seagull as ‘love’ at one point or another—but, coming right on the back of him realising he does love Izzy, it had sent Stede’s heart into a thrill. Izzy, for his part, hadn’t seemed to notice. Or had taken pains to make it appear that way.

“Morning!” Stede trills. He picks up the teapot and makes Ed’s tea for him, using honey as a sweetener in the absence of sugar. “Sleep well?”

“Pretty well, yeah,” Ed says around another yawn. When it’s absolutely necessary, Stede has seen him go from dead to the world to armed and dangerous in thirty seconds flat, but Ed’s clear preference is for a lazy transition to wakefulness.

Stede hands him his tea and watches as Ed, balancing the cup in one hand, gathers the blankets up around his waist and props a few pillows up against the window, forming a sort of nest for him to recline in while he drinks. Stede is too full of jittery anticipation to join him, but he appreciates the view.

“I have a plan,” he announces.

“Hm?”

“For Izzy,” Stede specifies. He grabs the notebook and quill, brandishing them.

“You’re gonna…make him draw something?” Ed guesses, his eyebrows lifting.

“No!” Excitement has Stede pacing the length of the rug as he speaks. “I was thinking, last night, about what you said, how it should be a me kind of punishment—and then I was thinking that the punishment should fit the crime, as well. If we’re punishing Izzy for insulting us and the crew—” And here he waits for Ed to nod. “—then I thought, perhaps his punishment should be to say something nice about everyone!”

Ed’s eyes glitter. “That’s fucking diabolical,” he says approvingly. “What’s the paper got to do with it?”

“Oh, I thought he might not be trusted to just go around complimenting the crew just like that,” Stede says. “He’ll have to write down each compliment first and submit them for our approval. It might take a few tries, but he’ll get there in the end, I’m sure.”

“So he’s writing down something for everyone on board, including—”

“Us, yes,” Stede says. “He won’t have too much of a problem with you, I shouldn’t think, but coming up with something positive to say about me should provide a suitable challenge.”

“Evil,” Ed says, again with approval. “Love it.”

“I thought about asking him to include one for himself, too,” Stede says, a little less sure about this aspect of the plan. “The whole thing’s going to be dreadfully difficult for him, I imagine, and it would be nice to give him a little bit of a treat.”

Ed snorts. “You think that’d be a treat?”

“…Maybe?” Stede says.

He doesn’t think of Izzy as a humble man by any means; he’s certainly well aware of his own fencing prowess, and seems to consider himself more capable in matters of day-to-day operations than anyone else on board, his own captain included. Though perhaps that’s being uncharitable. There’s always the possibility that underneath all of Izzy’s bluster is the same crippling self-doubt that sometimes plagues Stede.

He just doesn’t think it very likely.

“We should give it a go,” Ed says, shrugging. “Worst that can happen is he murders us.”

“Oh,” Stede says with a smile. “Is that all?”

 

---

 

It is, if anything, even hotter out on deck than it was in the captains’ cabin, and no sooner have they emerged than Stede is shedding his frock coat, laying it over a barrel, and undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. Lucius whistles as he approaches, though Stede can’t tell if it’s mocking or appreciative. Probably the former, given the way Stede can feel perspiration prickling his exposed skin, his skin undoubtedly turning a blotchy pink.

He takes a moment to mourn the loss of his parasol, which had been one of the victims of Ed’s…spring cleaning.

“Whatever you did to Izzy,” Lucius says, coming to a stop in front of them, “keep doing it.”

“He’s feeling better, then?”

“He just chewed me out for half an hour for using up the last of the coffee without grinding more,” Lucius says. “Worked himself up into a right lather about it, too. Could’ve cooked eggs on his face.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Stede says, at something of a loss.

“It felt like coming home,” Lucius says, clutching his hands to his chest. The scales are most definitely tipping towards mockery, this time, but Stede only smiles.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says.

“And it’s just manners to grind more coffee beans, mate,” Ed says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucius says, waving a hand. “Point is, good job. Top marks. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You didn’t?”

But Lucius is already walking away, making his way to where Wee John and Roach are doing something that appears to involve stuffing rags into half-empty bottles of rum. As long as they’re happy, Stede supposes.

 

---

 

Izzy emerges soon after, his tin cup of coffee sending spirals of steam up into the muggy air. Stede doesn’t know how he stands it; he’s made no allowances for the weather, as buttoned up in his dark clothing as ever. Everyone else on deck is in varying states of undress, but Stede suspects Izzy would look just the same in freezing temperatures as he does in the burning heat.

Just as he’s wondering whether he can compel Izzy to borrow one of Ed’s short-sleeved shirts for the day, Izzy moves towards them, coming to a halt with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Captains,” he says.

Ed’s smile tilts wickedly. “Ready for your punishment, Iz?”

“Get on with it.”

Stede tuts. “That hardly seems like the right spirit,” he says. “You’re being punished for rudeness and insubordination, are you not?”

Izzy takes a long, insubordinate sip of his coffee.

“Right,” Stede says. When he looks over, Ed’s smile is unabated. “Shall we move somewhere more private, then?”

Izzy’s chin dips halfway into a nod, before he stops himself.

“Yeah,” says Ed, as though Stede had been asking him. “Your cabin, Iz.”

Both Stede and Izzy look at him askance, though neither argues with his decision. Stede feels trepidation taking root in his stomach; he doesn’t think he can stand to see what Ed had described, the blood from Izzy’s toe still displayed proudly on the sheets. He wonders how much the wound had bled, then cuts off that line of thinking with a small shudder.

Then again, he can understand the logic behind dishing out the punishment in Izzy’s territory. He gestures for Izzy to go ahead.

Izzy’s back is a short tense line as he leads them to where his cabin lies, low in the belly of the ship. Stede hasn’t been in it since it was repurposed for Izzy to stay in, and he finds he can’t actually remember its original purpose—until Izzy opens the door, that is.

“Oh, this was the room for silent contemplation,” he says, looking around curiously. “I thought being so close to the waves would be meditative, but it’s just a bit dark, isn’t it?”

It’s true: for all the bright light and heat of the day, Izzy’s cabin is shadowy and cool. There’s a single candle on the wooden stool beside his bed, unlit. Under the stool is the tin Stede had given him the previous week. He has an urge to lift the lid and check how much of the shortbread has been eaten, but resists.

Finally, his gaze alights on the bed. It’s neatly made, but Stede can see that under the thin blanket, the sheets are fresh—at least by the standards he’s become used to on a ship. It can’t have been more than a week since Izzy changed them, which means—

Izzy had held on to the bloody evidence all these months, and then gotten rid of it the moment Ed had laid eyes on it. Stede is desperate to know why. Had Ed’s distress been obvious, when he’d returned the ring? Or had Izzy simply been embarrassed to be caught with such a macabre reminder? Whatever the reason, Stede is overwhelmingly grateful. He feels tension sliding out of him and moves further into the small room, Ed close behind.

“Sit down,” Ed says, something complicated knotted in his voice.

“Yes, sir,” Izzy says. He takes a seat on the end of the bed and sets the coffee down beside him. Then he looks up expectantly.

“On account of your behaviour last week,” Stede says, experiencing an unfortunate recollection of his attempts at disciplining his children, “we’ve decided that a commensurate punishment will be for you to atone for insulting the entire crew by complimenting them instead.”

Izzy’s jaw sets. “We?”

“Ed is in full support,” Stede says. “Aren’t you, darling?”

“It’ll be good for you, Iz. Say something nice for once in your life.”

“Alright,” Izzy says, heaving a sigh. “You’re all very…nice people. Am I done now?”

How he manages to make ‘nice’ sound like such a cutting insult, Stede will never know.

“Not quite!” he says. “I’ve got—oh, drat, I left the notebook and everything in our cabin. I suppose you’ll just have to come by whenever you’re ready to pick it up, Izzy. Never mind. What you’ll be doing is writing down a positive comment for each member of the crew, and then showing me and Ed your work. Then you’ll move on to actually delivering the compliments, once we’ve checked them. Does that sound reasonable?”

“I can’t write,” says Izzy.

“Oh,” Stede says, abashed. “But Lucius said—”

“He’s lying,” Ed says. “C’mon, Iz, you really thought that’d work? You’ve been keeping the log for years!”

“With a series of elaborate hieroglyphs,” Izzy says, utterly deadpan. Stede stands there a moment, trying to work out if he’s joking. Helpfully, Ed starts laughing.

“Just take your punishment, mate. You never complained half this much when I was whipping you.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says, going red, “well.”

“I think it’s important for the crew to see that you notice and value their strengths,” Stede says, rescuing him. “This could end up being a great bonding opportunity for us all!”

“The crew,” Izzy says slowly. “So it’s only…I don’t have to…”

“Nah. You’ve gotta come up with nice things to say about us, too,” Ed says, with rather too much relish.

“We’d like to know that you appreciate your captains,” Stede says. “Then, if you’d like, you can write down something positive about yourself as well.”

Izzy’s face goes comically pinched, as though he’s been forced to swallow something sour.

“Maybe not,” Ed says through a chuckle. “Told you that might be a bit much for him.”

“Is it an order or not?” Izzy asks, frowning.

Stede looks to Ed, who’s looking at him. “Oh,” he says, “um—yes, then. Everyone should be able to come up with their own positive affirmations. Sometimes, when I’m in a bit of a rut, it’s helpful to look in the mirror and come up with a few things I like about myself.”

“Fucking hell,” Izzy mutters. “Of course you do that.”

Stede puffs out his chest, affronted—but, just in time, he catches the way Izzy smirks.

“Well, we’ll leave you alone,” he says, deciding to remove himself from the situation before Izzy succeeds in his goal of riling him. He takes Ed’s arm. “You just have a think, Izzy, and then come and get your supplies once you’re ready to start writing.”

Izzy stares up at them both beseechingly. “That’s it?”

Stede never thought he’d feel sorry for not hitting someone, before. Izzy Hands has certainly had an unexpected impact on his life.

“For now,” he says. “Perhaps if you do a good job with this one, we can move on to the sort of punishment you’re more used to.”

It’s a transparent sort of thing, offering Izzy more punishment as a reward, but neither Izzy nor Ed seems inclined to challenge him on it. Izzy’s expression softens briefly before he schools it back into its usual defiance.

“Yeah,” he says. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bed. “Fine.”

“That how you speak to your captains, Iz?” Ed asks.

Izzy’s posture jolts. “No, sir,” he says.

“Better,” Ed says, a sweet warmth infusing the word. It makes Izzy glow with pride—and Stede once again finds himself out of his element, disconcerted by the way Ed and Izzy default to hierarchy in their attempts to communicate affection.

But Stede can’t argue with the results. Izzy no longer appears coiled to strike, and the tension in the room has dissipated somewhat.

If only they can maintain this mood, he thinks, things should go swimmingly.

 

---

 

Izzy’s first attempt does not go well.

He barges into the captains’ cabin that evening with a bound book that Stede most assuredly did not give him and stands expectantly near the door, heedless of the fact that Ed and Stede are still eating.

“Well, then,” Stede says, folding up his napkin and placing it beside his plate. “It seems you have something you’d like to share.”

Wordlessly, Izzy opens his book to a page about halfway through and hands it over to Ed, who takes it with one hand while finishing his finger sandwich with the other. Ed passes it to Stede, who was always going to be the one to read it anyway, and Stede has to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the little charade. It wouldn’t be a very captain-y move, but sometimes Izzy doesn’t make him feel very captain-y.

He scans the page. And sighs.

“It’s a start,” he says.

“What’d he say about me?” Ed asks eagerly, leaning over to look at the page.

“He said you’re a good captain,” Stede says, “when you put your mind to it.”

“Izzy,” Ed says, clutching his chest in a wounded sort of fashion.

“Of me,” Stede continues, “he wrote that I ‘seem clean’.”

“You do,” Izzy says. Stede truly cannot believe the things Izzy can make sound like insults.

“And Lucius is—‘good at what he does’.”

“Which is fuck all,” Izzy adds, unnecessarily.

Stede raises a hand to his temple and rubs. He hadn’t been hungover this morning, but perhaps circumstances have changed.

“Do you think,” he tries, “that Lucius would appreciate being told that?”

“He knows what he’s good at,” Izzy says.

Ed stifles a chuckle behind a napkin. Stede glares at him.

“Israel, you must see that these aren’t compliments,” he says.

“They are, kind of,” Ed contributes. “Bit passive-aggressive, though.”

Evidently, he’s recovered from Izzy’s slight against his captaining. Stede redoubles his glare.

“They’re left-handed compliments, then,” Stede says. “Which is just another way of saying insults.”

Izzy doesn’t even have the decency to look chastened.

“Maybe you could use an example, Iz,” Ed says, steepling his fingers and staring at Izzy over them. “It could be like me saying that you really know your way around a sword.”

“Shut up,” Izzy says instantly.

“Or like me telling Ed that he has lovely hair,” Stede says.

It’s plaited, this evening, and Ed runs his fingers down the braid with a smirk. “Thank you,” he says. “You’ve got nice hair, too, Iz. Remember when you used to have it long, back when we first met?”

“Yeah, because I couldn’t find any bloody scissors for love or money,” Izzy says. He seems wrong-footed, and colour is travelling rapidly up his neck.

“Could’ve used a knife,” Ed says, shrugging. “Anyway, it was cute that way.”

Izzy emits a small whining sound. 

“That one’s a little left-handed,” Stede says consideringly, “since you’re implying you liked Izzy’s hair better then than now.”

“Didn’t say that,” Ed says, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe it’s cute now, too.”

Izzy makes a move to snatch his book out of Stede’s hands. Stede pulls it away with a sound of disapproval. He studies the page once more.

“You’ve got lovely penmanship, Izzy,” he says, a touch patronisingly. Izzy looks mortified, which Stede suspects shouldn’t feel nearly as satisfying as it does. “Very neat.”

It is—but there’s personality to it, too; an element Stede wouldn’t have expected. Izzy has printed each letter individually, with uniform sizing, and they stand tall and narrow, like a row of terraced houses. Stede finds himself oddly charmed by it.

“Shut up,” Izzy says again, weaker.

“You’ve always been good at stuff like that,” Ed says. “Keeping track of names, dates, figures. Kept us out of a few rough spots, attention-to-detail like that.”

“Please,” Izzy says. His voice is rougher than pumice. 

Stede takes pity, though it seems as though Ed could keep going quite merrily for some time.

“I think he gets the idea,” he says, standing up and retrieving the other notebook, along with the quill and ink. “Do you get the idea, Israel? Or must we provide more examples?”

“No more,” Izzy says quickly. His skin is bright with blood, and when Stede looks over his shoulder he sees that Izzy is running a hand self-consciously through his hair. It takes some effort to suppress a laugh.

“Now, for most people, receiving compliments isn’t such a trial,” he says, handing the supplies over. “Some people even enjoy them.”

Ed snickers.

“We’ll be expecting a better attempt by tomorrow,” Stede says. “Can you manage that?”

“Yes, Captain.” Izzy licks his lips. “I can.”

“Good,” Stede says, sitting back down. “You’re dismissed.”

 

---

 

Ed launches at him practically the moment Izzy’s gone, almost toppling Stede off his chair with the force of it.

“Oh!” Stede says between kisses. “What’s brought this on, then?”

“You’re kidding me,” Ed says, laughing into Stede’s neck before licking a trail over his Adam’s apple. “Should I make a fuckin’ guide for you of what it looks like when Izzy’s turned on? I can draw pictures.”

“He was embarrassed,” Stede says. He clutches at Ed’s waist, the days since their last encounter catching up with him in a rush of arousal. “That’s not the same.”

Ed laughs again, not unkindly. "Is for some people, maybe."

“Gosh,” Stede says. “Maybe you should make a guide. I really don’t mean to keep doing it.”

Then again, Ed was most certainly doing it on purpose, something that fills Stede with heat. He wonders if Ed might be prevailed upon to do it again, at a time when Stede is aware of his intentions.

“Makes it even better,” Ed says, now laughing too hard to do much more than tickle Stede’s neck with his beard. “One of these days he’s gonna drop to his knees for you right in the middle of something you think is a normal fucking conversation.”

“Christ,” Stede says, and then repeats himself when Ed mimics his own prediction, situating himself on the floor in between Stede’s legs.

“Yeah?” Ed breathes, placing his hands on Stede’s thighs.

“Not here,” Stede says. “I don’t know about the state of Izzy’s knees, but yours—”

Ed pouts up at him. “It doesn’t even hurt today.”

“And if you don’t want it to hurt tomorrow, we should move this to a more suitable location,” Stede says firmly.

Ed heaves a sigh, though from the state of his breeches when he stands up, Stede doesn’t have to worry about having put a damper on things. “Hurry up,” Ed says over his shoulder. “I want to suck you off how he does it.”

How Izzy does it, apparently, is so fast and tight and hot that Stede’s proud of himself for lasting more than a minute. Only just.

 

---

 

It’s something of a revelation to Stede when he manages to face Izzy the next morning without incident. He and Ed had both lingered on the deck to watch Frenchie’s swordfighting lesson the night before, but Izzy had barely looked at them, creating no opportunity for an awkward interaction. Stede considers this the first real test of his mettle.

He sits himself down on the bench opposite Izzy in the galley and, aside from a pleasing little tingle in his stomach at the thought of the way he and Ed had affected Izzy the day before, doesn’t feel much out of the ordinary.

“Do you have your list ready yet?” he asks.

“Not yet. You didn’t say what time it had to be done by,” Izzy reminds him. He’s halfway through a bowl of porridge, but he’d set down his spoon when Stede approached.

“I suppose I didn’t,” Stede says. “If you can be done by midday, I’d like it if you joined me and Ed for lunch. Then you can spend the afternoon delivering your compliments, provided they’re good enough.”

“They will be,” Izzy says.

“Excellent!” Stede replies, clapping his hands together and getting to his feet. “We’ll see you then.”

 

---

 

Stede had vowed not to read through Izzy’s second draft until after they’d eaten, but in the end temptation overwhelms him halfway through buttering his first slice of bread.

“Oh, hand it over,” he sighs, putting his plate and bowl aside for the time being. Izzy passes his list over, and then, at a nudge from Ed, goes back to eating his soup while Stede reads.

It’s a marked improvement, on all counts except one.

“Izzy,” Stede says gently. “You forgot to write anything for Ed.”

Ed’s eyebrows go up. “You forgot about me? Not cool, mate.”

“You really need me to shower you with praise?” Izzy asks. “After all these years?”

Ed hums thoughtfully. “I’d like to hear what you have to say, yeah.”

“It can be anything,” Stede says. “Anything you like about him.”

Izzy looks down at the tablecloth. Stede watches him trace the floral embroidery with his left thumbnail. His hands aren’t well manicured, and the nail snags on a strand of thread, pulling a string of red apart from the rest. Izzy looks up, as though waiting to be chastised, but Stede only waits.

“Go on,” Ed says.

“Fuck you, Edward,” Izzy responds.

“Something nice,” Ed reminds him.

“You already know—I wouldn’t have served you for so long if you weren’t—” Izzy shuts his eyes. “—brave, and clever—if you weren’t a fucking visionary. Best sailor I’ve ever known. Best—all of it. I could’ve left a thousand times over if you weren’t—if I didn’t—”

Stede’s pulse trips into high speed; he’s about to tell Izzy he can stop, has to stop, but Ed gets there first.

He reaches over and lays a hand over the back of Izzy’s, preventing him from picking apart more of the embroidered flower. It’s ostensibly for the sake of Stede's tablecloth—at least until he starts rubbing a thumb over Izzy’s knuckles. “Yeah, Iz,” he says, as gentle as his hand on Izzy’s. “I know.”

“Why do you lot have to fucking say everything?” Izzy asks.

“It’s better that way,” Ed says. “Sure, I know—I know you think I’m a good captain, Iz, but we never talk about it.”

“We don’t have to,” Izzy argues. “You know it—in your bones, you know it.”

There’s a silence during which Stede can tell that both of them are trying to get ahold of themselves. Ed’s eyes look distinctly wet, and Izzy’s head is bowed so far that Stede isn’t able to see his.

“I do know,” Ed says eventually. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it sometimes. Bet there’s stuff you’d like me to say, too, that I don’t say enough.”

Izzy’s hand twists under Ed’s like a fish trying to escape a net. Ed holds him down.

“Izzy,” Ed says, firm.

And Izzy says, “That you want me here,” the words wrenched out of him by some force beyond Stede’s understanding. “That even though you’ve got him now—” He jerks his head towards Stede in a vaguely insulting manner. “—I’m still—there’s still space for me.”

“There’s space for you,” Ed says, “where it always is, right by my side.”

Izzy’s chin drops, and he stares down at his and Ed’s hands, both roughened by years at sea and yet resting ever so softly there on the table, holding and not holding, all at once.

Then Izzy looks up.

“Fucking get off me, Edward, your elbow’s in the fucking soup.”

It is, at that; Ed had been forced to reach over his bowl to get at Izzy’s ungloved hand. Ed looks down at his own arm, surprised, a small laugh breaking free of his lips. Izzy’s mouth twitches.

Stede smiles. He hadn’t noticed the soup, either.

 

---

 

“What’d you say for Stede, then?” Ed asks, when he’s changed his shirt and they’ve all finished their lunch. Stede is pouring them each a cup of tea, once again operating under the assumption that Izzy will drink it when it’s placed in front of him, as long as he isn’t asked.

“He wrote that I’m compelling,” Stede says proudly.

“Flatterer,” Ed says to Izzy.

Izzy folds his arms. “You managed to get your idiots back onto this ship after we marooned them. If you’re not compelling, you’ve got fucking magical powers.”

“That’s very sweet, Izzy,” Stede says, while Ed fiddles awkwardly with a teacup at the reminder of the marooning. “And as for everyone else—well, he managed something for everyone. Even Lucius.”

“Hm?” Ed asks.

“Izzy thinks he’s a good artist.”

“Art’s a bloody great waste of time on a pirate ship,” Izzy says, “but yeah.”

“And the one for Frenchie’s rather lovely: apparently he’s good at lifting people’s spirits.”

“People’s, huh?” Ed says, grinning at Izzy.

“Shut up, Edward.”

“Make me.”

“Boys,” Stede says, though he’s still smiling. He mixes honey into Ed’s tea and hands it over. “The ones for Fang and Ivan are nice, too: I hadn't realised you valued them so much, Izzy."

Izzy scowls. 

"Did he write anything for himself?" Ed asks. 

"Yes," Stede replies. Izzy's version of a positive affirmation is right at the bottom of the page, lettering so narrow it's hardly legible. "Would you like to say it, Izzy?"

"I'm a good first mate," Izzy says stiffly. "When I put my mind to it."

Ed grins. "So we'll just have to both start putting our minds to it, then."

"Effort's always worth encouraging," Stede says. "Well done, Israel. I know that was difficult for you."

Izzy's expression is mutinous, though his skin is a rather pleasing shade of pink.

"If you can deliver these without adding any insults," Stede continues, "I’m certain everyone will be touched.”

Izzy grimaces; he’d obviously forgotten the second part of his assignment.

“Do I really have to say them?” he asks.

“That’s rather the point, yes. Would you rather seek out everyone individually, or should I gather the crew?”

Izzy chokes on his tea at the second option.

“Individually,” he says, batting Ed’s hands away when he tries to thump him on the back. “Christ, Bonnet, don’t make it a performance.”

Stede just shrugs. “I thought you might want to get it all out of the way as quickly as possible, but it’s up to you, of course. Would you like me or Ed to come with you?”

“Neither,” Izzy says.

“Well, it’s either that or we check up on everyone after you’re done. I’m not sure I trust you to tell the Swede that he has a talent for singing or Oluwande that he’s proven himself more than worthy of the crew’s respect.”

“Fine,” Izzy spits. “Edward.”

“Sure you don’t want to spend some quality time with Stede?” Ed suggests with a shit-eating grin, like he’s won something by being the one Izzy likes best. Like he hasn’t had a thirty-year head start.

Izzy doesn’t deign to answer.

 

---

 

Once Izzy’s finished his rounds, Stede ends up checking with a few members of the crew anyway—not because he doesn’t trust Ed, but because he doesn’t put it past Izzy to alter the compliments, in the moment, from their written form. He finds Oluwande and Jim at the stern, Oluwande fanning himself with Jim’s hat.

“Yeah, it was pretty weird,” Oluwande says. Beside him, Jim nods. “Good to hear, even if he looked like Captain Edward was holding an invisible gun to his head. What’s going on with them, by the way?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Stede asks.

Jim snorts.

“They’ve always been a bit—” Oluwande makes a complicated hand gesture that somehow embodies both extreme closeness and distance. “But they seemed—” His next gesture just seems to imply, very politely, that Oluwande thinks they’re sleeping together.

Jim confirms: “They fucking?”

“Heavens, no!” Stede says, high-pitched. “Um, is that what people have been saying?”

“Lucius says the whole problem is that Captain Edward won’t, uh, do that, with Izzy, but—I don’t know…”

“He was calling him love,” Jim says, as though settling a matter.

“Ed does that,” Stede points out. “He called the ship’s wheel love this morning.”

“But not people, though,” Oluwande says.

Stede doesn’t really have a way of verifying this. Ed uses the endearment for him, of course, with wonderful regularity, but Stede hasn’t been keeping track of how often it’s directed elsewhere.

“They’re very close friends,” Stede says weakly, not wanting to share Ed’s private affairs among the whole crew.

“Like we were close friends?” Jim asks, bumping against Oluwande’s side.

“Precisely! Or—no, because—”

“Relax,” Jim says. “Just don’t get us involved again. Lucius is the only one who cares about your weird trío.”

“I care a little,” Oluwande says, earning a disbelieving look from Jim. “What! Roach does, too.”

“Idiotas,” Jim says.

Stede tries to summon his last vestiges of captainly authority. “I’m sure Ed and Izzy would appreciate some privacy while they work things out.”

“Ah!” Jim says, with a lot of glee for someone who was claiming not to care less than thirty seconds prior. “So they are working it out.”

“Their friendship,” Stede says frantically.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Stede sighs. Deciding not to make things worse, he says, “Thank you for your help,” and starts heading in the direction of the galley. It’ll be worth checking whether Roach received his compliment (Izzy apparently values the strength of the coffee Roach brews) and if any more gossip happens to come to the fore while he does so…

As he leaves, he hears Oluwande’s voice. “How much longer do you reckon it’ll take them?”

And Jim’s: “Fucking forever. They’re the biggest imbéciles on the ship.”

Notes:

ed realised he's in love with izzy and immediately became an absolute menace about it. love that for him

Chapter 12

Notes:

it's a little late but in my defence i had to abandon the first two drafts in order to land on this: horny swordfighting followed by horny play reading

Stede doesn’t get a chance to ask Izzy about his punishment until Frenchie’s lesson starts up that evening.

His first thought upon seeing Izzy is that he seems tense, but not overly so. Stede chooses to take this as a good sign, and approaches.

“Well, how did it go?” he asks, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. The lateness of the day has had little effect on the temperature, and Stede has half a mind to demand access to Izzy’s cabin—if only so he can escape somewhere a little cooler.

“Fine,” Izzy says. He pulls his cutlass from its scabbard and swings it around a few times, rolling his wrist. Stede steps out of his way.

“He did great,” Ed says, appearing behind Stede and kissing his cheek. “Really got into the swing of it after a while, didn’t you, Iz? Made Frenchie cry.”

“It was the dust!” Frenchie calls. “Dust’s always trying to make people cry.”

“There wouldn’t be any dust if you swept up every once in a while,” Izzy retorts. “Are we doing this or what?”

Frenchie doesn’t look especially enthused by the prospect. He’s stripped off his shirt in deference to the heat and is slumped against the capstan with his own sword hanging loosely from his hand. At Izzy’s question, he shrugs and pushes himself to a standing, if still somewhat slouched, position.

The others, many of them also half- or fully naked, are lounging across the deck, fanning themselves in hammocks, and generally paying less attention than they usually do. Stede and Ed are the only ones forming an audience, and Izzy glances at them dubiously as he takes his customary place, waiting for Frenchie to get into position.

“You don’t get to pick the weather when someone’s trying to kill you,” Izzy says. “Hurry up.”

“Fucking hell, give me a second,” Frenchie says. He looks down at himself, seems to realise there’s no more clothing he can shed without resembling Buttons, and groans.

“I’m waiting,” Izzy says with a mean little smile. He advances on Frenchie, and the shift of all his dark clothing makes Stede wince, even though Izzy isn’t outwardly showing any discomfort.

“He must be sweltering in all that,” Stede murmurs to Ed.

“Probably,” Ed says. “But he’s weird about getting naked. Pretty high up there on the list of stuff he’s weird about, actually.”

“Are you sure we can’t get him to take off the waistcoat, at least?”

“Yeah, ’course we can,” Ed says, as Frenchie finally manages to raise his sword with something resembling intent. “You want to order him to take off his clothes again, you go right ahead.”

He smirks.

“Oh, shush, you,” Stede says. He turns to focus on Frenchie. 

It’s a poor showing; Frenchie swipes half-heartedly at Izzy, only to be repelled time and time again. Even Stede can tell that the footwork’s messy, and that Frenchie isn’t holding his sword correctly.

After less than ten minutes, Izzy sighs. “Mr. Feeney, get your boy some water. We’re done.”

“Oh, thank god,” Frenchie says, and fairly collapses against the bulwark while Wee John fetches him a pitcher to drink from.

“What a shame,” Stede says. He isn’t sure when he started structuring his evenings around these lessons, but the last few days have proven to him that he feels aimless without one to observe, like there’s nothing to fill the hours between dinner and the crew’s bedtime story.   

“It doesn’t matter,” Izzy says. “I need to check our freshwater supply anyway.”

“No, you don’t!” Stede responds quickly. “This is your free time, remember. I won’t have you doing work simply because Frenchie’s—indisposed.”

Frenchie sends them a weak thumbs up with one hand, continuing to gulp down water with the other.

Izzy rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing else to do, Bonnet.”

“Nonsense. There’s—who else would like some training from our eminent Mr. Hands?” Stede asks the deck at large.

In response, he receives a number of discouraging groans.

“Well, that’s not the spirit,” Stede says, hands on his hips. “But I won’t force anyone. Has your stance on fighting me changed, I wonder?”

“No.”

“Ah,” Stede says, trying not to let his disappointment show. “In that case—”

“I’ll do it,” Ed says.

Izzy’s head whips to his captain. “Edward?”

“C’mon, Iz, it’ll be fun! We haven’t fought in ages.” Ed pauses. “We haven’t fought with swords in ages. Bet I can still beat you.”

“One time,” Izzy says to Stede, with a conspiratorial tone that almost makes Stede delirious with astonishment. “And he never lets me fuckin’ forget it.”

“Only because you’re not counting when we were kids,” Ed says. To Stede: “I could kick his arse any day of the week back then.”

“Yes, Edward, you were better at swordfighting than me when we were actual children.”

“You were a shitty loser back then, too,” Ed comments.

“Surely not as bad as he is now?” Stede asks. He may want Izzy to like him, but he’s not above the occasional—and truthful—assessment of his character. “He’s oh-for-two on duels against me, and I seem to recall rather a few insinuations that I cheated.”

“You,” Izzy says, pointing a finger at Stede. “Shut up. And you—” This to Ed. “Grab a fucking sword, if we’re doing this.”

Ed beams.

 

---

 

Stede is watching quite literally from between his fingers as Ed and Izzy go at each other with a ferocity that seems to point inevitably to bloodshed. They’ve managed to stir the crew from their languor, an unavoidable current humming through the air, like the sky before lightning.

They’re both smiling, too, which makes everything feel even more surreal.

“C’mon, Iz, that all you got?” Ed grins, knocking Izzy’s sword off its course (a relief, since Stede had been sure its destination was Ed’s eye). “I’m disappointed, man.”

Izzy laughs, which makes Stede feel like he’s stepped into a different reality, and then he’s slicing his sword horizontally, so close to Ed’s neck that Stede lets out a little squeak of terror. In the end, though, the only casualty is a clump of Ed’s hair, drifting to the deck.

“Needed a trim, anyway,” Ed says.

“I know,” Izzy responds, dodging a blow and landing badly on his foot, losing his balance for a split second.

Ed regains the upper hand, uses it to slice the buttons off Izzy’s waistcoat. They roll off in every direction: Frenchie grabs hold of one, and Wee John retrieves the others, skirting around the battle zone.

“Prick,” Izzy says. Ed grins unrepentantly and steps back, giving Izzy time to shed the inconvenience of his unbuttoned waistcoat.

“Oh my god, they’re flirting,” Lucius comments, in that way he has of whispering with the intention of everyone in the vicinity hearing him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Roach says, and then Ed swats Izzy on the arse with the flat of his sword, and he goes, “No, okay, I kind of see it.”

“That’s just regular swordfighting technique!” Stede retorts.

“Uh-huh,” Lucius says. “Who taught you swordfighting, again?”

Stede folds his arms, realises that looks silly and defensive, and lets his arms hang by his sides. They feel heavy and useless, in a way arms usually don’t. He can’t seem to recall a natural way of holding them.

In the centre of the deck, Izzy is gaining ground, sending Ed careening back towards the same mast Stede had been impaled on.

“You gonna run me through?” Ed asks, breathless.

It occurs to Stede that the way Ed flirts would be indistinguishable, to most people, from insanity.

“No,” Izzy says, then adds, “you idiot.”

“Have I told you lately that you’re no fun?” Ed asks, attempting to lunge forward. Izzy parries with lazy precision.

“You told me that less than an hour ago.” Izzy swipes at the exposed skin of Ed’s stomach, where his shirt is riding up. A scratch blooms, not bleeding but raised and white and ever-so-precise. Ed’s teeth glitter with a smile.

“Uh, yeah, because you wouldn’t let me go swimming.”

Izzy’s reply is drowned out by the clang of metal on metal. Stede thinks it’s something about sharks. He finds himself a little amused by the concept of Izzy telling Ed not to do something.

While Ed continues complaining about Izzy’s commitment to being responsible, Izzy manages to get Ed’s back against the mast, their swords crossed as they push ever closer to one another. When their faces are a breath apart, Ed tips his head back, baring his throat.

“I yield,” he says, winking.

Stede whoops loudly. Izzy turns to look at him, distracted, and Ed takes the opportunity to, fast as a serpent, press the tip of his sword to Izzy’s cheek. He draws a bead of blood from the centre of the X tattoo.

Izzy steps back, betrayed. “You yielded.”

“Yeah, I did,” Ed says, tossing the sword back to Frenchie. Jim manages to catch it before it impales his foot. “That was fun.”

Izzy touches his finger to the tiny cut. He has no way of seeing, but Stede thinks he must be aware of the precise way Ed’s located it. He stares at the smear of red on his index finger for a long moment, and then he unceremoniously licks the blood off. Ed’s mouth parts. Stede feels an utterly absurd desire to know what Izzy’s blood tastes like. Probably, he reminds himself, like blood, which is disgusting.

Lucius punches him in the arm.

“Hey!” Stede says, rubbing at the spot. He’s going to have a bruise. Probably.

“I know they’re the ones being, like, super weird right now,” Lucius says, this time quiet enough for only Stede to hear, “but you should maybe stop looking at Izzy like you want to rip all his clothes off and have your way with him on the deck? It’s gross.”

Stede blinks. “You rip people’s clothes off and have your way with them on the deck all the time,” he argues, and then realises what he’s saying. “And I don’t feel that way about Izzy!”

“Okay,” Lucius says. “Sure. In that case, you should probably go stop Ed from jumping him.”

Stede looks over, recognises that this is a real concern, and starts a round of applause. The rest of the crew join him, in a dazed sort of fashion.

“Well done!” Stede says loudly. “Great show.”

It snaps Izzy out of it, at least. He glares at Stede.

“Who won?” Jim asks.

“Um, Izzy, I think,” Stede says. He looks around for someone who might know. “Right?”

“’cept if it was a real duel, I could’ve said I yield and cut his throat the second he got distracted,” Ed says. He’s still looking at Izzy. His eyes are gleaming, liquid obsidian.

“So…Captain wins?” the Swede suggests timidly.

“No,” Izzy says. “You are not doing this to me again.”

“Relax,” says Roach, smiling. “No one’s throwing you off the ship. This time.”

“Hey, Iz?” Ed says, grabbing his shoulder and leaning down to whisper something in his ear. Whatever it is makes the tension spiral from Izzy’s shoulders, his body swaying in Ed’s direction in a way that seems beyond his control.

And Stede finds himself thinking that when Ed finally gets Izzy back into his bed, he does hope they’ll let him watch. 

 

---

 

“What did you say to him?” Stede asks Ed when things are getting set up for the bedtime story, everyone returning to their hammocks or bedrolls, chattering amongst themselves about the dramatic showing.

“Hm? Oh, I told him he won,” Ed says. “He’s a competitive little bugger.”

As is Ed, it seems. Conceding to someone with a whisper in their ear isn’t quite the same as announcing it to the entire crew, after all. 

“He did win,” Stede says, by now pretty sure of this. Ed had yielded, and if the bout didn’t end after that, when would it end? When they killed each other?

“Sure,” Ed says, clearly ready to let it go.

But something else is bothering Stede. “Ed. Is there really a rule about someone winning a duel if they render their opponent’s weapon inoperable?”

“Not sure,” Ed says, shrugging. “Never learned how to fight the fancy way, with rules and shit. Sounded right, didn’t it?”

“Maybe it only sounded right because we wanted him to lose,” Stede says, feeling a remarkable sense of regret for winning his duel, given that Izzy had stabbed him, and that it had hurt rather a lot, actually. 

“Well, yeah.” Ed scratches the side of his nose. “We’re pirates, love. If we wanted to be honourable about things, we’d be in the fucking Navy.”

But Stede isn’t thinking about that. He’s thinking about how that means, when it comes down to it, Ed had made a choice that night. He wasn’t bound by any real rules: he’d simply chosen Stede over Izzy. Or—chosen not to choose Izzy, which amounts to the same thing. Stede can’t help but find it romantic, even as his heart breaks more for Izzy than he’d thought possible.

“Are you staying for the story?” he asks, instead of bringing any of that to the fore.

Ed nods. “Can do. What’re you reading tonight?”

“Medea. One of the Greek tragedies,” Stede says. Then, like he’s only just thought of it: “And grab Izzy before he leaves, won’t you? I think he’ll like this one. There’s a lot of bloodshed.”

Ed laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

---

 

Izzy sits hemmed in by Ed and Frenchie while Stede explains the context of the play to his assembled audience, something he’s come to realise is necessary. His childhood education had put a strong emphasis on ancient literature, much of it brutal and sensual in a way that had appealed to and repelled Stede in equal measure. He’d been forced to commit the original Greek and Latin to memory, for all the good it did him.

The crew had resisted Stede’s more literary indulgences at first. Wee John, in particular, had insisted that he’d rather hear about the little wooden boy a thousand times over than hear one word of Shakespeare. But Stede has managed to bring them around. He indulges himself only once or twice a week, and his reading of the Iliad (spread over several weeks) had been a rousing success. There’d been a physical fight between Jim and Roach towards the end, but it had been as the result of a disagreement over Achilles’ actions, and so proves that they were engaged with the story.

It’s only as he’s beginning to read the first scene of Medea, switching between the voices of the nurse and the tutor, that he recognises some of the unfortunate parallels. Medea is the story, after all, of a powerful and violent woman who gave all she had for the love of a man—a man who didn’t love her back, or perhaps did but not enough. When he abandons her in his pursuit of a wealthy princess, Medea enacts gruesome revenge.

He goes ahead nevertheless, his mind straying first to the thought of how odd it is to find oneself relating to Glauce, of all people, and second to whether it would be worse to die by poisoned dress or by firing squad as a consequence of stealing someone’s husband.

It’s a struggle not to glance at Izzy constantly, both checking for his attention and for fear of him getting any ideas. Stede’s pretty sure Izzy’s gotten over wanting him dead, by this point, but it would be a hell of a thing to be wrong about.

When he does look, Izzy just seems tired—paying attention, certainly, but leaning back on his elbows, his legs stretched out. The only spot of colour on him is the rust-coloured spot of blood underneath his eye. Normally so repulsed by blood, Stede can’t understand why his eyes are drawn to it again and again, and why it provokes not disgust but—something else.

There’s a general outcry when Medea’s plot is revealed.

“She’s planning to kill her own kids?” Wee John says with a wounded gasp.

“She is a witch,” Frenchie points out, as though that explains it. “Witches can’t feel love.”

“She does love them,” Izzy says. Beside him, Ed looks startled, as though he hadn’t thought Izzy was listening. “She just wants to burn everything to the fucking ground.”

“Well,” Stede says uncomfortably, “that’s about it, yes. Medea wants to destroy everything Jason loves, and that includes their children.”

“Brutal,” Roach says. There’s a worrying hint of approval in his voice.

“Does she really go through with it, though?” the Swede says, tremulous.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” Stede shifts the book in his lap, meaning to go on, but Jim interrupts.

“Why doesn’t she just kill the bastardo who cheated on her, though?”

“Wouldn’t hurt him as much,” Ed says. “She kills him, he gets off easy. She kills everyone he loves…”

“Or she still loves him,” Izzy says. This, Stede thinks, is a complete misreading of the play, but he doesn’t say anything. Izzy’s eyes flick up to him. “You said they went on that whole adventure together. That she killed for him, betrayed her family, stayed by his side all those years. That doesn’t just go away because he’s with some princess. She could still love him.”

Stede swallows around a knot in his throat.

“If she loved him, why would she want to hurt him at all?” Frenchie asks.

“Sometimes it’s like that,” Ed says. He’s looking at Izzy, who’s looking straight forward with the taut posture of someone very aware they’re being stared at.

Oluwande makes a doubtful sound. “Bit of a reach if you ask me,” he says. “I reckon if you love someone you don’t go ’round trying to murder—ow!”

Lucius, having just thrown his notebook at him, sits up semi-successfully in his hammock. “Maybe Medea very secretly, deep down, still loves Jason. And maybe Stede is going to tell us all about how she decides not to murder their children and his new wife, because Medea is capable of growth.”

Stede, torn between fealty to Euripides and duty to his crew, looks down at the open book on his lap. If violence had broken out over Achilles’ refusal to fight the Trojans, he can only imagine the scene Medea’s ending will cause.

“Okay,” he says, tapping his fingers over the text he’s about to ignore. “Right, so where were we?”

 

---

 

“You changed the ending,” Ed says later, sauntering up to the capstan. Izzy lingers off to the side, so Ed lowers his voice before he says, “And I’m not Jason. That guy’s a dick.”

“I made him a little better in the second half,” Stede says. “He really loved Glauce. And he didn’t mean to hurt Medea, not really.”

“Still think he’s a dick.”

Stede nods in agreement. “There’s no one in the myths who’d do you justice, dear.”

Someone nearby makes an exaggerated retching noise, but it’s true: to Stede, Ed is the best of all of them. He’s Jason’s charisma; Achilles’ passion; Odysseus’ intelligence; Prometheus’ boldness. Ed looks at him like he knows what he’s thinking, like he’s unsure what to do with the scale of Stede’s adoration. Stede trails a hand down the side of his face and Ed leans into it, kissing his palm.

“He’s not Medea, either,” Stede whispers. “I’m certainly not Glauce. We’re making our own thing.”

Perhaps a tragic end had been their destiny, once. But Stede has had a lot of futures mapped out for him, and he hasn’t been much of a fan of any of them. He prefers this life he’s created for himself, where he’s helpless to the literal tides rather than the tides of fate, with people who’ve chosen to be his family.

Even if it was set out in the stars for Stede and Izzy to hate one another, for their story to end bloody, they’ve changed it. It’s not what either of them wants anymore.

There’s no literary allusion Stede can think of that encompasses what the three of them are to each other—not now. Not yet. They’re on the cusp of something new; he could feel it tonight, that storm of possibilities.

Ed grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet, laughing when Stede wobbles into his waiting arms. His legs are almost numb from so long sitting in one position, and he wraps an arm around Ed’s waist for balance.

“You waiting for us, Iz?” Ed calls out. Several people shush him, the fog of sleep drifting over the muggy deck. Izzy opens his mouth in a clear protest, but Ed raises a finger to his lips and he subsides.

With some nonverbal signal, Ed gestures for Izzy to follow them, and he does, walking stiffly to Ed’s side. They’re silent until they descend belowdecks, where the air is cooler and easier to breathe.

“Thank you for staying, Izzy,” Stede says, as uncomfortable as ever with quietude. “It was an unconventional storytime, tonight, but I’m glad you were there for it.”

“You should’ve read the story as it was,” Izzy responds. “Doesn’t look good for a captain to bow to pressure like that.”

Stede raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps you should come by our cabin sometime, if you’d like to hear the rest of it how it was written,” he says. “It’s hopelessly tragic, of course, but I’m sure you’ll prefer Euripides’ storytelling to mine.”

“Yours was fine,” Izzy says tightly. He looks over his shoulder, in the direction of the stairway that leads down to his cabin. Stede grabs his left hand before he can walk away.

It’s odd: he must have touched Izzy, skin to skin, before now. They’ve been on a ship together for the better part of a year, all in all, and it seems absurd that this would be the first contact between them. But it is. Stede knows, because he’s never felt this before.

Izzy’s hand is rough and ever-so-slightly damp with sweat, and touching it makes Stede feel lightheaded, like he’s taken a sudden rush of air into his lungs.

Why must it always feel like a revelation, Stede wonders, every time Izzy turns out to be the same flesh and blood as the rest of them?

“I mean it,” Stede says. “You’re always welcome.”

Izzy’s eyes flicker to Ed, but his hand is still in Stede’s, and he makes no attempt to pull away. That must mean something. What, Stede can’t pretend to know.

“Stede,” Izzy says, and he sounds small, almost lost. Stede stops touching him at once.

“Yes?” he prompts.

“Nothing,” Izzy says. “I’ll just—”

He jerks his head in the direction of the stairway, but this time it’s Ed who grabs him. He’s bolder than Stede, hand fitting over the swallow on Izzy’s neck, thumb pressing gently into the hollow of Izzy’s throat. His head tilts down, the descent lasting decades, centuries, and then his lips meet the spot he’d cut into with his sword, like he’s kissing it better. Stede can hear Izzy’s exhale, the agonised fall of it. He remains unmoving, though, as still as Galatea before Aphrodite’s intervention.

“’Night, Iz,” Ed murmurs. The heat in his voice sends shockwaves through Stede’s veins, unmistakable as anything other than what it is.

When he pulls back, Izzy’s face presents the same battle as it always does under the direct shine of Ed’s regard—though perhaps the lines have been redrawn. His eyes are wide, disbelieving, and there’s a soft sort of waiting to his mouth.

Eventually he draws in breath again; Stede watches his chest rise with it.

“Can I go?” he asks. His eyes are darting between Ed and Stede like he’s not sure what he’s seeing; like he’s not sure they’re real.

“Yes, of course,” Stede says, while Ed stays silent. “Sorry to keep you. I’m sure you have—sleep, to be getting to. Goodnight!”

Izzy’s eyes slide to Ed’s one final time. “Yeah,” he says, less a crack in his voice than a fissure, something ready to break open at the slightest provocation. “G’night.”

Stede and Ed stand there until he disappears, their asynchronous breathing loud in the passageway.

After a long while, Ed speaks. “So did you get that he was turned on that time, or—?”

Notes:

izzy: having an emotional breakthrough
stede: his reading comprehension is appalling

Chapter 13

Notes:

a kiss is just a kiss, except when it's with izzy hands

Stede can’t profess to be surprised when Ed starts kissing him the moment their cabin door shuts behind them. He is a little surprised by how aggressive it is: the sharp nip of Ed’s teeth on his lower lip, the tightness of his hand in Stede’s hair. He’s even more surprised by how much he likes it.

He gasps when Ed cages him against the door, and at the sound Ed pulls back with a questioning look, his grip loosening. But Stede nods at him to continue, something fizzy and addictive sparking in his chest.

It occurs to him that the circumstances should bother him; after all, Izzy’s the one who’s gotten Ed so worked up, the one who’s brought out this unfamiliar side to him. Vague notions of propriety linger at the edges of Stede’s mind, even as he gives himself over to the touch of Ed’s hands. Shouldn’t he be jealous? Or, at the very least, disquieted? It’s one thing to accept Ed’s feelings for Izzy, surely, and quite another to enjoy them so thoroughly.

But then Ed bites at his jaw, quick and sharp, and Stede stops thinking about anything except how good it feels.

It’s fast, from there: tumbling to the bed, Ed’s hands all over him and then inside him, fingering him open until he’s shivering with need, pushing back while Ed holds him down.

His brain feels foggy with pleasure, and by the time Ed is taking him he’s lost his words, communicating instead with a series of moans and whimpers that would be embarrassing with anybody else. With Ed, though, he finds it’s quite alright.

For all that the preamble had been rough, Ed is almost unbearably gentle with him once he’s inside, murmuring Stede’s name into his sweat-damp hairline and kissing him sweetly. Stede trembles under the attention, clutching Ed closer to him.

Even through the haze of lust and heat, his mind strays once more to Izzy—thinking of how he’d had this, or something close enough, and then lost it. He can’t help but think that losing Ed—or being near him every day without being able to touch him—would be enough to derange him quite utterly, too.

 

---

 

It takes some time for the both of them to get their breath back in the aftermath.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t take long for Stede’s mind to return to the unspoken subject at hand, and so the moment he’s recovered enough to speak he finds himself bringing up the moment in the passageway.

“I can’t help but wonder,” he asks, “what did kissing him like that mean?”

“Mean?” Ed asks, like Stede’s slipped into some foreign tongue. His voice has a pleasant, rough texture to it, like waves on a rocky shore. “Meant I wanted to.”

Stede takes a moment to absorb this, and as he does, Ed rises sinuously to his feet, hunting around for the washbasin and a rag to clean them off with. With Ed’s back turned, it’s easier to continue his line of questioning.

“What about Izzy?”

Ed makes a questioning noise, now wiping himself down in a way that’s all the more seductive for how little he’s trying to be. Illuminated only by the candlelight of the cabin, Ed gains an ethereal quality, shadows flickering over his skin.

Before he can give in to the urge to take Ed back into his arms, Stede asks, “What did it mean to him?”

He expects an answer to roll off Ed’s tongue—because for all that the private language Ed and Izzy share is imperfect, it has its moments of intense clarity. Stede feels sure he must be missing something in the exchange, and lies awaiting Ed’s translation.

“To him…yeah, I don’t know.”

Ed returns to the bed, a cloth held dripping in his hand. Stede leans back and relishes the coolness of the water on his belly.

Then he registers what Ed’s saying.

“You don’t know?” Stede doesn’t mean to let an edge of panic sneak into his voice, but—this is Izzy they’re talking about. A man who deals with his feelings by stabbing people. It seems unaccountably reckless to be going around kissing him without any thought to the outcome.

“Never really done anything like that before,” Ed says. He lies down beside Stede and props himself up on his elbow. “Not totally surprised he scarpered, to be honest with you.”

“Never done anything like that before? But…” Stede gasps. “Surely that wasn’t the first time you’ve kissed him?”

“No!” Ed replies hastily. He seems to be focusing on a spot just to the left of Stede’s face. “It was just—it used to be a bit more—bitey.”

“Bitey?” Stede echoes, propping himself up in a mirror of Ed’s position.

Unable to avoid his gaze as easily like this, Ed shuts his eyes.

“We didn’t really do it sweet, back then.”

And Stede knew this, of course. He knows that Ed hadn’t felt able to express the softer parts of himself until very recently, and that Izzy is—well, Izzy. It’s difficult to imagine them having the kinds of couplings that Stede is becoming used to: ones that involve rather a lot of kissing, and not very much biting.

But still, Stede had expected something, some measure of tenderness; even he and Mary had managed the occasional affectionate kiss, and there’d been far less passion between them than Stede has observed between Ed and Izzy.

He keeps his voice neutral when he asks, “Why not?”

“You try being sweet with Iz, see how far you get.” Ed sounds a bit grouchy, like he’d be folding his arms in a huff if he wasn’t using one of them to hold himself up.

“Yes, he’s a difficult person to be sweet to,” Stede admits, mollifying. He leans over to steal another kiss. “Unlike some people.”

It works: Ed opens his eyes, a soft, almost shy expression blooming over his features.

“Yeah?” he says.

Stede smiles, pulling Ed in close and settling them both down. It’s still too hot for sleep clothes, even with the sun nestled beneath the horizon, and so Stede feels no compunction to get up. None at all.

“Yes, my darling,” he says, and kisses the spot underneath Ed’s eye where, if he were another man, a tattoo might lie.

 

---

 

But Stede can’t sleep.

He tries, valiantly, matching his breathing to Ed’s and mentally reciting the dull poetry he’d been forced to learn in his schooldays. Still, his mind circles restlessly over the same ground, over and over, until he can’t bear to lie still anymore.

It’s the lack of a plan that’s getting to him. He wants to know how to proceed, how he’s supposed to behave. But Ed is, apparently, improvising. And that probably works, for Ed—but Stede’s never been much good to anybody without a script committed to memory and a step-by-step plan of action to follow. Even tonight, he’d felt clumsy, stumbling behind Ed’s lead.

There’s no moving without disturbing Ed, so Stede doesn’t try. He gently shakes Ed’s shoulder, sitting up.

Ed blinks an eye open, instantly alert.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Stede says. “I’m simply having a bit of trouble sleeping. A walk out on deck might do me good.”

“Want me to come with?” Ed offers, though his eye’s already dropping closed now he knows there’s no danger.

“You get your sleep,” Stede says. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come back.”

Ed’s answering huff of breath is slightly offensive, like he doesn’t believe Stede is capable of sneaking past Ed’s unconscious defences—but he probably isn’t, so it’s not worth getting into.

Stede covers himself with a robe: a relatively new acquisition, silky and light. Ed’s proven fond of ripping it off him, but for now Stede is simply grateful for how cool it is, with the belt tied loosely enough for him to feel the tickle of the breeze on his skin when he emerges on deck.

He expects Buttons and whoever else is on the midwatch to be keeping watch at the helm, so he heads in the opposite direction, abaft, thinking the breeze might be yet more pleasant there. It seems the perfect spot for a bit of quiet contemplation—until he sees the figure already standing there.

At first, he thinks he might be imagining him. Izzy looks rather spectral, after all, all in black, turned away from Stede. He’s gripping onto the taffrail, and from the taut line of his shoulders Stede gathers that he’s heard Stede’s approach.

“I apologise,” he says, “I don’t mean to intrude—”

Izzy laughs humourlessly. The sound of it sends a chill through Stede, while at once vindicating his worries about Ed’s impulsiveness. Izzy’s laugh, while blessedly not seeming like a precursor to violence, is a noise of profound unhappiness.

“When have you ever worried about intruding, Bonnet?” Izzy asks, very flat.

Stede keeps careful distance.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“No,” Izzy says. The straightforwardness of the answer takes Stede aback, and he struggles to formulate a response. While his mouth gapes, Izzy turns around. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in bed with your boyfriend?”

He says the word so unpleasantly, it almost sounds like a bad thing to have. Stede wants to order Izzy not to call Ed that, and then feels silly. Izzy could probably make a birthday cake sound unpleasant, if he so desired.

“I’m only here for some fresh air,” Stede says. “But I’m glad for the chance to speak with you.”

Izzy laughs again, that same unsettling sound. “You and Edward had a fight?”

“No!” Stede says hotly, before remembering to regulate his tone. There’s no privacy out here, even if everyone seems to be either asleep or at the other end of the ship. “What would make you think that?”

Izzy tilts his head up, like the sky holds more answers than Stede ever could.

“You’re here,” he says at length. “He’s not.”

“So what? You think because we’re not attached at the hip we must be fighting?”

Izzy meets Stede’s eye, only to immediately roll his in an exaggerated sort of way. “You said,” he says. Stops. “If you’re having more of your problems with jealousy—”

“Oh!” Stede can see why Izzy would think that; it had been a convenient half-truth to explain his actions of the previous week, though he hadn’t really expected Izzy to ever mention it again. But it’s a sensible conclusion for Izzy to have reached—perhaps even more sensible than the reality of things. If things were proceeding normally, Stede would have felt jealous, seeing Ed kiss Izzy like that. It certainly wouldn’t have set his blood racing. “No, no,” he says quickly, “Ed and I certainly wouldn’t fight on your account.”

He realises the second he’s said it that it’s a mistake—that in trying to correct one misunderstanding he’s created another one. He winces and opens his mouth to explain, but Izzy cuts him off.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“Hang on now, I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Izzy says, as cold as the night is hot.

“No, you don’t!” Stede says, desperation making him step forwards, as though by proximity he can make Izzy understand him. “It’s only that I—I wouldn’t fight with Ed about you. It would make him unhappy.”

Izzy blinks at him, very slowly. “Bonnet,” he says, “what do you think a fight is?”

“If you’d only be a bit nicer, I could explain myself better,” Stede says, flustered. He pulls his robe tighter around himself, feeling suddenly exposed.

“Just fuck off, Bonnet.”

“You called me Stede, earlier,” Stede says. It had felt lovely at the time, but now its absence only makes him feel worse.

“And now I’m calling you Bonnet,” Izzy says, which is perhaps fair retribution for the whole ‘Iggy’ situation. “You don’t have to come out here and—and taunt me, when I already know—”

“Izzy, no,” Stede says. “No matter what you think of me, I wouldn’t do that. I know how you feel about him—”

“You don’t.” Each word lands with a thud, and it’s Izzy who steps closer, this time, his voice boiling with rage.

“You love him,” Stede says. It stops Izzy in his tracks, but they’re still almost nose to nose, so close Stede can feel the potential for violence flickering between them. Quieter, he says, “You’re in love with him.”

Everything goes so still that Stede thinks the wind must have stopped. Stede can’t hear anything beyond the roaring in his ears. If Izzy kills him now, Ed will never forgive Izzy, and then Stede will have a very upsetting afterlife indeed.

But Izzy’s face only collapses into something like despair. “Does he know?”

Stede doesn’t want to lie, but he also knows that he’s dangerously close to attempting to fix Ed and Izzy’s relationship without Ed’s input. It won’t do for Stede to tell Izzy how Ed feels; taking that confession away from the both of them would be an act of theft far worse than any he’s carried out as a pirate.

“He wants you to stay,” Stede says instead, because Ed has told Izzy as much. “You’re—you’re very important to him, and—”

“Does he know, Bonnet?”

Stede presses his lips together. He searches Izzy’s face for some way to get out of answering—finds none.

“I don’t see how he couldn’t,” Stede says, knowing as he does that it would be kinder to lie. “But it’s alright, Izzy—”

He reaches out, meaning to touch Izzy’s arm, and Izzy pushes his hand away, stumbling backwards.

“How would you know?” Izzy asks. “How would you know, when you have everything, and I—”

“I don’t have everything!” Stede responds. “It’s true, Ed chose me, but—”

The look on Izzy’s face is pure agony. His pain seems to shine out of him in the darkness.

“You think I don’t know that?” he rasps. “You think I don’t see, every fucking day, that it’s you he loves? That it’s not—it’ll never be me.”

Stede’s heart is hammering so fast that he doubts he’ll ever sleep again. Guilt swamps him, even as a tendril of possessiveness notes its approval of Izzy’s words.

“Izzy—” But there’s nothing Stede can say to make it better. He’s fucked up this conversation more royally than he would have believed possible not ten minutes ago. Perhaps he should tell Izzy to stay still while he gets Ed. Or perhaps he should pass this conversation over to anybody else. Even Buttons would be doing a better job. Incomprehensible musings about the magic of the sea would irritate Izzy, undoubtedly, but they wouldn’t break his heart.

“I don’t know what game the two of you are playing,” Izzy says, and he’s made his voice hard again, brittle, “but you can stop it. Just—fucking leave me alone.”

“I don’t think you want that.”

Izzy’s gaze sharpens, his eyes flashing like steel. “And you’d know all about what I want, wouldn’t you, Bonnet?”

“No,” Stede admits. “But you haven’t left, have you? And I don’t think you will.”

With another bitter laugh, Izzy says, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s my captain,” Izzy says. The way he says it: it’s like a confession, not a statement of fact.

“And you love him,” Stede adds, quiet.

“And I love him.”

Stede rather doubts anyone else could have made those words sound quite so painful to say.

Stede says what he can, which is, “He’s lucky to have you.”

It’s not enough. What’s more, he can tell that Izzy doesn’t believe him.

He reaches out again. This time, Izzy doesn’t move. Stede rests a hand on his shoulder, though such a gesture quickly feels inadequate.

“I’d like to hug you,” he says.

Izzy just looks at him, uncomprehending.

Stede had expected a more vehement resistance, so he carries on undeterred. “I would like to give you a hug,” he repeats, while Izzy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Fucking—why?”

“Because I need a hug, and you need a hug, and Ed isn’t here,” Stede says.

“I don’t need a hug.” Izzy’s arms twitch.

“Everyone needs a hug sometimes,” Stede says, gentle but insistent. “But even if you don’t, I certainly do.”

“Make it an order, then,” Izzy says.

It’s Stede’s turn to look horrified. “Of course I wouldn’t order you to—”

“Bonnet,” Izzy says, something cracking apart in his expression, “make it a fucking order.”

“Oh,” Stede says, “um, I order you to—”

Before he’s even finished, he’s got an armful of Izzy. It makes him very aware of the delicacy of his robe, being clutched at by all of Izzy’s spiky edges. It feels a bit like handling a porcupine.

A few seconds pass before Izzy relaxes his grip somewhat, folding more easily into Stede’s space. Once he does, it feels unexpectedly lovely to stand there holding him, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other flat against his spine. Izzy’s rather small, really, in a way that Stede rarely notices; his eyes are only just about level with Stede’s nose.

Izzy shifts his head to rest on Stede’s shoulder without being asked, letting out a shaky little breath as he does. Stede can feel the breath on his neck, and all at once the position goes from feeling comforting to intimate. This close, Izzy smells of lye and gunpowder, like a very clean explosion.

Stede hangs on for as long as he feels he can get away with, and then he very carefully lets go.

“Alright?” he can’t help but ask.

“Shut up,” Izzy says, but it’s quiet and, by his own standards, gentle.

 

---

 

Stede doesn’t even try getting back into bed with Ed; there’s no sleeping for him now. Instead, he lays himself out on the couch and waits for morning to come, gaining a few fitful stretches of unconsciousness that only result in him gasping awake from anxious dreams.

At first light, he grabs a book without even looking at the title and stares down at its pages without reading. He wonders if he should have stayed with Izzy a little while longer—but no, it would have been pure selfishness, when Izzy so clearly wanted to be left alone.

Stede doesn’t want to be alone, though. He waits for as long as he can, which isn’t very long at all, and then he puts the book aside and coughs, loudly.

The first noise Ed makes upon waking is a confused sort of grumble, which Stede feels guilty about, and then he sits up and spots Stede halfway across the room, his brows furrowing in a way that makes Stede feel even guiltier.

“What happened?” Ed asks. There are times when Stede wishes he was just a smidgen less perceptive.

Stede sighs and stands up. He looks at the watery light filtering through the bed nook’s window, then at the rumpled mess of sheets, and then, finally, at Ed.

“I ran into Izzy on my walk last night,” Stede says. It’s all he needs to say, really.

Ed turns his body so that he can fall, face first, into the pillows. Once positioned, he lets out a long, loud groan. Stede accepts the justice of this, and waits.

“Why can I never leave you two alone?” Ed asks, still muffled.

“Well, that’s not—” Stede tries to think of a time he and Izzy being alone together hasn’t ended in disaster. “We did alright when we were on our way to save you from Spanish Jackie!”

Ed peers up at him. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Stede says decisively. “He told me stories about when the two of you were younger, and barely insulted me at all. And I only got annoyed with him a couple of times. I suppose we were rather focused on finding you, in that particular instance, but I think we really bonded!”

Ed does actually look a little surprised, like he’d thought Stede and Izzy had spent the entire journey to Jackie’s sniping at one another.

“And last night?” Ed prompts. “Did he tell you more stories about the old days?”

“Er, no,” Stede says. He straightens his robe, which was already straight. “I think—I may have goaded him into saying he loves you.”

It doesn’t sound any better out loud than it had in his head. More’s the pity.

“You what?”

“I think I goaded him—”

“No, I heard you,” Ed says. “You—what the fuck, Stede?”

“I gave him a hug afterwards?” Stede offers, wringing his hands together.

Ed could not have looked more shocked, Stede thinks, if Stede had started his day by pointing a gun at him.

“And…” Ed swallows, his brows knitting together in a frown. “He let you?”

“Yes,” Stede says. “Well, no. It was complicated. I asked, and then I think—I think he ordered me to order him to do it.”

“He ordered you?” Ed says, disbelief writ large on his face.

“Sort of,” Stede says. “I think. You know how he is.”

“You hugged him,” Ed mutters. He sounds jealous; Stede keeps his mouth shut. “And then?”

“Well, I left,” Stede admits. “I didn’t want to outstay my welcome. The situation was a bit…fraught.”

“Oh,” Ed says, mocking, “was it?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Stede says. “But he took me by surprise! Being out there! And he was upset to begin with, which was your fault—”

He quakes under Ed’s glare.

“So you forced him to say he loves me?” Ed clearly intends to sound angry, but the final two words dip into something more like wonderment.

“I didn’t say forced,” Stede responds carefully. He walks over and sits at the other end of the bed. “It came up organically.”

Ed looks at him for a long moment. Then he rubs a hand over his face. And then, very softly, he whispers, “He really said it?”

And—oh. Stede had been so focused on not taking Ed’s confession of love away from the both of them, he hadn’t even thought about Izzy’s. It just seemed like such an established fact, by this point: the sky is blue, Buttons can talk to seagulls, Izzy loves Ed. But, of course, he’d never said it out loud until Stede selfishly dragged it out of him.

“He did,” Stede says. “I’m sorry. It should’ve been to you.”

Ed bites at the side of his thumb, not arguing the point.

“It’s stupid,” Ed says after a long pause. “I already knew.”

“Hearing it is different,” Stede says, offering his hand. Ed takes it, tangling their fingers together. He stretches his legs out alongside Stede’s.

“Tell me about it,” Ed says. “Please.”

So Stede does. He takes Ed through the entire conversation as best he remembers it, sparing no detail. It occurs to Stede that he might be invading Izzy’s privacy, but telling Ed feels necessary—and it’s not like discretion has been working in Stede’s favour, anyway. He stumbles over his own description of the way Izzy had sounded when he’d spoken those words aloud, the agonised scrape of them from Izzy’s throat. Ed clutches at Stede’s hand as he speaks, his nails digging in briefly before he remembers himself.

“Shit,” he says, when Stede’s finished.

Stede nods. “I really am sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to keep making things difficult for you two. Mary would tell you—I’m pretty useless when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“No, it’s—” Ed squeezes his hand. “You’re great, and—it’s not like me and him were doing a better job of it before you came along.”

Stede presses his lips together, trying to quash his self-pitying streak. It isn’t helpful right now.

“I think you should tell him,” he says. He tries to sound decisive about it, but something in his voice wavers.

“Tell him what?” Ed asks cautiously.

“That you love him, too.” It’s Stede’s first time saying it in as many words. Something releases in his chest, his heart fluttering like a bird set free. “He des—he should know.”

“Stede, love…” Ed’s thumb traces the dip between Stede’s forefinger and thumb. “Are you ready for that?”

Stede swallows. “I think I have to be,” he says. When Ed opens his mouth to protest, he continues: “No, I know how that sounds. But I can’t keep it a secret, and you shouldn’t have to, and I think—don’t you think you can make him happy?”

“I don’t know,” Ed says, looking down at his own knees. “It’s a lot of pressure. It’s always a lot of pressure, with him.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“You don’t, though.” Ed sighs. “I know he’s miserable. Has been for years, but—wouldn’t it be worse, if we tried and it didn’t work?”

Stede never thought he’d be sat trying to talk the love of his life into pursuing another man, but here he is, and at the end of the day it doesn’t feel so awful.

“Ed, my darling,” he says, “it’s not working. It doesn’t matter if you and Izzy go on as you have been. It’s hurting both of you, and it’s going to keep hurting until you either end it for good, or—”

“End it for good? You mean…” Ed looks horrified. “I can’t leave him.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Stede says quickly. “And goodness knows that if I hadn’t just—” He waves his free hand around, trying to illustrate the degree to which he’s negatively impacted the trajectory of Ed and Izzy’s relationship in the last twelve hours. “—maybe you could have worked up to it. But—goodness, Ed, what’s the worst that can happen if you tell him you love him?”

“I could lose one of you,” Ed replies, blinking rapidly. “I could lose both of you.”

“Well, you won’t lose me,” Stede says. “And, do excuse me if I’m overstepping, but don’t you think that if Izzy was going to leave you he would’ve done it by now?”

By now, Stede thinks he knows Izzy well enough that he can pinpoint the moment that would have driven him away, if anything could have. It wouldn’t have been the loss of his toe, or any violence Ed could enact upon him; no, it would have been when Stede and crew returned, and Ed had told Izzy to clean up the captains’ quarters ready for Stede to move back in. If that indignity hadn’t driven Izzy to set out on his own, Stede can hardly see how a declaration of love would prove otherwise.

Ed’s shoulders slump. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m just scared. Shitting fuck. Since when am I scared of Izzy?”

“If it helps,” Stede says, “I personally think Izzy can be very scary when he wants to be.”

Ed laughs, a watery sort of thing.

“I can’t take it back,” he says. “You know that, right? Once it’s out there, that’s it.”

“Yes,” Stede says. “I know.”

“Okay,” Ed says. He nods to himself. A fierce determination comes over him, visible in every line of his face, every inch of his body. And then he says, “Hey, can we have breakfast first?”

Notes:

every few chapters izzy gets to have a life-changing hug, as a treat

Chapter 14

Notes:

cw: there's some discussion of consent issues, here, in keeping with what we've learned of ed and izzy's past so far. the real issue is/was a lack of communication rather than a lack of consent, but i still thought i'd warn for it here

Stede toys with the stem of his wineglass, casting a critical eye over the table settings.

Drinking alone certainly isn’t an ideal state of affairs, but with Ed finally off to speak with Izzy, and everything still up in the air, Stede thinks himself justified in getting a head start on the bottle of wine he’d laid out for dinner.

The table is set with two places, this evening, but there’s a set of cutlery and another glass placed oh-so-conveniently in the middle of the table, ready and waiting should they be called upon. Stede isn’t sure what to expect—things between Ed and Izzy, he feels, are either going to go very, very well or very, very badly—but it never hurts to be prepared.

The wine does little to dull the way Stede’s nerves are prickling, a thousand scenarios unfolding in his mind’s eye. It’s a struggle to pick his least favourite: would it be the version where Ed and Izzy fall spectacularly apart, or the one where they come together so perfectly that they decide they’d rather not have anything to do with Stede, after all?

For all that Stede has been instrumental in organising this outcome, he feels unpleasantly superfluous—not to mention helpless.

And it’s only been five minutes since Ed left! Perhaps it was a bad idea to allow him to procrastinate for the better part of the day, but Stede hadn’t wanted to pressure him—not about something like this. It’s only that anticipation has been building in Stede all the while, and now it sits as a physical pressure on his lungs.

Suppose they stay in Izzy’s quarters all night? Stede really can’t say whether he’ll survive that long.

He’ll check on them in about an hour, he decides. It’s just good sense; violence between Ed and Izzy isn’t unheard of, and it’s just the responsible thing to do, making sure everyone’s alright.

He’s just trying to think of the most delicate way to go about it, not wanting to interrupt Ed and Izzy in flagrante if that’s the turn their evening takes, when Izzy himself barrels into the captains’ quarters, bursting through the door and coming to an unsteady halt across the table from Stede. His eyes are utterly wild, and Stede stares into them the way one might stare into an abyss, paralysed.

“What the fuck is going on?” Izzy yells, his body thrumming with the panicked energy of someone being chased.

Stede would quite like to know what the fuck is going on, himself. It doesn’t seem like there could possibly have been time for Ed to induce this sort of reaction in Izzy; the walk to Izzy’s cabin alone would have filled a few of the minutes of Ed’s absence, and yet Izzy is more worked up than Stede’s ever seen him.

“Edward kissed me,” Izzy shouts, and Stede thinks, ah, yes, that would do it. Before he can collect himself enough to reassure Izzy, however, the outburst continues apace: “So whatever it is you’ve done, fucking fix it.”

Stede boggles at him. “How on earth would Ed kissing you be my fault?” he asks, instead of the hundreds of things it might be better for him to say at this particular moment in time.

The question does, at least, have the effect of briefly stunning Izzy into silence, although Stede knows better than to think the danger has passed. For one thing, Izzy’s skin is turning steadily more crimson, which is as good a sign as any that an explosion is imminent.

Stede straightens the fork closest to him on the table, trying to think of how best to proceed. He settles on with composure.

“While I’m certainly touched that you felt the need to come and tell me, Izzy—”

“This isn’t about you!” Izzy spits, livid. “This is about—you don’t know what he was like when you left him. You broke his fucking heart without even trying, and he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do something like this unless you made him, somehow. He adores you, you posh fucking narcissist twat, and—”

“Izzy,” says Ed, from the doorway, and Izzy stops at once. Some of the righteous anger slips from his expression, leaving a desolate, hollow sort of countenance behind. Ed doesn’t look much better; having heard Izzy’s words—as most of the ship must have, honestly—he appears to be some combination of upset, indignant, and guilty.

Stede can’t help but think that he’s rather proud of Izzy for having the self-control to run off, actually. Ed had chosen to wear his full leathers for the occasion, and the get-up is unusual enough, these days, that its impact is renewed each time. He’d brushed a little kohl around his eyes, too—not enough to recall the Kraken, but enough that Stede would be inclined to call his appearance sultry.

“Ed, dear,” Stede asks, draining the last of his wine and getting to his feet, “did you happen to say anything at all before you started kissing him?”

Ed’s expression turns sheepish. It takes a moment for him to gather himself enough to speak: he’s out of breath, which Stede supposes is because the element of surprise was on Izzy’s side when he dashed off. It must have been quite the job catching up with him.

“I said, you know, hi,” Ed says, moving further into the cabin.

“No you didn’t,” Izzy argues without looking at him. “You came in, stared at me for a bit, said fuck it, and fucking kissed me.”

Ed pouts.

“Didn’t think you’d immediately go running to Stede, did I?” he says. Then, to Stede, he adds: “You alright, love?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Stede says quickly. “Izzy, would you like to take a seat?”

“We’re not having another one of your fucking dinner parties, Bonnet,” Izzy snarls. It’s even more obvious than usual that his anger is a façade; the swamp of his distress and confusion is heartbreakingly visible through the cracks. “You can’t fix everything with your fancy clothes and wine and china fucking plates. Edward just kissed someone else.”

It’s curiously distancing, Stede thinks, the way Izzy says ‘someone else’ instead of ‘me’. As though, in whatever scenario Izzy’s constructed in his head, the person Ed chose to be unfaithful with was of no consequence.

“And you’ll notice that I’m not at all upset with him,” Stede says, eminently reasonable.  

But he should have known that Izzy isn’t ready to listen to logic.

“You’d forgive him anything, wouldn’t you?” he says. “You forgave him for trying to kill Spriggs, for leaving your crew for dead; what says you wouldn’t forgive him an indiscretion or two, while you’re at it—”

“Israel,” Stede says sharply, because if he allows Izzy to lash out at Ed’s most vulnerable points, there’ll be worse to deal with than a simple lack of communication. “I forgave Ed for those things because he was sorry, and because he’s shown every day since that he won’t do anything like that again. Just like I’ve forgiven you for trying to kill me all those times. We’ve all wronged each other; it wouldn’t do to let it all fester forever, would it?”

“I never apologised for anything,” Izzy points out.

There’s a pause where, if Izzy were a decent sort of man, he’d apologise now.

Stede sighs. “Have you ever heard the saying, my dear, that actions speak louder than words?”

Izzy scowls, and Stede watches a muscle in his jaw jump.

“Especially with you,” Stede can’t help but add.

Ed, having advanced silently to within a few feet of Izzy’s back, says, “You’re not going to get out of this by being a dick, Iz.”

“Get out of what?” Izzy says, whirling on him. “What the fuck do you want from me, Edward, I can’t—”

“Just want you,” Ed says, taking a very careful step into Izzy’s space. Izzy shudders all over, but he doesn’t move. “Am I not allowed to want you, now?”

“You’re such a fucking arsehole,” Izzy says.

Ed touches Izzy’s face with the very tips of his fingers, tracing the deep-set lines of his and Izzy’s years together. Stede fancies he can spot the precise moment Izzy stops breathing.

“Sorry, Iz,” Ed says. “Shouldn’t have sprung it on you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Whatever anger had remained in Izzy deflates, just like that, and Stede finds himself remembering something Izzy had said to Ed, before: You’re always forgiven.

Maybe it’s a terrible power that Ed has over Izzy; it certainly weighs on them both. But as Stede watches, Ed’s hand moves down to trace the swallow on Izzy’s neck, slow and careful, as though committing the lines of it to memory. And Izzy lets him—Izzy, who’d once threatened to cut off Lucius’ hand for daring to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. Izzy stands there, and allows Edward to touch the most vulnerable part of him. And he allows Stede to bear witness to it.

“Guess you can’t help being a twat,” Izzy says.

“Guess you can’t help being a dick,” Ed responds. He tilts his head, clearly angling for something, and—

“You can’t—Bonnet—” Not that Izzy seems especially concerned about Stede’s presence in the room, at this point. Stede doubts there’s a force on earth that could compel him to take his eyes off Ed.

“Forget Stede a sec,” Ed says, to which Stede can’t help making a little affronted noise. Ed’s eyes flit over to him, and he winks before dedicating his attention back to Izzy. “Just you and me, Iz.”

“Can’t forget him,” Izzy says. “He’s a very loud breather.”

“Hey!” Stede says.

“Hm,” Ed says. He taps his fingers against the side of Izzy’s neck in thought. “Maybe we went about this in the wrong order. Stede, love?”

“Yes?”

“You want to kiss Izzy for me?”

At first, Stede thinks he’s misheard. The shock of it is a little bit like when he’d been stabbed, the first time, and it had taken a few seconds for the reality of it to sink in.

“I’m…not sure…if Izzy wants that,” he manages, which is a polite way of saying he thinks Izzy would as soon bite his lips off as kiss him nicely.

Izzy is unhelpfully silent.

“Right, but if he wanted that,” and Ed’s smiling, a knowing sort of smirk, “you’d want it too, yeah?”

Stede makes a sound not unlike a squeak. The air of the captains’ cabin, already hot, now feels like a furnace. “I’d certainly be—interested,” he says.

In the ensuing shocked silence, Stede can only curse whoever first discovered that imbibing fermented grapes could loosen one’s tongue.

He can’t completely see Izzy’s face with him turned towards Ed, and so he relies mostly on the uptick in Izzy’s breathing to ascertain how he feels about that. It could mean arousal, Stede thinks—or incandescent rage.

“Edward,” Izzy says, each syllable sounding like it sticks in his throat, “you know I can’t—”

“Yeah, I know,” Ed says. “Tell you what, you want to give your other captain what he wants, you just go ahead and turn around for him. Don’t have to do anything else. I’ve got you.”

And then his hand slides around, giving Izzy’s throat what almost looks like a reassuring squeeze.

When Izzy turns around, the first thing Stede notices is how dark his eyes are, irises swallowed up by his pupils. And then he allows himself the liberty of looking Izzy over properly, the way he hasn’t really allowed himself yet. Izzy’s waistcoat is missing, presumably yet to be repaired, but in every other sense he looks the same as ever: all in black, hair neat and slick. This is undeniably the man who’d run Stede through as easily as breathing, and yet now he’s standing, vulnerable, awaiting Stede’s touch.

It's only when Izzy lets out a shaky breath that Stede remembers he’s been given his cue. He stumbles forward, clumsy. Izzy doesn’t even make a mocking comment.

Once he’s in range, Stede clears his throat, a nervous giveaway of a sound. Ed steps in close behind Izzy, wrapping an arm securely around his middle. He lowers his mouth to Izzy’s ear and whispers, just loud enough for Stede to catch, “Be nice for us, yeah?”

Ed’s proximity makes it easier—as Ed must have known it would—for both of them. Stede’s hand only shakes a little when he reaches up to touch Izzy’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his tattoo before cupping his jaw.

“What’s he doing?” Izzy asks, clearly to Ed.

“Taking his time with you,” Ed says. His eyes are boring into Stede’s. “You just sit tight there, Iz, he’ll give you what you want.”

Izzy gasps out a sharp little breath, and Stede’s first thought is that it’s a gorgeous sound. His second thought is that he needs to be kissing Izzy right now, and so he does.

He covers Izzy’s parted lips with his own, licking in right away, and the slick sound of their mouths seems louder than cannon fire in the hushed anticipation of the cabin. Ed makes a noise of disbelief, but to Stede it makes perfect sense: if he’s going to do this, he’s damn well going to do it properly.

Izzy’s beautifully responsive, the last vestiges of his self-control abandoning him between one blink and the next, and he keeps making noises, muffled into Stede’s mouth but no less desperate for it. Stede presses in closer, tilting Izzy’s head how he wants it, and both Ed and Izzy gasp in tandem. When Stede gathers enough of his senses to pull back, he sees that Ed’s got his mouth on Izzy, too, licking at the swallow on his neck with vampiric determination.

“Izzy, darling,” Stede says, and Izzy’s eyes snap open. He looks dazed, like someone emerging from a dream. “Was that alright?”

“Edward—” Izzy says. He sounds breathless, and Stede thinks I did that with no small measure of pride. “Tell him—”

Ed stops biting at Izzy’s neck long enough to say, “He’s fine, love. He wants it.”

“Ri-ight,” Stede says uncertainly. Despite what Ed had told him about Izzy’s comportment during sex, he’d still been hoping for something a little more effusive. He brushes his thumb over Izzy’s bottom lip while he thinks it over, watching Ed lick his way up Izzy’s jugular vein and over his jaw.

“Bonnet,” Izzy says. He’s blinking rapidly, and Stede realises at once how overwhelming the situation must be for him. It’s certainly overwhelming for him.

“Will you sit down, now, Izzy?” he asks, authoritative enough that it could be interpreted as an order, if someone was inclined to want it to be. “Ed has something he wants to talk to you about.”

“Hm? No, I don’t,” Ed contributes, biting at the shell of Izzy’s ear.

“Ed,” Stede says.

“Stede,” Ed responds. His arm visibly tightens around Izzy’s stomach, like he’s expecting Stede to try and pull him away. “Izzy doesn’t like talking. Do you, Iz?”

Izzy blinks some more, though it does little to regain his focus. “I—” he says, and swallows. “S’pose I still want to know what the fuck’s going on.”

“Exactly!” Stede says delightedly, bending down to peck Izzy’s lips in thanks. “Talking, Ed!”

“Can’t I just make him come, first?” Ed asks, seemingly oblivious to the way his words make Izzy’s skin, almost back to normal, flush bright pink. “He’s so nice for, like, ten whole minutes after he’s gotten off, you wouldn’t believe.”

Stede strokes Izzy’s cheek, still marvelling over the fact that Izzy’s letting him. “He’s being perfectly nice right now.”

“I’m not,” Izzy protests, while nuzzling into Stede’s hand like a cat.

“Come on, then,” Stede says. “Over to the settee, I think. Don’t look at me like that, Ed, you can still hold him.”

“Oh, can I?” Ed says, with truly impressive sarcasm. Stede ignores him and marches decisively over to the settee, sitting down as he waits for the other two to follow. They do, after a fashion; not before Ed turns Izzy’s face and kisses him so fiercely that Izzy emerges with lips red and swollen, his eyes even less focused than before.

“I—Edward—”

“Yeah, Iz, you can sit on the floor,” Ed says.

“No, he can’t,” Stede says, though he’s in slight awe of how well Ed can intuit what Izzy wants from this. If only they were this in tune with each other outside of the bedroom, they could’ve solved all their problems years ago. “We’re having a discussion as equals. Izzy will be on the settee with us.”

“Not gonna fit,” Izzy says vaguely.

“It’ll be a bit of a squeeze,” Stede admits. “But that’s not really a problem anymore, is it?”

Izzy tilts his head. “S’pose not,” he says.

Stede gives Ed a look that he hopes communicates the question How do we get him back to normal? Ed just shrugs, leading Izzy to the couch with a hand on his waist—and Izzy complies, looking more drunk than Stede’s ever seen him.

“Would you like some water, Izzy? Tea?” Stede asks.

“Mm,” Izzy says, and Stede decides to take that as a yes. He hops up again and pours both tea and a glass of water while Ed and Izzy get settled. When he turns back around, Ed is kissing Izzy again, this time pressing him down on the seat of the settee. Stede supposes he only has himself to blame, but he still sighs his disapproval, loud enough for them both to hear.

He shouldn’t be surprised. It’s similar to how Ed had been when he and Stede had worked things out—like a flood of affection had been released, with no hope of holding it back. Stede had certainly reaped the benefits at the time, and it would, perhaps, be cruel to deny Izzy the same.

Then again, he and Ed had managed to get their talking it through out of the way beforehand.

“Sit up, both of you,” Stede says. He passes Izzy the tea and the water and situates himself in the small space between him and the arm of the chair. It is a squeeze—he can feel Izzy warm against his side—but there’s space enough to breathe, and Stede feels content that no one need be banished to the floor. Not yet, anyway.

Ed puts a hand on Izzy’s thigh. Stede slaps him off.

“I understand you have some questions, Izzy,” he says.

“Um,” Izzy says. He sips at his water. “You—um.”

“I understand that this is a lot to take in,” Stede says. “For all of us. But after our discussion last night—” And, this close, he can feel the way Izzy stiffens at the reminder, the looseness of his limbs locking into tension. “I wanted you to know how much Ed cares for you,” he finishes lamely.

“Right, so. This is because you feel sorry for me?” Izzy asks. Stede thinks he means to sound outraged, but it’s difficult to tell when his voice is still so slow and sweet.

“No, not at all,” Stede says. “Ed?”

“Mm?”

“Do you,” Stede grits out, “have anything you’d like to say to Izzy?”

“There’s stuff I’d like to do to Izzy,” Ed grumbles, but then he sees the way both of them are looking at him and relents. “Yeah, it’s—sort of realised I missed you, even though, you know, you’re always here. And I think it’s ’cause I miss how we used to be, or parts of it. And Stede’s—you know. He’s up for it.”

Ed winces as his words slow to a halt, which Stede thinks is a fair assessment of that oration.

But Izzy doesn’t seem to agree. “You missed me?” he says, a timbre to his voice that Stede’s never heard before. He thinks it might be hope.

“Yeah, Iz,” Ed says. He looks like he wants to kiss him again, so Stede clears his throat. “I mean—Stede, love, come on, if I say it he’ll just go running off to fucking Frenchie or something.”

“No, he won’t,” Stede says.

“Depends how bad it is,” Izzy says.

“It’s real fucking bad, Iz,” Ed says gratefully.

“It’s not,” Stede says. “I can leave the room if it’s easier for you that way.”

“No,” Izzy says, with unexpected vehemence. His shoulder nudges into Stede’s, and Stede can feel his skin going hot.

“Drink your tea,” he says, because otherwise he’s going to start kissing Izzy again, and then where will they be?

Izzy does as he’s told, and while he’s occupied Ed makes a series of evocative but not particularly illuminating faces over the top of his head. Stede responds in kind, trying to convey the need to tell Izzy that he’s loved before they start sleeping with him. Possibly he just looks like there’s an itch on his nose that he’s trying to rid himself of without scratching.

Izzy finishes his tea before they’ve come to any sort of resolution on the matter.

“Was this what the fucking dinners were about?” he asks, benign.

“No!” Stede says. “I really did—do—want to be your friend, and a better captain, Izzy; this wasn’t all some big seduction.”

“Oh,” Izzy says, sounding neither relieved nor disappointed.

“And this will be tricky, because we are still your captains,” he continues, “but you can always say no to anything we ask of you in, well, this context.”

“Why?”

“If there’s anything you don’t want,” Stede clarifies.

Izzy turns to look at Ed, clearly requiring further explanation.

“No, he’s right,” Ed says. “This isn’t another way for you to serve your captains, love, it’s just something we all want.”

A frown mars Izzy’s serene expression. “But it’s—I don’t—”

“Hey,” Ed says, and this time, when he kisses Izzy, Stede allows it. “Stede said you told him you love me.”

Izzy makes a pained sound into Ed’s mouth and surges halfway into his lap, like he can force this conversation to be over if he just keeps Ed’s mouth occupied long enough. Ed strokes a hand through his hair, making soothing sounds.

“No, you’re fine. Don’t have to say it again,” Ed says, though Stede doubts Izzy can miss the longing underneath the words. “Just say you want this. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Never had to before,” Izzy complains.

“Yeah, and there must’ve been stuff I did that you—that you didn’t want, or didn’t especially like,” Ed says stiffly.

“That doesn’t matter,” Izzy says. Ed lets out a pained sound.

“What if I tell you it matters now,” he says.

Izzy draws back slightly, meeting Ed’s eye. “I want everything you’ll give me,” he says. “That’s what I’ve always—wanted.”

“Shit,” Ed breathes, and promptly hides his face in Izzy’s neck.

Stede can sense that this is where their private language falls apart. He reaches out for them both, his touch light and soothing.

“You’re doing really well, Izzy,” he says. “I understand that this is difficult. But it’s important.”

“To you, maybe,” Izzy says.

“If you wanted everything, why’d you end it?” Ed asks, still from his hiding place in the crook of Izzy’s neck.

Izzy frowns. “I didn’t end it. You stopped wanting me.”

“No, you—” Ed raises his head, studying Izzy’s face. “That rumour went ’round, and you killed those guys, and then—”

“Yes,” Izzy says slowly, “we needed to show more discretion.”

Stede puts his head in his hands. He wonders if now would be a good time to say ‘I told you so’ about the communication thing.

“That’s not…” Ed trails off. “Fuck.”

Deciding to opt out of mediating an argument about who broke up with whom, Stede holds up a hand. “Perhaps now isn’t the time,” he says.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Ed mutters.

“What I mean,” Stede says, “is that we should be discussing the future, not the past. It won’t do to fall into old habits.”

Like not talking about it goes unsaid.

“I still don’t understand what you want from me,” Izzy says. He’s back in the middle of the couch, though he’s slumped more into Ed’s space than Stede’s. Ed gets his arm around Izzy’s middle again, anchoring.

It’s a difficult statement to respond to; Stede isn’t sure what he wants from Izzy—or what Izzy wants from him. Izzy may be attracted to Stede, on some incomprehensible level that is perhaps more to do with the authority Stede represents than anything else, but Stede doesn’t have a claim to anything like the depth of feeling Izzy has for Ed. But if Ed isn’t going to come clean, Stede supposes he’ll have to.

“I know we got off to a rocky start,” he says. Izzy snorts in agreement. “But—against all my better instincts, I might add—I’ve become rather fond of you. I know you only put up with me for Ed’s sake, but—what’s so funny?”

Ed is openly laughing; with Izzy, it’s more of a smirk.

“You think he goes around kissing people just ’cause I ask him to?” Ed chortles.

“Bonnet, there are limits,” Izzy adds.

“Tried setting Jack on him, once,” Ed says. “Iz spat in his face.”

“Yes, well, that was Jack,” Stede says. Privately, he feels a wash of relief at the proof that Izzy doesn’t meekly submit to everything Ed asks of him sexually. And here he thought he’d never be grateful for Calico Jack.

“Eh, he was a looker back then,” Ed says.

Izzy rolls his eyes. It’s delightful; Stede is delighted.

“Calico Jack aside,” he says, “you—really, Izzy?”

“If you’re not going to shut up about it,” Izzy says. “You’re—it’s—I didn’t mind. Kissing you.”

Ed widens his eyes in an exaggerated sort of way. “From him, that’s a lot,” he says.

“God, Edward, shut up,” Izzy says, squirming with embarrassment. Ed laughs again and kisses him on the side of his head.

“What about me?” Ed continues sunnily. “You mind kissing me?”

“Christ,” Izzy says, pained.

“I can refresh your memory, if you—”

Stede clears his throat. Honestly.  

Ed, whose hand is very unsubtly wriggling its way beneath Izzy’s shirt, puts on a serious expression. “I’m rather fond of you, too, Izzy.”

His Stede impression sits somewhere in between his Buttons and Izzy impressions, quality-wise.

“Great, we’re all very fond of each other,” Izzy says. “You realise that still explains exactly nothing, right?”

Stede nods, and decides to allow whatever Ed’s hand is doing, because of the pretty hitch in Izzy’s breathing and the way he’s fidgeting in Ed’s hold. Stede is, at the end of the day, only human.

“I wanted Ed to tell you how he feels about you,” Stede says, trying not to look accusingly at Ed while he says it. “Especially after I made such a mess of things last night. Now, clearly, Ed chose a more hands-on approach—”

Here, Ed does something with his concealed hand that makes Izzy stutter out a ragged breath.

“—but the point still stands. You’re very important to him—to both of us—and Ed wasn’t doing anything wrong by kissing you. He had my full permission.”

“Oh,” Izzy says, slightly unsteady. “So you two…talked about it.”

“Yes!” Stede says. “Communication! It’s fab, isn’t it?”

Ed and Izzy’s answering expressions are so similar in their incredulity that it’s almost uncanny.

“Stede, love,” Ed says, his eyes going gentle. “It’s okay if you’re nervous.”

“I’m not—!” But Stede pauses for a moment to take stock, and realises that his palms are damp with sweat and that his heart is pulsing at a worrying speed. It’s only to be expected, really: he’s only just gotten the hang of sleeping with one person, and now there’s two of them, plus a whole ship’s worth of thorny emotional issues. “Ah,” he says. “I see. Well, that doesn’t mean communication isn’t important.”

“No,” Ed agrees, “but does it maybe mean that it can wait, a little bit?”

Stede looks at Izzy, whose eyes are glassing over once more in response to Ed’s touch, and feels whatever remains of his resistance sliding away. It’s not a long-term solution, by any means, but he’s found that sometimes being sensible about things is overvalued.

He nods, decisive.

“Alright?” Ed asks.

“Yes, yes,” Stede says. “A few nerves never killed anyone. Are you alright, Izzy?”

Izzy frowns. “Is he going to keep asking?”

“Yep,” Ed says, bright and fond. “You’d better answer him, Iz, maybe we’ll actually get somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says, “okay, I’m fine.”

“Excellent!” Stede says. “Shall we move this to the bed, then?”

At this, Izzy looks a little poleaxed, as though he’d been expecting their activities to remain confined to the settee.

“Bed sounds good,” Ed says. “You’ll love it, Iz. Feels like lying on a cloud. Real fucking fancy.”

“Come on, then,” Stede says, getting to his feet. “Up.”

Ed and Izzy get to their feet in a somewhat jumbled tangle of limbs, complicated by the fact that Ed doesn’t seem to want to let Izzy go, and Izzy seems content to allow his impression of a limpet. Stede can only make an affectionate tutting noise as he leads them to the bed.

Once there, he recognises that there may be limitations to the bed. When he’d had it designed, it had seemed an economical use of space, but under the current conditions it seems tiny. He and Ed have been managing alright, but he struggles to think of how they’re going to make room for Izzy.

“Yeah,” Ed says, as though reading Stede’s mind, “could be a problem.”

“I suppose I didn’t really think it through,” Stede says. “I wasn’t expecting you two to want me involved.”

He says it as a statement of fact, more than anything, but Ed finally pulls himself from Izzy to approach Stede, taking his hand.

“’Course I want you involved, love.” He kisses Stede lightly on the mouth, and then turns back to Izzy, who appears marooned without Ed to hold him up. “And…Iz?”

Izzy nods, sharp.

It never stops feeling like a strike of lightning, the knowledge that Izzy wants him—that even presented with the option of having Ed all to himself, he would choose for Stede to be with him, too.

Stede has an impulse to ask him again whether he’s sure, but manages to resist. Instead, he tugs the three of them together, pulling Ed with him into Izzy’s space. He kisses first Ed, then Izzy, taking his time with each. Izzy’s lips are swollen, by now, hot against Stede’s. Izzy responds enthusiastically, though without initiative; his hands remain by his sides even as he sucks Stede’s tongue gratefully into his mouth.

When Stede draws back, he feels a little dazed himself—though it’s nothing compared to how Izzy looks.

“Iz,” Ed says, scratching his thumb down the back of Izzy’s neck, “wanna show Stede how good you are with that pretty mouth of yours?”

Izzy’s hips jerk into thin air, followed immediately by an embarrassed-sounding whine.

“Yeah,” Ed says with amusement, “you do. Stede?”

Stede sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed, vision tunnelling to the slick, irritated red of Izzy’s mouth. And that’s only from kissing—goodness knows what he’ll look like after—

“Um, that sounds…splendid,” he says.

Ed puts his hand on Izzy’s shoulder, exerting gentle pressure until Izzy folds to his knees at Stede’s feet.

“Told him what a good cocksucker you are,” Ed says, with an affectionate pull of Izzy’s hair. Izzy chokes out a moan—in response to Ed’s words, or his touch, or some combination of the two. “Showed him, too.”

Stede’s skin heats at the memory, and his knees drift apart in a manner that seems unforgivably lascivious—except that Izzy seems to like it, his throat working as he leans closer to the bulge at the front of Stede’s breeches.

“That’s it,” Ed says, as though his hand isn’t in Izzy’s hair, directing him where Ed wants him. “Fuck, Iz, I forgot how badly you want it.”

Izzy’s eyes shut and a noise punches out of him: a denial except for all the ways it’s not.

“Stede, love, get your cock out for him.”

Stede hastens to comply. There isn’t even time to be self-conscious; Izzy’s swallowing him down before Stede thinks he’s even gotten a look at Stede’s member, descending on him like a man possessed.

“Oh,” Stede says, “oh, goodness.”

It turns out that Ed’s impression hadn’t held one lick of exaggeration; Izzy proceeds as though he’s trying to draw Stede’s orgasm out by force, almost aggressive in his determination. If previously asked, Stede would have said that his preference ran more towards luxuriating in pleasure, drawing things out, but as he hits the back of Izzy’s throat he finds himself reconsidering, his entire world narrowing down to the ferocious mouth on his cock.

“Izzy,” he moans. “That’s—you’re so—oh—”

Ed chuckles, low and dark, and he scratches at Izzy’s scalp, less directing him now than encouraging him.

“You should see him, Iz,” he comments. Izzy’s eyes are closed, but he makes a muffled sort of questioning noise, which of course sets Stede to gasping. Once everyone’s calmed down from that, Ed continues: “Think he’s seeing fucking stars, honestly, mate.”

It’s not as much of an exaggeration as Stede would like it to be. Izzy is making Stede realise with new clarity that the only other mouth he’s had on him is Ed’s—Ed, who is almost invariably gentle with Stede. Whatever Izzy is, it couldn’t ever really be called gentle.

“Swallow around—yeah,” Ed says, “that’s it, good boy.”

Stede yelps at the sensation of Izzy’s throat clenching around him, scrabbling frantically at the bedsheets.

“Fuck,” he says, emphatically. “Fuck, fuck, Izzy—”

“You’re so hot together,” Ed says fervently. “Knew you would be—couldn’t stop fucking thinking about it, after New Providence—”

Izzy moans, and Stede watches tears sneak past the barrier of his clenched-shut eyes.

“He’s big, isn’t he, Iz? Thought he might be a bit much for you—it’s been a while, hasn’t it? But you’re—you’re perfect, Iz, look at you.”

The sound Izzy makes at that—a sob wrapped up in a moan—pushes Stede over the edge; he doesn’t have a chance to warn Izzy before he’s coming, hips thrusting abortively into his mouth. Izzy swallows without complaint, then sits back and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry!” Stede says upon returning to his senses, his hands fluttering near Izzy’s face. “That was dreadfully impolite, you just—I just—”

Ed laughs, and, after a moment, Izzy does too, the sound tinged wet by his still-flowing tears.

Stede clears his throat. “That was—quite wonderful, Izzy. Gosh. I think I may need a moment to recover.”

“You take all the time you need,” Ed says warmly. “Want to move up a bit on the bed, though, love? Think Izzy’s more’n earned a more comfortable spot.”

“Of course!” Stede says, putting himself to rights and shifting up against the windows. “Your poor knees, Izzy! We should have thought to put down a cushion, at least. Lessons for next time, I suppose. We can’t get everything right straight away—”

“Thought maybe he’d shut up, after he comes,” Izzy says mildly, struggling to his feet with Ed’s assistance.

“Rude!” Stede says.

“You did just come in his mouth without asking,” Ed points out.

Izzy sits down at the foot of the bed and snorts. “Tell me, Edward, when did you ever ask?”

Stede giggles, euphoric. He’d worried, a little—that it might feel like he and Ed were ganging up on Izzy, or that Ed and Izzy were ganging up on him—but it’s more like the alliances are ever-shifting, each of them taking turns teasing the others.

Ed, the only one left standing, looms over Izzy. “Israel,” he says, “please may I touch you?”

Izzy squirms, and the tears streaking his face seem to glisten. “If you—whatever you want, boss.”

“Hm,” Ed says. “Does that sound good enough to you, Stede?”

“Well,” Stede says, strangled. It’s rather unexpected, the effect that hearing Izzy use the word boss in this context is having on him, especially given that he’s only just come. “I certainly think he’s capable of more.”

Ed’s gaze leaps to him, amused, before he turns it back to Izzy.

“Hear that?” he says, teeth flashing when he smiles. He nods at Izzy’s crotch. “Looks like you got yourself pretty worked up, there, love.”

“I—yeah,” Izzy says.

Ed puts one knee up on the bed, pushing further into Izzy’s space without touching him.

“Could help you out there, Iz.”

Izzy’s silence wins out for all of three seconds, during which Ed leans closer until his face is hovering within inches of Izzy’s, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Izzy—

“Please.”

Ed’s on him so swiftly that he’s little more than a blur of leather, grinding Izzy into the bed while biting at his mouth—oh, Stede thinks, there’s that biting—and both of them are so frantic, so fast, that Stede wonders if they’ll even be able to get out of their clothes.

It almost looks like a fight, both of them bucking against each other, hands scrabbling for purchase. Forget all three of them—Stede’s not sure the bed’s big enough for Ed and Izzy by themselves.

“Ed,” Izzy’s gasping, “Edward, please, please—”

And Ed’s responding in kind, a litany of Izzy’s name, pressed to every inch of skin he can reach—all of which is to say that Stede is reluctant to interrupt until the situation becomes truly dire.

“My dears,” he says apologetically, and by some miracle they both part to listen to him, “you’re about to fall off.”

Ed raises his head. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “C’mon, Iz, budge up.”

Izzy does so, which places him quite conveniently for Stede to take hold of his hand and peel off the glove that he’s still, against all odds, wearing. Izzy hitches in a breath.  

“Perhaps you’d both do a little better with fewer clothes?” Stede suggests.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Ed says, already kneeling up and wrenching his jacket off.

Izzy’s slower to comply, but he gets his boots off (Stede can’t help but wince: no shoes on the bed seems like fairly standard manners, although perhaps Izzy had been distracted), followed by his shirt. He hesitates with his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

Ed, now stripped similarly, winks. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Christ, Edward, we’ve seen each other’s pricks before.”

“Been a while,” Ed says, replacing Izzy’s hands with his own. “Lemme—”

He peels down Izzy’s trousers, slow enough for a heady anticipation to build right before Izzy’s bared to them all. Stede takes note of the way Izzy clenches his eyes shut, and wonders if it’s a step too far—but he also can’t help but stare at Izzy’s cock, only the second he’s seen in this context. It’s shorter than Ed’s, thicker, and so flushed with blood it looks painful, like just touching it would burn Stede’s—or Ed’s, more likely Ed’s—fingers.

When Ed gets the trousers to Izzy’s ankles, Izzy’s eyes fly open again.

“Wait, Edward—”

He’s too late. The socks come off, too—not through any conscious choice on Ed’s part, but simply because of the tightness of the leather—and Izzy’s foot…

It’s not as bad as Stede might have thought. The skin where Izzy’s toe had once been is puckered, but clearly healed. If they weren’t all so aware of what exactly happened to Izzy’s toe, it would barely be noticeable.

Ed flinches. “Shit, Iz.”

“Don’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ed says, but when he crawls up Izzy’s body and kisses him with hands cupping his face it’s softer, a wordless apology, and Izzy clings to Ed’s wrists, his legs wrapping around his waist.

It’s a dance they’ve danced before, Stede realises with a visceral sort of longing. Even after all these years, they still know the steps. When Izzy rocks against Ed’s stomach, and Ed presses him down by the hips; when Ed slides down to bite at Izzy’s nipples, vicious and—if Izzy’s reaction is anything to go by—immensely pleasurable.

“Fuck, Edward, I—”

Stede watches, entranced, as Ed raises his head from Izzy’s chest, a fragile string of spit connecting his mouth to Izzy’s thoroughly abused nipple. “Yeah, Iz?”

“I’m about to—” Izzy grimaces.

“Really?” Ed’s expression is nakedly thrilled. “Here, Stede, come play with his other tit for me. Wanna see him come all over himself.”

Izzy turns his face into the bedsheets, something harsh and needy emerging from his lips. Stede shuffles closer, curious, and brushes the pad of his thumb over the peaked point of Izzy’s right nipple. Ed re-attaches to the left one, and underneath them Izzy thrashes.

“Harder,” Izzy says, likely to Stede rather than Ed, since if Ed were to go any harder he’d bite Izzy’s nipple clean off.

Stede blushes, but it’s nice to hear Izzy asking directly for what he wants, so Stede pinches his nipple between forefinger and thumb, adding a sharp little twist at the end.

“Stede,” Izzy gasps.

“Yes, darling?”

“Want—touch me.”

“I am, dear,” Stede says.

Izzy whines impatiently. “My—fucking cock, Bonnet, touch my cock.”

Ed makes a sparkling, happy sound. “Go on, Stede, I want to see—”

He sits back far enough for Stede to wrap a curious hand around Izzy’s leaking member, tracing his thumb through the mess of pre-come spilling out. It’s hot to the touch, and Stede, very much used to Ed’s anatomy by this point, has to adjust for Izzy’s girth and foreskin. He gets the hang of it quickly enough, and then there’s something incredible about having Izzy like this, in the palm of his hand. Izzy really does seem on the edge, his chest heaving and his prick fit to burst in Stede’s grip.

“Fucking Christ,” Izzy says.

Ed looks down at him, kneeling in the V of his legs and scratching his nails from the crest of Izzy’s bent knees down the slope of his thighs, too light to leave marks—teasing, Stede realises with a rush of clarity. Izzy wants it harder, wants the marks.

“Fuck, Iz,” Ed says, his grip tightening around Izzy’s hip, “you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Stede can’t really blame Izzy for coming apart at that, his orgasm spilling out of him at the same time as Ed’s name does, painting Stede’s fingers a pearly, glistening white.

Before anyone’s had a chance to recover, Ed grabs for Stede’s hand. He brings it up to his mouth and licks at Izzy’s spend, his eyes glowing with lust.

Stede and Izzy let out similarly exhausted moans at the sight. Izzy flops his head back against the welcoming softness of the bed, his chest heaving.

“Just one more thing for me, Iz,” Ed says, and he lets go of Stede’s hand to undo his own trousers, finally, pulling out his dick and skating his hand over it with a shudder. “Fuck, okay, this won’t take long. Iz?”

He holds his fingers up to Izzy’s mouth, and Izzy takes them in without hesitation, sucking and licking until they’re shiny with spit. From there, Ed takes himself in hand again, rearranging himself so that his knees are spread over Izzy’s hips, and his dick—

Stede grasps Ed’s intent a moment before it happens, Ed coming all over Izzy’s chest, marking him. It’s blatantly possessive, and Izzy clearly knows it, too; his eyes are flitting between Ed and the mess on his own body, so dazed and aroused that Stede half-wonders if he can go again.

“Fucking hell,” Ed says, flopping down into the sliver of space between Stede and Izzy and ending up half on top of both of them. They’re all lying the wrong way around, the pillows strewn around their feet, but Stede thinks it might be worth staying like this for a little while—perhaps taking a nap before getting started on their dinner. He certainly feels like he’s exerted himself enough for one evening.

And Ed seems to agree, or at least is kissing Izzy again, lazier now. It’s a fragile kind of peace, but Stede fancies they can hang on to it a little while longer. Especially if—

“Captain, Frenchie’s been ready for his swordfighting lesson for, like, an hour now, and we can’t find Izzy, and—oh my god!” Lucius shrieks.

Stede sighs. There goes that, then.

Notes:

ed: [putting on his 'fuck me' eyeliner]
stede: and you're just going to talk to him, right?

the build-up to ed kissing izzy (from ed's pov) can be found here

Chapter 15

Notes:

lucius catching them in the act was a comedy beat but unfortunately izzy still hasn’t realised he’s in a comedy

Ed’s the first to react. He rolls on top of Izzy, both covering him—Izzy is, after all, both naked and splattered with come, whereas Stede is fully dressed and Ed still mostly has his trousers on—and holding him down. It’s good thinking, because a split-second later Izzy starts thrashing and yelling.

“Don’t you fucking knock, you nosy fucking twat?” He’s twisting this way and that, frantic, although he’s clearly hampered by his unwillingness to hurt Ed. And so it is that Ed manages to keep him in place, hands tight on his shoulders and knees even tighter around his hips. “I’ll cut your fucking tongue out if you breathe a word of this to the other morons, fucking cunts—”

Stede winces.

“I’ll just—go,” squeaks Lucius, having started backing away the moment Izzy opened his mouth.

“Might be best, yeah,” Ed grunts.

Lucius scampers away. Izzy lets out a final string of vicious curses and then goes limp, his eyes clamping shut.

In the ensuing silence, Stede almost wishes he could follow Lucius. But he’s the furthest from the edge of the bed, hemmed in by Ed and Izzy, and he wouldn’t be able to extricate himself without climbing over them. And besides, he’s trying to get better about not running from confrontations, these days.

“Izzy,” Ed says gently. He’s still on top of Izzy, but his hands go from his shoulders to his tattoos: one hand cups the side of Izzy’s neck and the other threads through his hair, thumb brushing over Izzy’s X.

“Apologies, Captain,” Izzy says without opening his eyes.

“No, you’re fine, Iz,” Ed says. Stede makes a questioning sound—Izzy really should apologise for frightening Lucius like that, especially since, as far as Stede’s aware, Lucius doesn’t make a habit of being frightened by Izzy’s threats—but Ed shoots him a warning look. So their priority is calming Izzy down; Stede can accept that. For now. “Everything’s fine, love. I’ve got you.”

“You don’t have to fucking coddle me,” Izzy says, his eyes snapping open.

“’Course not,” Ed says, a little regretfully. His thumb continues its back-and-forth motion over Izzy’s tattoo. “But I’ve got you anyway, mate.”

When he next speaks, Izzy’s voice is thick, almost choked. “That fucking twat won’t keep his fucking mouth shut. He’s probably told them all already. Fuck.”

“Is that…such a bad thing?” Stede asks. He’d assumed they’d be telling the crew in short order, anyway; it’s not like anything stays secret on the Revenge for long.

“Stede,” Ed says.

Stede continues undeterred; he’s involved in this, too, thank you very much. “I very much doubt anyone would have an issue with the three of us being intimate,” he says. “Hell, we’re far from the most unorthodox arrangement on the ship.”

“You don’t understand, Bonnet,” Izzy hisses.

Stede sits up with a disgruntled sigh. And he’d been so looking forward to the promised ten minutes after completion when Izzy was supposed to be nice.

“Why don’t you explain it to me, then,” he says.

“I’m already a fucking laughingstock around here,” Izzy says. “A bad fucking joke. And now—now that I’m some fucking pansy, pining over his captains—”

Ed slaps his hand over Izzy’s mouth, cutting him off.

Stede watches as Izzy’s eyes widen with alarm, and in the next instant Ed leaps off of him, so quickly and clumsily that he ends up in a heap on the floor. He stays there a moment, breathing heavily, and then he leaps to his feet in a burst of almost frenzied energy.

“Shit, sorry, sorry, Iz,” he gasps. “I didn’t—I’ll just go get something to clean you up, I’ll—fuck—”

He disappears in the direction of the bathroom, fleeing as though he’s just committed a crime. Stede sits frozen, unsure of what’s just happened.

“Is he—alright?” he asks Izzy.

“How would I possibly know?” Izzy asks. He lies frozen in the exact position Ed had left him, as though Ed holding him down had been an order that he intends to follow. Stede has to avert his eyes from the bare vulnerability of his body, from the rise and fall of his abused chest.

“Did he do something wrong?”

“No,” Izzy replies.

Stede tries to think of some way to rephrase, to give Izzy a way to explain without assigning Ed culpability.

“Was it, er,” Stede says, “something to do with what happened while I was away?”

Izzy turns his head in Stede’s direction and says, very deliberately, “It’s none of your fucking business, Bonnet. It’s between me and him.”

At this, Stede goes silent, accepting the justice of the reprimand. It’s Izzy’s right to not want Stede privy to all that’s transpired between him and Ed. Besides, Stede can’t help but think that he’ll have better luck getting an answer out of Ed once he’s calmed down.

“As long as you’re alright,” Stede says. He reaches out and finds Izzy’s hand, clasping it with his own. He considers it a good sign when Izzy doesn’t pull away. “I really am sorry we were interrupted like that. I should think about putting a lock on that door.”

Izzy seems to evaluate this—perhaps weighing it against his own propensity for barging in.

“Maybe, yeah,” he says. “If this—if we do anything like this—again—”

“Of course we’ll be doing it again!” Stede says quickly. “If you’re amenable, that is.”

“Amenable.” Izzy scoffs. “Christ. You and your fancy words, Bonnet.”

“I think you quite like them, really,” Stede hedges, squeezing Izzy’s hand.

“Can’t prove it, though, can you?” Izzy says. He squeezes back.

By the time Ed returns with a damp cloth and a hang-dog expression, Izzy’s sitting up, knees pulled to his chest and Stede’s hand still cupped loosely in his.

After a careful approach, Ed pauses at the side of the bed. He’s swapped his trousers for a pale purple dressing gown, and he’s washed his face, taken down his hair. He looks, Stede can’t help but notice, distinctly unthreatening.

“We’ll have to talk about it at some point, Iz,” Ed says. “Can’t go on avoiding it.”

“Not now, Edward,” Izzy says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Ed nods. He holds up the cloth. “Can I—will you let me?”

Izzy looks up at him, and then he slowly stretches his legs out, laying himself back down. Stede keeps hold of his hand all the while.

In a reverent sort of silence, Ed lowers himself to his knees beside the bed and begins running the cloth over Izzy’s skin, taking his time. His gentleness is something to behold, even though Stede’s been on its receiving end a hundred times. For Izzy, every soft touch seems a revelation: a holy rite.

“There you go,” Ed says when he’s done, and he kisses the spot on Izzy’s chest where, underneath all the skin and the bones and the gore, his heart lies. “All done.”

Izzy’s breath shudders out of him.

“I should go,” he says.

“No!” Stede says immediately, his grip on Izzy’s hand tightening. “You, er, you shouldn’t feel you have to. We’d like it if you’d stay for dinner—I know it’s not the day for it, but—”

“I already ate,” Izzy says. He’s sitting up, retrieving his clothes one-handed, and Stede knows there’s only a small window in which they have any hope of arresting his flight.

“Then don’t eat,” he says. “Just stay. Ed—”

Ed’s still kneeling, which is going to be a hell of a pain for him tomorrow if it isn’t already, and he grabs Izzy’s other hand.

“C’mon, Iz,” he says.

“That an order?” Izzy asks.

Ed bends down to kiss the hand he’s holding, looking every bit like a rugged Prince Charming waking his sleeping love. “Mm. Stay if you want to, Iz, right? Captain’s orders.”

 

---

 

Izzy does get dressed, which is a shame, but he also accepts the honey-sweetened tea Stede presses on him, and then he wanders the cabin while Ed and Stede eat, studying each nook and cranny with an intensity that makes Stede feel a little self-conscious. He’s been a little busy, lately, and hasn’t had a chance to dust.

“Is he alright, do you think?” Stede asks lowly when Izzy disappears into the shadows of the reading nook.

Ed shrugs. “Hard to say. Probably won’t kill the boy, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I should hope not!” Stede hisses.

“I won’t cut Spriggs’ tongue out, either,” Izzy says, emerging from the library with a book open in his hand. Stede winces. “Too much of a hassle. Fingers, ears, noses—they’re easy. Cutting out a tongue’s a three-man operation at the best of times, and even then it’s fucking disgusting.”

Stede clears his throat. “Might we commit to no violence at all on Lucius’ person, perhaps?”

“Relax. He’s just fucking with you, love,” Ed says.

“Maybe,” Izzy says. He flicks through a couple of pages of the book, his eyes scanning its contents. Then he sits down on the settee, giving every appearance of being engrossed in the text.

Stede can’t help his curiosity. “What are you reading?”

“A book,” Izzy replies.

“The pirate one?” Ed asks, tensing.

“No,” Izzy says. “It’s just some nonsense about a farmboy and a pastor’s daughter.”

“Oh!” Stede says, turning red. “Yes. I haven’t had a chance to go through all of our new acquisitions, but I found that one lying under a mattress on one of the ships we raided—you remember the one with the fellow who tried to stab Jim? As far as I can tell, it’s, um, well, it’s rather steamy, actually.”

Izzy crooks an eyebrow and settles the book in his lap. “You’ve been holding out on us at storytime, Bonnet.”

Stede splutters, unsure whether first to focus on Izzy’s mean sort of teasing or the way he’d said us, casually including himself with the rest of the crew.

“I shan’t be peddling smut,” he protests.

“Why not?” Izzy says. He flips a few pages and puts on a breathy falsetto. “Oh, Thomas, I couldn’t possibly! My father, the pastor, would never approve! Our love is forbidden, yet still I long for you. What a load of fucking drivel.”

Stede feels oddly defensive of Thomas and Ruth’s doomed affair. Ed, meanwhile, is giggling into his teacup, his feet kicked up on the chair that usually belongs to Izzy.

“We should give Iz a go reading the stories,” Ed says. “Reckon that’s exactly how the pastor’s daughter would sound. Like a parrot being strangled.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Izzy says. He’s still flipping aimlessly through the book, stopping to read for a few moments here and there. “Here’s a bit. She says We must marry, Thomas, or else our love is a sin. Then this Thomas bloke says Love as pure as ours could never be a sin, and then he fucks her right there in the barn.” Izzy wrinkles his nose. “In the hay.”

“Can’t be worse than that beach with the fuckin’ killer crabs,” Ed comments. “Almost got my dick bit off. And the sand…”

“You do not get to complain about the sand,” Izzy says.

Ed puts a hand up to cover his mouth from Izzy and whispers, “Went up his arse.”

“We promised never to speak of that again,” Izzy complains loudly.

“Yeah, but Stede doesn’t count,” Ed says. “With how you’re fond of him and all.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy mutters.

Stede smiles. “I’d hope you wouldn’t feel any need for discretion with me, Israel. I do so enjoy hearing about your past encounters.”

Izzy turns a lovely shade of pink. “Shut up, Bonnet,” he says, and settles in to read more about the farmboy and the pastor’s daughter.

 

---

 

It’s with a feeling of deep reluctance that Stede gets up to deliver the crew’s story. They haven’t been doing anything much—Izzy has continued thumbing through the dirty book, occasionally treating them to a snort of derision or a passage read aloud, and Ed is smoking his pipe—but Stede likes it, the understated intimacy of it. For all that they’d had to beg Izzy to stay, he fits well into their space.

“I’ll just be a tick,” Stede says, kissing the side of Ed’s face. He glances over at the couch.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Bonnet.”

Stede huffs. “Well, it’s hardly any more intimate than what we’ve done already, Israel.”

“Try it,” Izzy says without looking up from his book. “See what happens.”

“Fine,” Stede says. “I trust the two of you can keep yourselves amused while I’m gone?”

Ed grins seductively. “Yeah, we’ll find something to do.”

This does have Izzy looking up from his book. “How old do you think I am, Edward? How old do you think you are?”

Stede laughs and leaves them to bicker amongst themselves, whistling a jaunty tune as he goes.

 

---

 

The story goes well, although there’s a definite restlessness amongst the crew. At a few points, Stede has to pause and ask them to settle down. It’s a good thing he has Sleeping Beauty committed well to heart, or else he’d be in danger of losing the thread entirely.

Once the prince has kissed life into his true love, Stede looks expectantly at his audience. It’s Pete who speaks up first.

“What happened in your cabin, Captain? You’ve got Lucius all spooked.”

“And where’s Izzy?” Frenchie adds.

Lucius lets out a hysterical, and deeply unhelpful, giggle.

“Izzy is…having a rest,” Stede says.

This explanation seems to satisfy no one; in fact, the crewmembers who weren’t demonstrating interest before now sit up and take notice.

“Frenchie went to Izzy’s room, though,” Oluwande says. “He weren’t there.”

“And now he and Captain Edward are both not with us,” says the Swede. “Is Captain Edward resting, too?”

As Stede surveys the faces of his audience, he notes that half of them appear very knowing, while the other half seem deeply confused. If he were Ed, he’d be able to pull some utterly convincing explanation from off the top of his head; if he were Izzy, he’d probably tell the crew to mind their own business and fuck off. But, trapped as he is in his own state of being, he simply gulps and wonders how terribly Izzy will mind if he tells the truth.

Thankfully, the next person to speak up is Ivan. “Probably just a strategy meeting. Right, Captain?”

“Right!” Stede says. “They’re simply planning our next moves! Normal captain-first-mate stuff, really. Nothing to worry about.”

“You mean Captain and Izzy are having their private meetings again?” asks Fang, his eyes lighting up. “I knew they could—” Ivan nudges him, and Fang breaks off abruptly, still beaming.

Stede feels a little flustered, not to mention left out. “It’s not just them,” he says. “It’s a whole leadership team thing!”

Lucius stifles a noise into his hand. Someone—Stede doesn’t see who—groans.

“And will these…leadership meetings…be ongoing?” asks Roach.

“Hang on, I’m part of the leadership team, aren’t I?” asks Oluwande.

“Yes!” Stede says. “Great questions! We’re still working out some, um, kinks—”

Lucius makes a sound like a dying animal.

“—but things are going, I think, well,” Stede says.

“Good,” Oluwande says. “You just keep those leadership meetings between yourselves, then, Captain. I’ve got Jim.”

The Swede raises his hand. “What’s Jim got to do with it?”

“Fucking nothing, I hope,” says Jim, which puts an end to that.

 

---

 

Stede makes a point of taking Lucius aside afterwards and assuring him that Izzy has no intention of harming him.

“Right, yeah, but you also seem to think getting in the middle of Blackbeard and Izzy’s whole thing is a good idea, so, like, I’m probably not going to take your word for it?” Lucius says.

“They’re working on their thing,” Stede says defensively, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else is listening. Black Pete is hovering nearby, but not so close that Stede is worried about it. “I think it’s going well so far.”

“I am so not involved,” Lucius says, “but if I was, I’d probably say that there is no way in hell Izzy is on the same page as you about this. Chances are he’s in a whole separate book. And he might still kill me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Lucius sighs, his hand on his hip. “Your Izzy project has been a joy to watch, Captain. Deeply embarrassing, but still. I’m rooting for you. But this thing with them? This half-matchmaking, half-threesome thing? Might be a little advanced for you, I’m not going to lie. No offence.”

Stede sniffs. “Some offence. I think I’m keeping up adequately.”

“You were fully clothed,” says Lucius.

“Well, that just shows rather a lack of imagination on your part,” Stede says.  

“Okay, well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Lucius says cryptically, and then he’s walking away, leaving Stede to wonder what on earth he means by that.

 

---

 

When he gets back to the cabin, Izzy’s gone.

“He’s fine,” Ed says from where he’s reclined on the couch, legs stretched out. “Just went to get ready for his watch tonight. We’re closing in on the trade routes, need him keeping an eye on things.”

“Of course,” Stede says, trying to ignore the way his heart’s racing. “Did you by any chance tell him he could come back here after?”

Ed grimaces. “Might’ve implied it?” he offers.

“Drat,” Stede says. “He won’t be coming back, will he?”

“Not like the bed’s really big enough anyway, mate,” Ed points out. “Not with the way you sleep.”

There’s no arguing with this: Stede’s limbs have quite the mind of their own when he’s asleep, and while Ed’s adjusted remarkably well, he can only imagine Izzy slapping him awake in the early hours of the morning and giving him a good telling off.

“I don’t want him to feel left out,” Stede persists. “Perhaps you could go and let him know?”

Ed sighs. “Or,” he says, “we could give him some space, love.”

“Should we? What if that sends the wrong message?” Stede frets back and forth, his feet beating the worn path he’s paced a hundred times before. “But—no, maybe you’re right. Maybe he needs his space. It won’t do to smother him.”

“Yeah, don’t want to overwhelm him all at once,” Ed says. “Way we used to do it, we either fell asleep right after or one of us left. There wasn’t a whole lot of sitting around talking, or cuddling, or any of that. Might need to ease him into the softer stuff.”

“I see,” Stede says. “And I suppose that’s why you’re refusing to tell him how you feel? To ease him into it?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Ed says. He links his fingers over his belly and tips his head back, the very picture of relaxation.

Stede frowns, unconvinced by the display. “I’m still not sure that’s a good idea. What if he thinks we’re using him?”

“Using him?”

“You know, for sex.”

Ed heaves himself to his feet with a wince that proves he’s overexerted his knee.

“Ed?”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell him,” Ed says, making his way towards the bed. “On the way over there, I kept saying it, over and over, trying to find the right way. Some way to make him believe me.”

“Oh, Ed—”

“It’d be so much easier if he just knew. If I didn’t have to say it, if I could just show him somehow…”

“It won’t work like that,” Stede says, remembering what Lucius had said about Izzy being in a different book.

Ed lets out a harsh breath through his nose.

“You don’t know it won’t,” he says. “You don’t know him.”

A few seconds pass; Ed doesn’t take it back.

“Well, you’re right, of course,” Stede says, his voice wobbling. “You know him far better than I do. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“Sorry, love,” Ed says, looking stricken. “I didn’t—fuck. I don’t know why I’m like this about him. It’s not like we had any of it figured out before you. We were falling apart—without you we’d probably still be stuck doing the same shit.” He sits down on the bed, putting his head in his hands. “It’s like—you spend that much time with anyone, you learn all about them. Their habits, likes, dislikes—even if you don’t mean to. And you learn how to hurt them. You get so fucking good at hurting someone, Stede, after that many years with ’em. You just know exactly where to press.”

Stede comes to a halt in his pacing. He watches as Ed lies down on his side, his body the wrong way around in the bed. He presses his cheek into the spot where Izzy’s head had been.

“I know him so well,” Ed whispers. “Why don’t I know how to fix it?”

Stede’s heart thuds helplessly; he sits down at Ed’s feet and folds his hands in his lap.

“I never said you could fix it all in one go,” he says. “I never expected that of you. Loving him—telling him you love him—it’s only the first step. Or the second step. Or whatever step it ends up being.”

“Hundredth, probably,” Ed mumbles.

“Stop that,” Stede says gently, crawling into the space behind Ed and curling up there. “Do you want to know what I saw, earlier? I’ll tell you: I saw two people desperate not to hurt each other anymore.” At Ed’s questioning noise, he continues: “He stopped you. When you kissed him, and he thought that you were making a mistake, he stopped you. You were offering him everything he wanted. A few months ago I doubt he would have objected to—do excuse the parlance, dear—stealing you from me. But today his first thought was to fix whatever he imagined had transpired between you and me.”

“Shot out of his cabin like a fucking bullet,” Ed says fondly. “Though he didn’t stop me right away, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Got a couple seconds out of him.” Ed sighs, his body relaxing against Stede’s. “He’s not all noble.”

“We’ll leave nobility out of it,” Stede allows, “but it was still dreadfully good-hearted of him.”

“You ever say that to his face, even I won’t be able to protect you, mate.”

“Oh, hush,” Stede says. “I was about to say that you were lovely with him, too, but now I’m not sure if you deserve it.”

“Mm, was I?” Ed asks, soft and yearning.

Stede relents immediately.

“You knew exactly what he wanted,” he says, “and you tried to give him all of it, didn’t you?”

Ed’s next breath is sharp, jolting from his chest. “Yeah,” he says.

“You may know how to hurt him,” Stede says, bending to kiss the back of Ed’s shoulder, where his robe has slid down, “but that’s not all you know, is it? You also know how to love him.”

 

---

 

Stede wakes to a tap on his shoulder. A polite, gentle tap.

“Izzy?”

“Sorry, Captain,” says Izzy, who has never once apologised to Stede before. There is a large possibility, Stede thinks, that this is a dream. “We’ve sighted a vessel to the east. Might be too big to take on. Not sure if they’ve seen us, yet, or if they know what the fuck our flag means, but—”

“It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Stede says groggily, sitting up. “With the cat and the two skeletons and the rainbow?”

“…Right,” Izzy says. “Doesn’t seem like a warship, but we’re still too far to say for sure. Might be a good catch, if it’s a merchant vessel, but with the size of it they’ve likely got plenty of privateers up their sleeve. It’ll be a risk to pursue; we might lose men.”

“I see,” Stede says, and then realises belatedly that Izzy is waiting on him to come up with a plan. “Oh, um, Ed? Are you awake?”

“In a minute,” Ed grumbles, sounding perfectly alert.

“How much time do we have,” Stede asks Izzy, “before a decision really must be made?”

“If we’re to flee, it has to be now,” Izzy says.

“No, no fleeing,” Stede says. “They might have seen our flag! We can’t have them spreading the word that the Gentleman Pirate runs away from a fight.”

“Better than spreading the word that the Gentleman Pirate’s dead and they’ve got his head on a spike,” Izzy counters. It’s pitch-black outside, and Stede can barely make out his features, but there’s a frantic little spike to Izzy’s tone. Stede reaches out blindly for his shoulder, and ends up groping across Izzy’s chest until he finds it.

“Come on, now, Israel,” he says. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Fucking hell,” Izzy says, but he also puts his hand over Stede’s on his shoulder, just briefly, as though checking it’s really there. “I’ll wake the crew. Bonnet, get ready and meet me on deck.”

“What about me?” Ed asks.

“You’re staying here.”

Ed sits up. “Like hell I am.”

“Your knee’s fucked,” Izzy says. “You never let me touch it unless it’s gone to shit, and you let me last night.”

Stede makes an inquiring noise. Ed and Izzy ignore it.

“Maybe I just like you touching me, Iz.”

Izzy snorts, unimpressed. “Walk one lap of this room and then maybe I’ll believe you.”

Ed, never one to back down from a challenge, attempts a showy jump out of the bed and promptly crumples onto the floor.

“Yeah, thought so,” Izzy says, hoisting Ed up and depositing him back in bed, where Stede gets out of his way and manoeuvres him into a comfortable position, a pillow underneath the offending knee. “I’ll leave Frenchie with you. Can’t afford to leave Mr. Roach behind on a job like this.”

Stede gets up and lights a few candles while Ed and Izzy confer about the details: how many boats to go over in, which weapons they’ll need, who to leave to man the cannons. There’s really no sense in Stede joining in; he tends to leave the violence, and the planning thereof, to the experts.  

“Hey, Iz,” Ed says when the broad strokes of a plan are sorted, his voice low and private, “you stay safe, yeah? No stupid risks.”

“Other than taking Bonnet, you mean,” Izzy ripostes.

“Izzy. I mean it. I want the two of you back here in one piece,” Ed says.

“Yes, sir,” Izzy says, and then Stede watches in amazement as Izzy reaches out and brushes a strand of hair out of Ed’s face—a wholly useless gesture that can only be observed, by all present, as an excuse to touch him. Ed catches him by the wrist and kisses the heel of his hand, his eyes flickering in the candlelight.

When Ed releases him, Izzy blinks in silence for several long seconds, and then he retrieves his glove from his belt and puts it on the hand Ed just kissed, flexing his fingers in the confines of the leather.

“Don’t take too long, Bonnet,” he says, turning his back and making for the door. “We don’t have time for anything sentimental.”

Notes:

poor ed, falling on the floor twice in one chapter

the edizzy missing scene is here

Chapter 16

Notes:

whenever izzy gets to be competent in this fic ed just Isn’t There

The sea is choppy, lapping hungrily at the sides of the dinghy as they row towards their quarry. Stede clutches tight at the edge of the plank that forms his seat, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears.

They’re making the approach in three boats, with the plan being to surround the enemy when they board: Stede is with Lucius as well as Izzy, who’s rowing, slicing the blades of the oars through protesting waves.

“With any luck, their watchman will be a lazy bastard. You don’t end up on a merchant ship looking to do hard fucking work,” Izzy had said when he’d run through the plan—for Stede’s benefit, mostly, since everyone else had seemed well enough prepared.

“And if he’s awake?” Stede had asked. It seemed a lot to rest a plan on, was all.

“Then we take ’em by force, not surprise,” Izzy had replied, with a significant look at Roach. Roach’s answering grin had been only a little concerning.

Stede had asked Frenchie, who’d cheerily agreed to stay behind with Ed and Wee John, how everyone seemed to know what to do. There’d been an atmosphere of uncharacteristic efficiency during the preparations, and Stede had felt somewhat useless in amongst the bustle of his crew’s activity. Wee John was merrily manning the cannons; Jim was sharpening their knives; Pete, Fang, and Ivan were winching the larger of the ship’s boats down the side of the Revenge and into the water below.

“Uh, yeah,” Frenchie had responded, “Izzy’s been drilling the plan into us non-stop for the last week and a half. Bit annoying, actually. Where have you been?”

Stede supposes he’s been justifiably distracted, but it still smarts to think that he’s been slacking with his captainly duties, and that the burden has fallen, as it so often does, to Izzy. Next time, he thinks, he’ll make sure to come up with a splendid fuckery.

“Right,” Izzy says, putting the oars aside and reaching for the coil of rope with a hook attached to its end. “Ready, Captain?”

Stede gulps. The night is quiet, save for the gust of the wind and the splash of the ocean diving into itself. No alarm seems to have been raised by the merchant watchman; all if going to plan. Nonetheless, nerves tangle in the pit of his stomach.

“What if we can’t do this without Ed?” he whispers.

“Then we’ll be dead in ten minutes, and you and I will go down as the worst captain and first mate in the fucking West Indies,” Izzy says, not especially comfortingly.

“Buck up, Captain,” Lucius says from behind him. “We managed that first raid without Blackbeard, remember?”

“On the fishing boat?” Stede hisses.

“You raided a fucking fishing boat?” Izzy asks judgmentally.

“We were still finding our feet!”

“Can we maybe put this on hold?” Lucius says. “Not that I don’t love…whatever this is, but there’s still the thing where we’re trying to be pirates?”

Stede looks up at the towering hull of the merchant ship. They’ve stopped astern, while Fang and Ivan row the others to the starboard and port sides. Stede keeps quiet and listens out for the signal that each group is in position. There’s a whistle from Ivan, first, followed by a low sound from Buttons. Izzy whistles a sharp note back.

From there, they’re in motion.

Stede observes with his heart in his throat as Izzy flings the grapnel in a graceful arc, up and over the taffrail. There’s the sound of metal on wood, loud in the darkness, and Stede tenses in anticipation of gunfire raining from above. Still: nothing.

Izzy starts climbing the rope a moment later, hauling himself up with that strength Stede always forgets he has. He goes a little slack-jawed, watching.

“Oh my god,” mutters Lucius.

“Bonnet,” Izzy says, “hurry up.”

Stede shakes himself out of his daze and gets a grip on the rope for himself. He’s come a long way since the fishing boat, it’s true, but he still doesn’t exactly relish the prospect of climbing a rope. If it weren’t for both Izzy and Lucius being there, each as judgemental as the other in their own unique ways, he’s not sure he’d even make the attempt.

As it is, he manages to drag himself up with only a minimum of embarrassing panting, and when he gets to the top Izzy’s there to help him over, holding a finger to his lips as though Stede has any hope of controlling the volume of his breathing.

He looks around. There doesn’t seem to be anybody out on the deck—only crates and crates of tantalising cargo. The crew must sleep belowdecks.

Izzy jerks his thumb up at the crow’s nest, and gestures once more for Stede to be quiet. Stede rolls his eyes. He knows.

As they continue to argue without speaking aloud, Lucius rolls himself over the rail and lands in an inelegant heap. “Thanks for the help,” he whispers.

“Shut up,” Izzy whispers back.

While Lucius makes a series of indignant faces, Stede moves towards the edge of the quarterdeck and looks out for the rest of the crew. The first to emerge is Jim on the starboard side, followed by Pete opposite them. From there, the remainder of the crew follow in short order, and before long it’s all eleven of them, standing on the ship’s deck and staring around at each other like they can’t quite believe nothing’s gone wrong yet.

Once the shock has worn off, Oluwande, Jim, Fang, and Buttons scurry belowdecks—they’re tasked with uncovering a ship’s log. According to Izzy, the most valuable cargo might be hidden or mislabelled; they need a record of what’s on board so as best to steal it.

In the meantime, Ivan, Roach, the Swede, and Pete begin the work of lowering the crates into the waiting dinghies, a job that seems to involve a lot of frantic knot-tying and whispered counts of “one…two…three…”

They’re not loud, but Stede knows it’s only a matter of time before someone hears them all the same. He unsheathes his sword.

“Put it away, Bonnet,” Izzy mutters.

“What if we’re attacked?” Stede retorts lowly.

“Then you’ll keep behind me and look as useless and unthreatening as possible,” Izzy says. “Shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”

“Now wait just a minute—” Stede starts, which is when there’s a loud crashing sound from beneath them, followed by shouts of alarm and then, finally, a voice from the crow’s nest yelling:

“Piraten!”

In the ensuing flurry of movement, Stede does get behind Izzy—he’d be a fool not to—but he also hefts his sword in his hand and vows to help if it comes down to it.

They watch as men spill out onto deck, half-dressed and cursing in Dutch. Several of them are waving guns.

Izzy sighs. “Fuckin’ amateurs.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Stede says.

Izzy glances back at him. “Yeah,” he says. He withdraws his own gun and levels it at one of the men emerging from the forecastle, pulling the trigger dispassionately. Stede can’t help but jump; the shot is loud, and the man goes down with a spray of blood that hits Roach and the Swede, who are each, themselves, stabbing and slashing at the merchantmen.

There’s a lot of blood.

Stede takes a deep breath, backing away from the edge of the quarterdeck as though the terrible things happening below will stop happening simply because he’s not looking at them. Lucius touches his elbow, steadying, just as Stede feels sweat beginning to prickle on his hands and the back of his neck. He tightens his grip on his sword. He’s a pirate, for God’s sake. This really can’t keep happening.

“Bonnet,” Izzy says. “Do you need—?”

And then he stops. Indecision makes a twist of his expression: it’s as though he wants to offer something, but isn’t sure what.

Stede finds himself thinking of something Ed had said before they left. After Izzy had departed the captains’ quarters, while Stede was making sure that Ed’s knee was comfortable, pouring water for him and leaving some (moderately stale) crackers close to hand, Ed had touched Stede’s wrist and said, You’ll look after each other. It hadn’t been a request, or even an order; he’d sounded, simply, sure of it.

Stede swallows.

“Keep talking,” he says.

Izzy frowns. His hands are working quickly, reloading the gun, and at Stede’s directive he begins to narrate what he’s doing. Stede doesn’t really follow—Izzy, it must be said, is still in the early stages of developing his skills as a teacher—but between watching him and listening to the rough tide of his voice, Stede manages a return to equilibrium.

It’s just as well, because the moment Izzy’s gun is reloaded is also the moment a flank of men peel off from the pandemonium on deck and begin climbing towards them.

A shot rings out—but even the best marksman can only fell one man at a time. Izzy thrusts the empty gun at Lucius, who yelps “What am I supposed to do with this?”, and pulls his cutlass from its scabbard.   

“Stay behind me,” he growls.

Stede has no issue with complying: in the wake of Izzy’s shot, there are only two men advancing on them, each with their own weapons drawn. Their blades are thinner than Izzy’s, though still with a curve to them, and the hilts are an ostentatious gold. Izzy’s sword seems rather plain by comparison.

“You’re welcome to surrender,” Izzy drawls, which is unexpected. After all these months, Stede still thinks of him as more of a ‘stab first, give the opportunity for surrender later’ sort of man, despite repeated evidence to the contrary. “On occasion, Blackbeard is merciful.”

One of the men takes an instinctive step back. The other pauses.

“You are not Blackbeard,” the one in front says.

“No,” Izzy says. He rolls his wrist, his sword whispering through the cool night air. “We’re his men, though.”

The skittish one glances side to side, as though Blackbeard might emerge, at any moment, from thin air. He looks young—no older than twenty, certainly. He’s dressed only in his smallclothes, his pale limbs as skinny as fishing poles.

By contrast, the other man cuts an imposing figure. He’s taller than Stede, and fairly towers over Izzy. There’s a thick scruff of a beard covering his face, with two beady eyes set above.

“Blackbeard isn’t here,” he says, in the clipped tones of someone speaking a language other than their own.

“He will be,” Izzy lies.

The man snorts. “You will be dead before he arrives, then.”

And he hefts his sword, moonlight bouncing off the blade. Izzy sighs, as though disappointed. He gets into the stance Stede recognises from Frenchie’s lessons, and waits for the other man to lunge forward before he dodges and strikes back with swift efficiency, landing a blow to the arm his opponent puts up to defend himself.

Stede’s grip on his own sword is still clammy. He attempts to mirror Izzy’s opening stance, even as Izzy and the bearded man begin fighting in earnest, their swords a blur of ringing metal. The skittish boy’s eyes are darting around, but he seems just as paralysed by the display as Stede and Lucius.

It only barely resembles Ed and Izzy’s playfighting from a few nights prior. Izzy shows no trace of humour, this time, his sword slashing so violently that Stede half-feels that the air itself must be coming apart under its blade.

His opponent is losing ground, caught off-guard by Izzy’s ferocity and bleeding steadily from his arm. And then it’s over, as quickly as it began: they reach the edge of the quarterdeck, and Izzy punches his sword through the left side of the man’s abdomen before kicking him down to the main deck, where he lies in a heap of groaning agony.

“He’ll live,” Izzy says, turning to Stede. “If they’ve a good surgeon.”

He’s attempting to be reassuring, Stede realises. “Oh,” Stede says. “Yes. Thank you. I’m still getting used to all the killing.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says with a grimace. “Well.”

“And you?” Stede asks, addressing the other Dutchman. “Are you ready to surrender, now?”

“Ik vermoord je, verdomme,” says the boy tremulously.

“Ah,” Stede says.

“Piratenuitschot!”

“I don’t suppose you speak Dutch?” he says to Izzy.

“Why the fuck would I speak Dutch?” Izzy retorts. “Besides, he understood Blackbeard well enough.”

The boy’s eyes dart between them. His sword is still raised, but it seems an impotent sort of gesture in light of Izzy’s trouncing of the bearded man. Stede places his hand on Izzy’s right arm, prompting him to lower his own weapon.

“Why don’t we leave him be?” Stede suggests. “He probably wants to surrender, even if we can’t understand him.”

“Stomme verdomde Engelsen.”

Izzy’s fingers tighten on the hilt of his cutlass. “Is that an order, Captain?”

Lucius, raising his hand, says, “For the record, I think we should let Izzy stab him.”

“Yes, thank you both for your input,” Stede says, a little sniffily. “But the Gentleman Pirate is merciful.” He pauses. “And so is Blackbeard, these days. So, yes, that’s an order.”

“Ik sleep je mee naar de hel, klootzak.”

“You’re the boss,” Izzy says, his stance softening.

“What is happening?” says Lucius.

Stede purses his lips. “Let’s go help the others, shall we?”

The noises from the main deck are encouraging, insofar as they’ve quieted down. Stede can hear Roach’s laughter and a few cowed whimpers.

“Yeah, alright,” Izzy says, turning to go.

It’s at this moment that the Dutch boy leaps into action.

“Fuck,” Stede says.

The boy doesn’t even use his sword; he flings it aside and, instead, slams into Izzy, sending them both tumbling from the quarterdeck to the main deck below. Izzy lets out a yell as they fall—

And Stede sprints towards the steps that lead down to the main deck, stumbling down the four of them and dodging a free-standing cannon as he dashes towards where Izzy’s landed, the youth on top of him. Izzy’s eyes are closed, and the boy is drawing back a fist—

Stede grabs the young man by his hair and drags him off Izzy.

“I vouched for you,” he yells, “you—you insolent little worm! You repugnant, snivelling excuse for a coward. Wait for a man to turn his back before you strike—I see how it is!” The boy is struggling, but Stede keeps his grip tight—and, for good measure, holds the blade of his sword against the boy’s throat. “If you’ve hurt him, I will kill you,” he says, with unexpected feeling. “I will do it slowly, and painfully, and you will beg me for the mercy you so crassly cast aside.”

“Bonnet.”

Stede looks up. Izzy’s eyes are open, and he’s pushed himself up to one elbow. He’s blinking slowly, but seems otherwise unharmed. Relief leaves Stede light-headed.

“I’m fine, Stede,” Izzy says. “Let the boy go.”

Stede hesitates.

“Um, Captain?” the Swede says. “They’ve surrendered?”

And it appears they have: Ivan and Pete are tying up the men on deck who aren’t lying in their own blood, while Roach pries open a barrel. Oluwande and the rest are emerging from the companionway: Jim’s knives are out and bloody, but the four of them seem unharmed. Stede tries to steady his breathing. He doesn’t have much success.

Not when Izzy’s lying there like that, where he’d been pushed.

“It’s bad form to attack men who’ve surrendered. Not unheard of, but—” Izzy shrugs as well as he can from his prostrate position on the deck. “We should get what we came for and go.”

“But you’re—”

“Captain,” Izzy says.

“Oh, alright,” Stede says. He shoves the boy away from him and sheathes his sword, rubbing his hands on his trousers. “Well done, then, everyone. Get back to—um, whatever it was you were doing before. And make sure you tie that one up. Tightly.”

The crew resume their activities, although the atmosphere is notably subdued after Stede’s outburst. He thinks perhaps he should feel embarrassed, but all he can really think is that Izzy’s alright—that is, if he’s not concealing some awful head wound, which would be just like him, actually, now Stede’s thinking about it—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Stede pauses in his inspection of Izzy’s skull. “Am I hurting you?” he asks, pulling his hands back. He drops from his crouch to his knees, studying Izzy’s eyes. Are his pupils always that big? If only it wasn’t so dark, he could—

“No,” Izzy says. “Why the fuck are you touching my head?”

“I’m checking for—oh, I don’t know. A bump, or something.”

“A fucking bump?”

“You hit your head when you fell, yes?” Stede says.

“Not at first,” Izzy says. “But then—yeah, I think so. Little bugger landed on top of me, knocked my head back.”

“Right,” Stede says, another wash of relief flooding him. “That’s good.” He tries to remember what he knows about injuries of the head; he’d seen a doctor, once, after he’d fallen out of a tree, who asked him lots of questions about who he was and what he remembered about various things. “What’s your name?”

Izzy squints at him.

“Your name, Israel. Oh, damn, I just gave away the answer. Let me try again.”

“You’re an idiot,” Izzy says. Stede thinks that must mean he’s feeling okay. It’s still worth checking, though.

“What’s the name of your captain?” he asks.

“Edward,” Izzy says, slowly, like it’s a trick question. Stede’s not sure whether that one really counts, either, because he half-suspects that even with a truly grievous head injury, Izzy would remember Ed’s name. “And you, Bonnet. Is there a purpose to this?”

“Shush, I’m making sure your head’s alright,” Stede says, biting back on a smile. “Okay. What’s your favourite food?”

“You don’t even know my favourite food.”

“Of course I do,” Stede says. “Did you think I wasn’t paying attention?”

Izzy looks at him. They’re very close, Stede realises, and his hands are still on Izzy’s head, fingers tangled through his hair.

“Shortbread,” Izzy says.

Stede beams. “There! It seems your head is in fine health, Mr. Hands.”

“Great,” Izzy says. “I already knew that.”

“What about the rest of you?”

Izzy groans. “I’m fine, Bonnet. Go fuss over someone else.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Stede glances around. “Everyone else is doing marvellously. I’ll ask again, Israel: are you hurt anywhere?”

“Landed on my hip,” Izzy says with an aggrieved sigh. “Probably fucked my back. It’s not a problem.”

Lucius approaches, then, and kneels at Izzy’s other side. “You need help getting up, old man?”

At this, Izzy stews in mutinous silence for a full minute. Stede and Lucius wait.

“Maybe,” Izzy admits. “Would’ve escaped this conversation a while ago if I could fucking do it myself.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say?” Stede says, taking one of Izzy’s arms and looping it around his shoulder. Lucius does the same on his other side, and together they heave Izzy to his feet.

“Fuck,” Izzy hisses as he straightens up. “Christ.”

“It looks like you and Ed are going to be laid up for a few days,” Stede says. “Oh! Speaking of which! Ed mentioned you wanted a bed. Or that you hated the idea of a bed. He wasn’t quite sure. He said you definitely had strong feelings about it, one way or the other.”

Ed’s list of requests for the raid had run: sugar, marmalade, brandy, and a bed big enough for them plus Izzy. Apparently he’d brought up the latter with Izzy while Stede was reading the crew’s bedtime story, and Izzy’s reaction had been strong but ambiguous.

Izzy looks at Lucius.

“Well, it’s not like I don’t know,” Lucius says waspishly.

“Fine,” Izzy says. “Only if there’s space in the fucking boat once we’ve got all the supplies that are actually necessary.”

“Brill!” Stede says.

 

---

 

The captain’s quarters on this ship are an affront to good taste, Stede thinks once they’re in and Lucius has set to lighting a few of the candles, bathing the cabin in flickering amber light.

“Looks just how yours used to look,” Izzy comments.

Stede gasps, horrified. “How could you?” he says. “I’d never—the colour scheme alone—”

He deposits Izzy unceremoniously on the chaise longue, which is upholstered in green velvet and edged with what Stede suspects is real gold. Izzy lays himself out with his boots up on the fabric, smearing it with grime. Stede smiles.

“You just make yourself comfortable there,” he says. “We’re in no rush.”

“This is a fucking raid, Bonnet,” Izzy says, though his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back, revealing the pale, vulnerable column of his throat. “Not one of your outings.”

“Well, why can’t it be both?” Stede asks. “Oh, hello.”

He’s opened a cabinet, and inside is quite the trove of wine. There may well be more elsewhere on the ship, but he suspects that what they’ve come across here is the captain’s personal stash. Stede pulls out a bottle and examines it briefly. Once he deems it acceptable—more than acceptable, really—he pulls out the cork and takes a swig.

“Lovely,” he says. “Izzy? Lucius? Would you like any?”

Izzy doesn’t even do the decency of responding—just holds out a hand expectantly. Stede passes him the bottle.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Lucius says. “You two have fun!”

He takes his leave. Stede frowns.

“That was rather rude. What if we need his help moving the bed?”

Izzy raises his torso and gulps down some of the wine. “He thinks we’re going to fuck,” he says. “He thinks everyone, all the time, is going to fuck.”

“Oh!” Stede says. He feels his skin going pink, and turns to examine the bottles in the cabinet again. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

He can hear the sound of Izzy drinking some more.

“Yeah, well, it’d be a fucking insane thing to do, so.”

Stede stares unseeingly at the bottle of Madeira in front of his eyes and says, “Well, if we’re going to steal the bed, we might…test the wares. So to speak.” He adjusts his shirtsleeves. “And we don’t have time for a proper nap.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Bonnet?” Izzy says, sounding equal parts incredulous and amused.

“No! Is it working?”

“I can barely move.”

“You wouldn’t have to!” Stede says. Some distant part of his brain is informing him that he’s behaving like quite the buffoon, but another, much closer part is reminding him that Izzy’s here, alive and well, and that Stede hasn’t had nearly his fill of him yet.

When he turns around again, Izzy’s looking at him with a curiously open expression.

“You actually—” He cuts himself off, blinking rapidly. “It wasn’t just for Edward.”

“No,” Stede says. It’s not much of a confession, but it feels like one, with him on his feet and Izzy looking up at him, his face softened by the low light. “I thought I’d said.”

“Right,” Izzy says, his throat working. “Alright.”

“We don’t have to—” Stede hesitates. “Try out the bed. If you don’t want to. But you should know that I'd very much like to seduce you.”

Izzy’s resolve visibly wavers.

“Might piss Edward off,” he says. Of course—Stede shouldn’t be in any doubt about his priorities.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Stede replies, though he’d readily acknowledge that it might have been better to discuss it with Ed in advance of the situation arising. “I certainly didn’t mind about whatever the two of you got up to while I was reading the crew’s story.”

Not an awful much, by Ed’s telling of it—but it’s the principle of the thing.

“We didn’t—” Izzy raises the bottle back to his lips, taking a long pull. “You two are fucking impossible.”

“In a good way?”

“No,” Izzy responds without pause. He sets the bottle, now a third empty, on the floor and wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. There’s something erotically insouciant about the gesture, Stede can’t help but think.

“Let me take you to bed,” he says.

Izzy stares up at him a second longer, and then he says, “Yeah,” like a dam breaking, like a knot unravelling. He puts one of his feet on the floor, starting to push himself up, and Stede flutters over to his side.

“Do you need help?”

Izzy frowns, then sighs. “You don’t have to treat me like…”

“Like what?” Stede asks, when it becomes clear Izzy isn’t going to finish the sentence of his own accord.

“I don’t know,” Izzy says. “Like you treat him.”

“Oh,” Stede says. “How would you prefer I treat you?”

That gets him a frown, along with an inarticulate noise. “Just fuck me, Bonnet, if you’re going to.”

“Hm,” Stede says, but he decides to take Izzy’s prickly statement as assent, and gets himself to his knees. He untucks Izzy’s shirt, pushing it up and kissing the trail of hair beneath his navel.

Izzy stiffens beneath him.

“Is this alright?” Stede asks, his hands playing at the ties of Izzy’s trousers.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I was going to use my mouth on you,” Stede says. “I’m not—you’ll have to stay very still; I’m afraid I haven’t had a great deal of practice. But Ed’s mentioned that you’re rather good at staying still, when you’re told to.”

Izzy’s expression could not have been more stunned if Stede had backhanded him across the face.

“He told you about that?” Izzy croaks. He has, Stede notices, frozen in place. Only his mouth moves—and his eyes, flicking restlessly back and forth.

“I think,” Stede tells him, taking his time with it, “he wanted to show you off to me. He said you were just lovely for him. That you did everything he wanted.”

The words have their intended effect: Izzy’s answering expression is utterly, gorgeously lost.

“Oh,” Izzy says. Stede can feel the way he’s getting hard, as though Izzy’s cock is tethered to Ed even when they’re apart. “He—I didn’t know.”

“You should have heard him,” Stede says. He touches Izzy through his leathers; Izzy stays completely motionless, one foot on the floor and one stretched out on the chaise longue, his thighs wide apart. “I’ll make him tell you, sometime. How much he wants you.”

“Fuck,” Izzy says. “Fuck, Stede, please—”

Stede smiles. There he is. “You’re so wonderfully obedient sometimes, Israel, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Izzy gasps, “yes, I’ll—whatever you want, Stede. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Stede’s breath catches in his throat. He’s aware that he’s got a bad habit of not knowing what to do with power once it’s granted to him; he’s aware that he’s being given something fragile, here, and being trusted not to break it.

“I want you to let me make you feel good,” he says decisively. “Tell me if I do it wrong.”

With that, he opens Izzy’s trousers, delighting in the underdrawers he finds beneath.

“Awfully modest of you,” he says, pulling them down just enough to get Izzy’s cock out. He studies it a moment, formulating a plan of attack. He’s not quite sure whether the technique he uses with Ed will work, here. Only one way to find out, he acknowledges, and bends to lick at the flushed, wet tip.

Izzy groans, loud, but he doesn’t move a single inch.

“Oh,” Stede says. “That’s—he was quite right, wasn’t he? Wonderful.”

With that, he dives back in, mouthing down the length of Izzy before taking as much as he can into his mouth. Izzy’s answering sounds are flattering, though hardly warranted. Stede pulls back.

“You don’t have to pretend, for my benefit,” he says. “I know I’m still a novice in the art of—”

He gestures at Izzy’s prick, which stands wet and glistening with Stede’s spit.

Izzy closes his eyes. “Not pretending,” he says, sounding pained. “Just—I never—”

Stede draws in a quick breath.

“Has anyone ever pleasured you with their mouth before, Israel?” he asks.

“Don’t fucking call it that,” Izzy mutters. He breathes heavily for a few more moments, and then he says, beautifully soft, “No.”

“Oh,” Stede says. He’d known Ed hadn’t gotten the chance, but—

“Stede,” Izzy says. He sounds desperate.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Stede says, going back to the task at hand.

There’s a lot less pressure, now he knows that Izzy’s never been on the receiving end of this particular act before. With nothing to compare it to, Stede fancies he’ll be more than adequate.

Inhibitions thus removed, he sucks Izzy down with renewed determination, using his tongue to explore every inch of the overheated skin. He really is wonderfully thick; Stede’s jaw begins to ache in short order, and he finds it impossible to be neat about it. When he slips and forgets to cover his teeth, Izzy only moans, his voice like a lute string stretched taut.

Izzy’s thighs begin to shake; Stede can feel them under his hands. But he doesn’t move.

“Bonnet,” Izzy says, “fuck, get off, I’m going to—”

Possessed by some unfamiliar urge, Stede only sinks further, taking most of Izzy’s cock into his mouth and barely even wincing at the first splash of come down his throat. He’s no fan of the taste, and generally heeds Ed’s warnings on the matter, but this is Izzy’s first time. Stede wants it to be as good for him as he can possibly make it.

When he draws back, pleased with himself, Izzy is trembling all over. His breath is coming in laboured gasps.

“You can move now, darling,” Stede says from between his legs, stroking the inner V of his thighs. “You did perfectly. I wish Ed could’ve seen you.”

Izzy’s breath hitches prettily.  

The first thing he does with his newly granted power of movement is cover himself, which Stede thinks a shame. Then he props himself up against the armrest of the chaise longue and winces.

“Your poor back,” Stede says sympathetically.

“I’ve had worse,” Izzy responds. “Just—give me a minute, I can still—” He waves a hand at Stede.

“Heavens, no,” Stede says, earning himself a look of distinct confusion. "You just lie there and relax, my dear. Once I've, well, calmed down, we'll call in some of the crew to help with the furniture. I’m warming to his chaise, actually, do you think we should take it?”

“You don’t want me to get you off?” Izzy asks, frowning.

“Hm,” Stede says. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. It's only that I'd rather you stay there and rest your back while we ransack the room.”

He gets the sense that Izzy still doesn't understand, but Stede isn't sure what else to say. He begins to see the shape of Ed's difficulty with sharing his feelings with Izzy: Izzy seems determined not to believe anyone could care for him, or want him—or love him.

"Izzy—"

“We didn’t even test the fucking bed,” Izzy interrupts. Then he laughs, a bewildered little sound.

“Oh, please,” Stede says with a smile of his own. He grabs the bottle of wine from the floor and pours a little onto his tongue, washing the taste of Izzy’s spend from his mouth. “It’s twice the size of the old one. Of course we’re taking it.”

Notes:

i bet ed will be super cool with everything stizzy got up to on their raid date and that he won't be jealous at all

an ed pov companion piece is here

Chapter 17

Notes:

this chapter is about ed and izzy being insane and obsessive about each other while stede watches in abject confusion. enjoy!

Upon their return, Ed’s sitting waiting for them on the portside gunwale, legs dangling and a smug little grin on his face. The wind has made a bird’s nest of his hair and his eyes are red with the proof of his late night; he looks, in short, aggravatingly gorgeous.

There’s a quick intake of breath from beside Stede, followed by a deeply exasperated exhale. Stede finds something pleasing in being close enough to hear it, and takes the liberty of squeezing Izzy’s waist, earning a sigh of his own.

Ed peers at them, at the way Stede’s supporting Izzy’s weight, and says, “Back in one piece, then?”

“It’s nothing,” Izzy says. “Get down from there. I’m not fishing you out of the ocean if you fall in.”

“Can’t believe you got your knickers in a twist over a fucking fluyt, mate,” Ed says, continuing to perch on the railing. And after Stede had left Frenchie with strict instructions not to let him out of bed, too. Someone is getting a stern talking to, once he’s finished helping the rest of the crew hoist up the spoils.

“Biggest fluyt I’ve ever seen,” Izzy mutters, colour blossoming on his cheeks.

“Yeah, it was a very scary tiny ship,” Ed says. “C’mere.”

Izzy glances around. None of the other crewmembers are paying much attention, too occupied with the abundance of loot and the struggle to get it onboard, but there’s still something unmistakably intimate in Ed’s instruction—unless Stede is imagining it, struck through with the lingering excitement of the raid.

“It was bigger than this ship, boss,” Izzy argues, but he does as he’s been asked, detaching from Stede and making his halting way across the deck. Ed’s eyes sharpen, studying his gait.

“You worry too much,” he says.

“You don’t worry enough,” Izzy says. It has the grooves of a well-worn argument, without any real ire to it. Stede feels more than content to stand back and watch. When Izzy reaches Ed’s side, he leans his weight against the bulwark and snakes an arm out behind Ed, ready to catch him if he loses balance.

Ed’s mouth twitches. “Who says I wasn’t worried?” He clutches a hand to his heart. “I prayed for my men’s safe return, and the lord has seen fit to answer my prayers. ’Cept my first mate’s a little worse for wear.”

“It’s nothing,” Izzy repeats shortly.

Stede elects to intercede. “He had a bit of a fall,” he says. “My fault, really. I didn’t let him stab someone he really ought to have stabbed.”

He fills Ed in on the details, describing the altercation on the Dutch ship while Izzy huffs out another of his peevish little breaths.

“I’ve had worse,” Izzy says.

“I’m not about to let you pretend you aren’t hurt,” Stede responds. He knows he’s right. The pain had been bad enough for Izzy to beg off rowing them back, electing instead to sit and critique everything from the way Stede held the oars to his ‘fucking atrocious’ posture. Lucius, naturally, had been no help.

“Back’s a little stiff,” Izzy admits. “I’ll sleep it off once we’ve got everything on board.”

“Hm,” Ed says. He starts swinging his left leg, kicking the baluster beneath him with his bare heel. “Any thoughts on where you’re gonna be sleeping, Iz?”

Something fills Izzy’s eyes, then, but he blinks them shut before Stede can identify the emotion. Ed’s fingers drum, restless, on the railing.

“Well, we certainly stole a bed,” Stede contributes. “And lots of wine. My word, they had wine from Poitou! You’ll love it, Izzy, and we’ll try you on some of the Burgundy, too.”

“You said, Bonnet,” Izzy says.

Behind him and Ed, the sun is just barely peeking out over the horizon, baptising the morning in pale pink light. Their shadows stretch across the deck, the dark smudge of their heads brushing the tips of Stede’s shoes.

“I’m simply saying that we’ve had a fortuitous outing indeed,” Stede says.

Ed smiles over at him, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah?”

Izzy intervenes. “Ship was well-stocked, Captain. We’ll have enough to be getting on with, and enough to sell. Sugar, butter, grain—”

“Alright,” Ed says, evidently uninterested in a full rundown of everything they’ve acquired. “Tell me more about this bed, then.”

Izzy sighs. “It’s fucking excessively big.”

“We were lucky,” Stede says. “Their captain was quite the man of luxury. I think the bed’s mahogany, and of course we took all the bedclothes, too. Witney blankets! Feather pillows! The style’s a little garish, but that can’t be helped.”

“Izzy,” Ed says. “You like it?”

Izzy looks up at him. His throat works, that all too familiar battle waging in his expression.

“We don’t have to decide right away,” Stede says quickly. “I’m too tired to start moving furniture around, in any case. Why don’t we see if we can scrounge up some breakfast from the spoils?”

“Yeah,” Ed says—and if there’s disappointment in his voice, it’s only a little. He shifts forwards on his perch, then frowns. “Iz, help me down, will you?”

Stede hurries forward. “Absolutely not. His back, Ed!”

“Right, yeah,” Ed says. “Sorry, Iz. Force of habit.”

And now Izzy looks disappointed, as though Stede hasn’t just saved him from aggravating his injury. He steps backwards, out of the way, while Stede gets an arm around Ed’s waist and pulls him into his arms.

“Oof!” Stede says, stumbling. “There we go.”

Ed winks at him. “My hero,” he says, a tad suggestive. “Here, you can let go, it only hurts a bit.”

Stede steps reluctantly aside, and Ed sways in place like a newborn colt for a moment before he gains his footing, looking pleased with himself. Nevertheless, there’s an unmistakable strain to his posture; Stede doesn’t doubt his knee is still giving him trouble.

“Liar,” Izzy mutters.

“Hypocrite,” Ed says without rancour. “How’s your back?”

“Fine,” Izzy responds stiffly. “It doesn’t matter.”

There’s a silence that lasts a tad too long, but Stede is determined not to interrupt it on this occasion. He nudges Ed in the side.

“It does matter, Iz,” Ed says, wobbling the few steps to the railing and leaning against it, as close to Izzy as he can reasonably stand whilst maintaining eye contact. “It matters if you’re hurt.”

Izzy’s eyes flick to Stede before darting to the general vicinity of Ed’s exposed collarbone.

“My back hurts. Happy?” he says.

Ed tilts Izzy’s chin up with two fingers. For a moment, Stede feels sure they’re going to kiss, but then something undefinable and unspoken passes between them, and Ed only says, “Yeah, I’m thrilled. Want some laudanum?”

Izzy rolls his eyes. “No, Edward, I don’t want any fucking laudanum. Which is a good thing considering we don’t have any.”

“Shit, really?” Ed looks at Stede, who shakes his head. “Fuck. Rum, then?”

“I don’t need anything.” Izzy frowns. “Do you—?”

Ed smiles, then, something regretful twisting the edges of it. “I don’t need anything, either, Iz.”

“Well,” Stede says, slightly bewildered by the whole thing, “I need breakfast.”

With that, he leaves them propped against the bulwark and goes to scout out their breakfast prospects. Ed and Izzy are perfectly capable of having their strange circuitous conversations in his absence, he’s sure.

There’s a promising selection of sustenance on offer: they hadn’t found any marmalade on the merchant ship, more’s the pity, but there’s tea and sugar and even some fresh loaves of bread. Stede pilfers what he considers an appropriate amount, earning a disapproving tut from Roach, and then he returns to Ed and Izzy and the oddly charged air between them.

The tension hasn’t abated in his absence, and Stede struggles to think of what it can possibly be about. Izzy admitting he’s hurt? Ed expressing concern? Whatever it is, the result is that Ed and Izzy are stood close enough to breathe the same air whilst stubbornly avoiding each other’s eyes. 

“Can you walk?” Stede asks.

Both of them, predictably, insist that they can. There doesn’t seem much use in arguing, so Stede only smiles and says, “I’ll meet you in the cabin, then. Take these.” He passes the supplies over to Izzy, sensing that Izzy might not object to joining them for a non-Friday meal if he’s involved in the process of preparing it somehow. “I’m just going to heat up some water for the tea, shan’t be a tick.”

He kisses Ed on the cheek, pats Izzy on the arm, and scarpers in the direction of the galley.

 

---

 

“Oh,” he breathes when he enters the captains’ cabin fifteen minutes later.

The table is beautifully laid, replete with a tea set and what Stede considers the nice plates, along with bread and butter and a jar of strawberry jam. And yet Stede finds himself quite unable to focus on the breakfast arrangements, distracted by the way Ed and Izzy are dozing on the couch, Ed’s head resting on Izzy’s shoulder.

He should wake them. Sleeping sitting up like that is a bad idea at the best of times, in Stede’s experience, and neither of their bodies will thank them for the position. But he finds himself stalling for time, pouring water into the teapot and waiting for the tea to stew, apportioning sugar into the cups and buttering twelve slices of bread. He leaves the jam to one side—he doesn’t know whether Izzy likes it.

As he works, he watches the two men on the settee. Ed’s mouth is open and he’s snoring, something that doesn’t typically happen when he sleeps lying down. There’s a string of drool connecting him to the collar of Izzy’s shirt. Izzy, meanwhile, has his head tipped back against the back of the couch, his features slack and his legs stretched out in front of him. His belt and sword are off to one side, and Stede feels a bolt of fondness zip through him: Izzy feels safe here. Safe enough to disarm himself, at any rate.

“Ahem,” he says, when there’s really no putting it off anymore.

Both of them startle into alertness, almost knocking each other off the settee in their haste to get their defences up. It’s Ed who relaxes first, the moment his eyes settle on Stede. He grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Breakfast?”

“If you’ve gotten enough rest,” Stede says.

“Sure, love. Just got bored waiting for you,” Ed says breezily. He stands up and makes his limping way to the table, snagging a slice of the bread and the jam jar as he goes. “You coming, Iz?”

Izzy blinks, a little of the fog of sleep lingering at the corners of his eyes.

“Take your time,” Stede says. “You can’t have done your back any favours, sleeping like that.”

“Stop fussing, Bonnet,” Izzy says. He pulls himself into a sitting position, winces, and gets to his feet.

With some effort, Stede resists the urge to leap to his aid. “You’ll have a proper rest after this, both of you.”

“Boring,” Ed comments, piling so much jam onto his bread that it forms a gelatinous tower. “I saw the stuff your guys were bringing up. Did you leave any furniture behind, or is it all ours now?”

“Well, darling, you must admit that we’ve left this room rather sparse,” Stede says. “It’ll be good to have a proper redecoration.”

“This is sparse?” Izzy contributes, looking around like the state of the cabin must have changed since last he checked.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Stede says. “You’re the one who picked out the new partition for the reading nook.”

“Really, Iz?”

Izzy takes a bite of plainly buttered bread, chews, and then says, “If you’re going to have a fucking library, may as well have a fucking curtain, too.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Ed grins, patting the back of Izzy’s hand.

 

---

 

Izzy begs off after breakfast, retreating to his own room with promises to get some rest.

“Do you think it was too much, too fast?” Stede asks when he’s gone. “With the bed?”

Ed, now lying across the couch with his legs up, makes a passable attempt at a shrug without raising his shoulders from the cushions. “Probably,” he says. “He’s, y’know. Izzy.”

“Yes,” Stede says fretfully. “I don’t want him to feel pressured, you see, but what if by not pressuring him we make him feel like an afterthought? Like we don’t want him here? Gosh, it really is impossible to know what goes on in that man’s head.”

Ed sighs through his nose, not unkindly. “It’s nothing personal. He just likes a bit of time to himself, I think.”

“How dreadful,” Stede says. “I’d hate being alone in that dark little cabin of his.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, “but you’re not him, are you?”

“He’s injured,” Stede says insistently. “He’s injured, and we’ve reached some very important relationship milestones, and I just…want him here,” he finishes lamely.

Ed’s eyes glimmer.

“You’re proper sweet on him, aren’t you?”

“Oh!” Stede says. He feels a blush spreading over his face, from the tip of his nose to the roots of his hair. “Well, yes, you could put it that way.”

“It’s cute,” Ed says. “You’re cute.”

Stede ducks his head, feeling unaccountably bashful, and goes to sit on the floor beside Ed. Once there and settled, he tucks his head against Ed’s side. “I should tell you,” he says, “Izzy and I…shared an intimate moment.”

“Yeah? I was there,” Ed responds, bringing up his dangling hand to sift through Stede’s hair.

“No, I mean, during the raid,” Stede says. “It was all very sudden. He’d been pushed off the quarterdeck by that no-good scoundrel, and, well, of course it made sense for him to get a bit of a rest in the captain’s quarters. And then there was wine, and one thing led to another, and…”

“You tried to fuck him? During a raid?” Ed sounds delighted. “You nutcase.”

“I didn’t try,” Stede says. “I seduced him!”

“You’re kidding.” Ed’s hand comes to a halt. “He let you?”

“I was very persuasive,” Stede says, allowing the tiniest bit of smugness to seep into his tone. “He was worried you’d disapprove, I think, but I convinced him otherwise.”

“Did you?”

Ed’s voice is low, unreadable.

“Yes. I told him you wouldn’t mind all that much.”

Ed traces the curve of Stede’s ear with a finger. “Mm. What if I do mind?”

That changes things. Stede finds himself grateful that there’s no easy way for him to meet Ed’s eyes in this position. His skin feels overheated, something hotter than embarrassment rising from within.

“Then, um.” Stede swallows. “Well, I suppose I should have discussed the—the possibility. Only I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

“I see,” Ed says.

His tone remains entirely inscrutable. Stede shifts, a little uncomfortable in his position on the floor.

“Would it help if I told you about it?” he asks.

Ed’s exhale sounds a little like a laugh; Stede brightens in response. “Come on, man. I’ll still be jealous when I’m turned on.”

Stede finally manages to raise his head, turning it and cataloguing Ed’s expression, which is guarded. He reaches up and cups Ed’s cheek with his hand.

“Darling,” he says, “there’s no need for you to be jealous. He adores you. There’s no one he’d rather be with.”

“He—” Ed’s lips twitch before settling on a sentence. “He’s different with you than he is with me.”

“Well, yes,” Stede says thoughtfully. “He’d hardly walk through fire on my account, I’d wager.”

“But that’s it,” Ed says, flapping a hand at the same time as he leans into Stede’s touch. His voice is low but strained. “Things are easier with you two! No one’s walking through fire, or killing anyone, or cutting off anyone’s fucking toes.”

He stops, clamping his eyes shut.

“Well. He did stab me,” Stede points out, because he can’t not.

Luckily, Ed’s response is a choked-off sort of laugh. He slides down, off the couch, and into Stede’s arms, shaking with some combination of mirth and distress that Stede isn’t sure quite how to parse. “You stabbed me.”

“Only because you told me to!” Stede says, stroking Ed’s hair. “You know, if you stabbed him, we’d have a full set.”

“Best not suggest it,” Ed sighs. “He’d let me.”

“He’d like it,” Stede says. He pulls back, waits for Ed to look at him, and waggles his eyebrows.

Ed snorts with laughter. “Stop it, I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Why? Would you rather I not pursue Izzy on my own time?”

“On your own t—no, love.” Ed nudges his face into the hollow of Stede’s throat. “I’ve just never had to share him before.”

Stede cards his fingers through Ed’s hair, considering. He doesn’t know what to make of the extent to which Ed and Izzy’s relationship is founded on ownership, on control. It’s so different to how things are between him and Ed: although he’d felt jealous, while Calico Jack was around, it hadn’t because he’d considered Ed to belong to him and him alone. It had been because Calico Jack was a dick. May God rest his soul.

Twisting a lock of Ed’s hair around his finger, he says, “You never shared the captaincy before, either. That seems to be working out alright.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “I’ll get the hang of it.”

But he’s clutching at Stede, limbs wrapped around him, like no amount of closeness is close enough. It’s rather reminiscent of a tentacled sea creature, though Stede knows better than to mention that.

“We should get off the floor,” he says.

“’n a minute,” Ed mumbles.

Stede kisses him on the top of his head and resolves to discuss the matter properly later.

 

---

 

After indulging in a post-breakfast nap of his own, Stede wakes to discover his quarters bustling with people and activity. There’s Wee John and Frenchie, each carrying one side of the green chaise longue; Buttons is assisting Jim in hanging the velvet curtain to partition the main room from the reading nook, and Ed is stood amongst the bustle, directing where everything should go.

“You’re up!” he says when he spots Stede. There’s a tense sort of energy humming through him, and Stede recognises it instantly as the way Ed gets on the nights he can’t sleep, too caught up in his own thoughts. Those nights have been few and far between since Stede’s return, but the signs are easily recognisable. “Good, ’cause we were going to start doing the bed next, and we can’t when you’re in it.”

“I can’t believe I slept through all this,” Stede says. Black Pete is hammering a stolen painting onto a wall, loudly, and no one seems to be making any effort to keep their voices down.

“Yeah,” Ed says, “it’s kind of a worry, mate. And I was gonna wait until you were awake to get started, but then—” He spreads his hands: I got bored.

“Where’s Izzy?” Stede asks.

“Still in his room, I think,” Ed says. “Not really sure. We can go check, there’s not much left to do here.”

He starts towards the door, heedless of the fact that Stede isn’t dressed. “Hold on!” Stede says. When Ed stops and turns around, Stede leads them both through the hubbub and towards the washroom. As he goes, he thinks he hears a few discontented mutters from certain less work-inclined members of the crew, but he chooses to ignore them. A well-decorated captains’ cabin will be good for everyone’s morale, and Stede has a responsibility to make sure a certain first mate is taking care of himself.

 

---

 

Ed doesn’t knock before entering Izzy’s room, so Stede can only feebly tap at the wood once they’re already through the door.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Izzy isn’t resting. He’s sat on the edge of his bed, dragging a cloth along the blade of his sword. His waistcoat is hanging over the back of a wooden chair, newly mended, and there’s a map open on the table, next to a single flickering candle. He looks up when Ed and Stede enter, and instantly his body coils into attention, his eyes travelling swiftly over Stede before settling on Ed.

“Have you slept at all?” Stede asks.

“You didn’t say to sleep,” Izzy responds. “You said to rest.”

“Yeah, mate, gotta be specific with your instructions,” Ed says. He’s pacing around the room, which isn’t really big enough to support the practice, and thus Stede finds himself with the vague impression of a caged tiger. “Like: Iz, stand up.”

Izzy puts down his sword and cloth, looking at Ed warily. “Yes, Captain,” he says, and gets to his feet, clasping his arms behind his back. With the power of retrospect, Stede can see that it’s really very obvious that Izzy used to be in the Navy.

“Good,” Ed says. “Up against that wall for me.”

He nods at the bare stretch of wall diagonally across from the door, where Stede’s still hovering, unsure of whether to intercede—or, indeed, leave them to it. But Ed flashes a glance back at him, and Stede realises he’s deliberately placing Izzy in view. Anticipation begins to unfurl in Stede’s gut. 

Izzy swallows. “Facing you, or—?”

Ed’s answering breath is loud, or seems so. Stede wonders what could have made it so that Izzy needs the clarification—a few options spring to mind, most of them pornographic.

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Yeah, facing me. Back against the wall.”

Izzy complies with the request, caution settling into the lines of his expression. Once he’s in position, Ed abandons his pacing in favour of invading Izzy’s space, looming over him.

“Stede told me something interesting,” Ed says conversationally, laying his forearm across Izzy’s collarbones. Stede feels his heart speed up, some combination of nervousness and arousal pulsing through him. It occurs to him that he really should have seen this coming. “About what you two got up to on your raid.”

Izzy licks his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ed confirms. He reaches up with his free hand, cupping Izzy’s cheek in a way that seems more condescending than tender. Izzy leans into it all the same, his eyes huge and dark in the low light. Stede watches as Ed digs his thumbnail into the X mark under Izzy’s eye, hard. “What’d you let him do to you, Iz? You let him fuck you?”

Izzy draws in a quick breath. “He said you wouldn’t be mad.”

“Mad? Who’s mad?” Ed says with affected innocence. “I’m just confused, Iz, since you were always the one saying we should be professional on raids. So it’s just an interesting story to hear, considering. What changed your mind?”

“Ed—” Stede starts, earning matching sounds of annoyance from both Ed and Izzy. Stede closes his mouth and presses himself back against the door, shutting it behind him with a soft click.

“He’s fucking persuasive,” Izzy says, and Stede finds himself preening despite the fact that neither of them seems especially interested in his presence at this particular juncture.

“Mm, yeah,” Ed agrees. “What’d he persuade you to do? Go to your knees for him? You can tell me, Iz.”

Izzy’s gaze darts sideways, seeking out Stede. There’s an entreaty in his expression: you tell him. Stede clears his throat, sees Ed’s head tilt, and says, “It was the other way around, actually.”

Ed’s head whips around, and his mouth parts in shock. “You—”

Stede wrings his hands.

“Edward,” Izzy says—whines, almost. His eyes are glassy, and Stede realises belatedly how turned on Izzy is, how much he wants Ed to keep going, to keep berating him. It puts quite a few things in perspective, Stede thinks—how much Izzy likes it when Ed is mean to him.

“You let him suck you off,” Ed says. “Shit, Iz, you never let me do that.”

Izzy frowns, keeps quiet.

“Would you have let me?” Ed asks, his nail digging in harder. “If I’d asked?”

“I don’t know,” Izzy says. He sounds conflicted about it.

“Will you let me now?” Ed asks.

Silence. Izzy’s frown deepens, like he thinks it’s a trick question, like he thinks he’s going to get the answer wrong. The hesitation lasts too long; Ed makes a low, hurt noise, says, “Just him, huh?”

“No,” Izzy says. “You don’t—I never needed—” His stuttering comes to a frustrated, blushing halt before he finishes, “You really want to?”

“Oh,” Ed breathes, stroking over the indent he’s left in Izzy’s cheek with the flat of his thumb, “Iz.”

Trying to prompt Ed to expand on the thought, Stede coughs quietly.

“Yeah,” Ed says. “I want to.”

Izzy’s eyes flick to Ed’s lips, then away—guiltily, almost.

“You’ve already gotten off twice today,” Ed says thoughtfully, his fingers tracing down from Izzy’s tattoo to his jaw, smoothing over the tight clench of it. “Think you deserve another one?”

“I don’t know, Captain.”

Ed grins, and there’s a shift in his posture that Stede associates with the prelude to sex—everything going loose and liquid. “Yeah, you do,” he says. “C’mere.”

He grabs Izzy by the chin and drags their mouths together—there’s really no other way of putting it, Stede thinks—at which point they both dissolve into the same clutching, frantic passion of the previous evening. Ed crushes Izzy against the wall with hands on his face, a thigh between his legs.

“Used to think about getting my mouth on you,” he says lowly, while Izzy squirms in place. Stede, still pressed against the door, struggles to keep quiet. “But we always ended up the other way, didn’t we? You on your knees.”

“Liked it that way,” Izzy says.

“Yeah? Me too.” Ed kisses Izzy languorously, then says, “Love your mouth.”

Izzy jerks like he’s been set on fire, a whine spilling from his mouth into Ed’s.

Ed shushes him, smoothing Izzy’s hair while he kisses his cheek, his jaw. “Iz, can you answer me something?”

“Anything,” Izzy says.

“You alright staying here?” Ed asks. “With me?”

Izzy’s eyes snap into focus. Ed keeps his head bent, his lips canvassing the length of Izzy’s neck.

“Are you?” Izzy asks.

Ed looks up. Stede can’t say what passes between them in that moment of eye contact, but it ends with Ed saying, “Just want you to feel—” He searches for the word. “—safe.”

“Ed,” Izzy says. He reaches out, cautiously, and places a hand in Ed’s curls. From experience, Stede knows it’s difficult to stroke through Ed’s hair without snagging on something, but Izzy seems to manage nicely. “Feeling safe never much mattered to me. If I’d wanted safety, I wouldn’t have come to sea. Wouldn’t have stayed with you all these years.” He raises his other hand and strokes Ed’s cheek, impossibly tender. “I want you. Don’t care if you’re safe or not. You’re my—” Stede feels sure he’s about to say captain, but Izzy diverts course at the very last moment. “—Edward.”

Ed goes to his knees as though pushed there.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Stede says. Both of the other men in the room startle at the reminder of his presence, which is mildly insulting. “If you’d stop kneeling on wooden floors, Edward.”

He storms over to the bed, picks up Izzy’s pillow, and throws it at them.

“Yeah,” Ed says, blinking slowly. “Good thinking.”

He tucks the pillow under his knees, then tilts his head up towards Izzy. Stede sits down on the bed, since no one’s actually told him to leave, and makes himself comfortable.

Izzy, meanwhile, looks every bit like a man whose entire world has been turned on its head. His hand visibly shakes as he reaches down and touches Ed’s face, his lips. Ed licks the tips of Izzy’s fingers, playful.

It seems like it could go on a while, both of them just getting used to the newness of it, but since the pillow can only do so much—

“Why don’t you undo your trousers, Izzy?” Stede suggests, chivvying them along.

The simple instruction takes a combined effort from Izzy and Ed, since both of their hands are unsteady, fumbling over the tie. But they manage in the end, and once Izzy’s cock is out Ed stares at it with undisguised hunger, so covetous Stede feels guilty to have ever touched it himself.

“Just gonna stare at it all day, or…?” There’s a lick of uneasiness in Izzy’s voice—his discomfort with exposure again, Stede suspects.

“Gonna do whatever I want with it,” Ed replies, seeming to regain some of his equilibrium. He darts forward and begins teasing Izzy with barely-there flicks of his tongue, holding Izzy’s prick still with a pinch of forefinger and thumb at the base. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Fuck,” Izzy starts chanting, “fuck, fuck, Edward, I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can,” Ed says. He fits his mouth around the head of Izzy’s prick, sucks briefly, and then pulls away to look upwards, like he wants to catalogue every reaction before moving on to the next thing. “You’ll do whatever I ask of you.”

Izzy moans, full-throated, at that. It earns him a smug grin from Ed, who continues his exploration of Izzy’s dick apace without actually sucking it. Stede palms at the front of his trousers.

“You’re a—fucking tease,” Izzy grits out, his hands flat against the wall.

“Mm?” Ed says, now licking up and down the length of him, his tongue twisting in wet-pink flashes. “Gonna do anything about it?”

Izzy makes a confused sort of noise, and so it falls to Stede to say, “Put your hand in his hair, darling. He likes that.”

Izzy’s attention shifts; he looks over at Stede, notices the way he’s touching himself through his trousers, and smirks. “Edward,” he says. “Look.”

It’s equal parts embarrassing and gratifying when Ed glances over and matches Izzy’s expression, blatantly pleased with himself. Stede can feel his cock swelling under the attention.

“Nice,” Ed says. “Could get it out, Stede, we’re all friends here—”

Stede cuts him off. “I think,” he says, “I told you to put a hand in his hair, Israel.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ed confirms, mercifully directing his attention back to Izzy. “Go on, Iz, do what the man tells you.”

With gorgeous hesitance, Izzy threads his fingers through Ed’s hair, pulling it back from his face.

“You can pull,” Ed says, quick like he’s trying to slip something past them. “You can sort of—move me where you want me.”

“Edward,” Izzy says, hushed and reverent. Stede watches his hand clench. He watches as Ed lets himself be pulled forwards, lips widening to take the full girth and length of Izzy into his mouth. “Oh, god.”

With Ed’s mouth otherwise occupied, Stede takes it upon himself to fill the hush that follows.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says. “Both of you.”

“Bonnet—” Izzy hisses out, high and thready.

“I feel so privileged, that I get to watch you like this,” Stede continues.

Izzy’s hand tightens in Ed’s hair, pulling him off. “Does he always say shit like this?”

Ed’s answering laughter is rough, and he takes Izzy’s prick in his hand while he answers, stroking him. “Yeah, love,” he says. “He’s a real gentleman in bed.”

Izzy’s gaze cuts back to Stede, dark and assessing. “Always?” he asks.

Clearing his throat, Stede says, “I—I do try.”

“Hm,” is Izzy’s response.

“I’m not,” Ed says, before taking Izzy down to the back of his throat, cheeks hollowing out. Izzy curses, loud, and his free hand scrabbles for Ed’s shoulder. For his part, Ed pushes Izzy’s hips against the wall, holding him still and sucking him down. When next he pulls off, he’s smirking wickedly. “You like it, Iz?”

“Christ, Edward,” Izzy pants.

“Love it?”

“Yeah—yes, I—fuck.”

Ed looks pleased with himself, a cruel little gleam in his eye, and Stede feels suddenly worried that he’s going to leave Izzy like this, that he isn’t going to let him finish. His fears increase when Ed says, “You want to come?”

“What sort of stupid fucking question—?”

“Izzy.”

It’s amazing, Stede thinks—Ed is on his knees, spit shining in his beard, and yet there’s nothing but subservience in Izzy’s voice when he says, “Yes, Captain.”

“In my mouth or on my face?” Ed rasps.

“Wh—whatever you want.”

Ed, almost contemplatively, licks up the wetness at the tip of Izzy’s cock, swirling his tongue through the mess before he says, “You’ve got to choose.”

“I—” And Izzy’s voice drops to a mortified whisper. “Your face.”

Ed makes a greedy sort of sound, getting his hand tight around Izzy’s prick and continuing to lick at the head, saying, “Tell me when you’re close.”

The words are barely out of Ed’s mouth before Izzy is saying, “Fuck, Ed—Edward, I’m—”

Ed pulls back ever-so-slightly, though his hand starts moving quicker, tighter.

“Yeah,” he says, “come on, come for me, come on me—”

He’s cut off, deliciously, by Izzy’s release, come spurting over Ed’s open mouth and halfway up his cheek. They’re so obsessed with marking each other, Stede thinks, before he realises that he may well be harder than he’s ever been in his entire life, and as such hardly has a leg to stand on.

“Izzy,” Ed says, quietly awed. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, leaving it bare and glistening. The rest of his face is a gorgeous wreck, and Stede can’t profess to be surprised when Izzy sinks down the wall unsteadily and kisses him, knocking Ed backwards onto the floor and climbing on top of him. They kiss ravenously, wetly, the sound of it obscene.

Ed’s making noises that Stede’s only ever heard when he’s fucking him, and he realises how close Ed is to the edge only as he’s already hurtling over it, thrusting artlessly against Izzy’s leg.

“I—did you—?” Izzy looks dazed, off-balance, staring down at Ed like he’s someone he’s never seen before.

“Yeah,” Ed says, then, “don’t stop, kiss me—”

Stede watches as they melt into each other, their mouths moving more sweetly now the promise of release is dispensed with. He can’t prolong it any longer: he undoes his own trousers, gasping in relief at the first touch of his hand to the inflamed skin.

Izzy’s the one who notices first, opening one eye and tilting his face towards Stede. He breaks from Ed’s mouth to whisper something in his ear, too low for Stede to hear. Stede flushes.

“Good thinking, Iz,” Ed tells him. “You want to keep watching, Stede, or one of our mouths?”

“I—” Stede feels caught out, trapped in the twin rip currents of Ed and Izzy’s eyes. “Keep going, please.”

“Put on a show for you,” Ed responds, smiling wickedly. “Okay. See how it is.”

Stede feels somehow more depraved than he would have if he’d requested a suckjob. But he doesn’t have long to dwell on it, because Ed pulls Izzy back in, starts sucking lewdly at his neck.

“Tell us,” Izzy pants, “tell us what you want us to do.”

Stede squirms. “Don’t—nothing on my account,” he manages. “I suspect you’ll be too sore to—”

Ed laughs into Izzy’s neck. “Think he wants me to keep touching your prick,” he says. “’til it hurts, Iz.”

“Oh—” Stede gasps, at the same time as Izzy moans.

“See?” Ed grins like wildfire. “You both like the same things.” He sits up, and Izzy goes with him, led by Ed’s hands. Ed gets them twisted around so that his back is against the wall, Izzy tucked between his legs, used prick still framed by the undone laces of his trousers. “Tell you what,” Ed says conversationally, “I’ll touch Izzy here the same way you’re touching yourself, and I won’t stop ’til you come.”

Izzy puts his head back on Ed’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut as he whines. And Ed—Ed spits in his own hand and wraps it around Izzy’s dick without further ado, immediately going at the same desperate pace as Stede is touching himself.

Izzy’s legs kick out, a low sound of pain issuing from his lips.

“None of that,” Ed says, holding him still. “I know you love it, Iz.”

“Yes,” Izzy hisses out, his chest heaving, his prick manipulated to half-hardness by the insistence of Ed’s hand. Stede gets so caught up in watching that he forgets to touch himself, and Ed’s hand comes to a standstill in response. “Fucking—move, Bonnet,” Izzy says.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” Stede says, hastening to work his hand over himself.

“Don’t have to apologise,” Ed murmurs. “Does he, Izzy?”

Izzy grunts something that might be agreement—but then again, it might not be. Stede chooses to err on the side of caution and continues stroking himself, even faster now than before. With Ed’s hand mirroring his movements, Izzy gets louder and louder, until Ed slaps his free hand over his mouth.

“He won’t want everyone to hear him,” he says to Stede, while Izzy thrashes in his grip. “Never had him this loud before.”

“Will he—will he be able to come again?” Stede asks.

Izzy says something, muffled by Ed’s hand, that seems distinctly uncomplimentary towards Stede’s intelligence. Ed laughs.

“No,” he says. “He just likes it. Could keep toying with him for hours, probably.”

“Oh,” Stede says. Then, “Oh—” as he spills over his own hand, the force of his orgasm taking him by surprise. He bows forward, then back, ending sprawled out on Izzy’s bed staring dazedly up at the ceiling. “Fucking hell,” he says weakly.

There’s some rustling from the other side of the room, and before long he’s surrounded on each side by Ed and Izzy, both of whom put their hands on his chest, their pinkie fingers just barely brushing each other’s. They’re all lying the wrong way, their legs hanging off the long side of the bed.

Izzy’s the first to speak.

“Fucking typical,” he says. “Get a bigger bed, and have a fuck on the floor.”

Ed makes a bright, happy sound, right into Stede’s ear. It’s like sunshine, Stede thinks, still a little come-drunk. “So you admit the bed’s a better idea?”

Stede can feel it, on his chest, when Izzy’s hand creeps over to cover Ed’s entirely.

“Not the worst idea you’ve ever had,” he says.

There comes the sensation of Ed turning his hand around, and then the two of them are holding hands, right over the still-frantic beating of Stede’s heart.

“I’ll take it,” Ed says.

Notes:

israel hands and edward teach, the medical profession's worst nightmares, literally rolling around on the floor after injuring themselves,

Chapter 18

The journey from Izzy’s cabin back to the captains’ quarters is trickier than anticipated. Ed is back to limping, and Izzy can barely move at all. After his first ten offers of assistance are rejected, Stede keeps his mouth shut and his pace slow, staying behind them on the staircases as a matter of precaution.

“Worth it,” Ed says cheerily as he hops one-legged down the final stretch of the passageway. His hand trails along the wall for support.

“Don’t do that,” Izzy says. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Eh. Already made it worse,” Ed says. “Shouldn’t’ve let me go on my knees if you were gonna have a go at me about it later, Iz.”

Izzy goes quiet, turning his face so Stede can’t see his expression. It’s a moment before he says, “We’re all idiots.”

“Glad you’re catching on, mate.” Ed attempts to spring into the captains’ cabin and has to catch himself on the doorframe. He wobbles in place for a moment, still only on one leg, and then comes to a triumphant equilibrium. “Nearly there. Fuck, I’m getting old. Never used to have to worry about this shit—pirates aren’t meant to live long enough, are they.”

There's a tightness to Izzy's voice when he says, “You’ll—it’ll feel better soon, boss. Like always.”

“Maybe. Hurts like a fuckin’ bitch, though,” Ed says. He glances back at Stede. “Might need to get your man Roach on it.”

Without waiting for a response, Ed begins a spirited attempt to cross the room on one leg.

“For fuck’s sake,” Izzy mutters.

“Careful, my dear,” Stede says.

Ed gives them both a thumbs up, and subsequently comes crashing down onto the new bed, which has been placed in the spot where Stede’s desk used to be.

“Not quite where I would have put it, but never mind,” Stede says.

Izzy flashes him a look of incredulous disdain before turning his ire back on Ed. “Mr. Roach will say the same thing I’ve been saying for years,” he says, shuffling across the room at his own, significantly slower, pace. “Stay off it for a few days. Stop jumping around. Wear your brace and let me look over it when it’s hurting.”

“Mm.” Ed sprawls out in the middle of the mattress, a leather-clad starfish. “Yeah, I bet Roach’s advice’ll be for you to feel me up.”

“It’s not—”

“Shut up, Iz,” Ed says. There’s a sparkle of a smile on his face. “Come here.”

“You’re taking up the entire fucking bed, Edward.”

“Just have to lie on top of me, then.”

Both of them are being facetious: despite his best efforts, Ed isn’t taking up the whole bed. There’s more than enough space for Izzy—and Stede besides. But Izzy does exactly what’s suggested, levering himself face-first into the cradle of Ed’s body. Ed’s smile widens, his eyes landing on Stede’s as though to reassure himself that it’s real.

“Shut up,” Izzy says.

“Neither of us said anything,” Stede protests.

“You were doing your weird eye thing. I could hear it.”

Ed doesn’t argue; instead, he fits his palm to the small of Izzy’s back, pressing down.

“Hurt?” he asks.

“No,” Izzy says, his voice a raspy little sigh. “It’s nice.”

“Good, good.” Ed rubs his hand up and down Izzy’s spine, makes an annoyed face, and sets about untucking Izzy’s shirt, slipping his hand under it. “Better?”

Izzy hums, as bright and happy as Stede’s ever heard him. Stede doesn’t know what to do with it, the feeling that breaks out in his chest at the sound, and so he busies himself with fluffing up the cushions that have fallen askew over the course of the crew’s redecorating.

“The fuck are you doing, Bonnet?” Izzy says. “Get over here.”

“Oh,” Stede says. “Yes. I’ll—”

He puts down the cushion, sheds his jacket and shoes, and allows himself another indulgent moment of gazing at Ed and Izzy’s peaceful forms. Then he takes his place alongside them.

 

---

 

Over the course of the next three days, Ed and Izzy barely leave the bed. It’s not that they admit defeat at the hands of their aches and pains; instead, each of them simply pretends they’re bedridden for the benefit of the other. It’s all rather sweet, in Stede’s opinion, watching them go through the same charade each morning. And according to Roach, bedrest really is the best thing for both of them, at least until the week is out.

Stede’s glad to see them taking care of themselves. Still, he struggles to adjust to being the only one in charge. He's gotten used to having a co-captain, and though his management of the Revenge has improved in a number of ways, he’s developed a tendency to leave the more technical decisions to the other part of the leadership team. Without Ed by his side (and Izzy criticising his every move), he’s a little lost for how to proceed. As a result, he returns to the captains' cabin multiple times each day, seeking Ed's input on something or other.

“Yeah,” Oluwande says on Friday morning, seeming unimpressed by Stede’s manful decision to admit he doesn’t know what he’s doing. “We’re all set, actually. Thought we might swing north, find a friendly port to sell the stuff we don’t need. Roach says he knows a place.”

“Oh,” Stede says. “Well, if you need anything…”

“I’ll give you a shout.”

Stede does a circuit of the deck, points out a few trip hazards and that the ferns need to be watered, and then he begins ambling his way back to the captains’ cabin, where he’d left Ed and Izzy only an hour before with their breakfast in bed. Ed had asked if he wanted to stay and eat with them, but Stede—

Well.

There’s been a little hesitance since the encounter in Izzy’s cabin, a patina of awkwardness. Ed and Izzy are busily settling into something new, but Stede's the fly in the ointment, unsure how he’s supposed to behave. He knows he fits into this new picture—he just doesn’t know exactly how.

He wants a list of rules: what’s allowed and what might bring back that side of Ed that had emerged in Izzy’s cabin. As…invigorating as that experience had been, Stede knows he didn’t imagine the genuine hurt on Ed’s face when he realised Stede had taken one of Izzy’s firsts. He knows that Ed doesn't want to be jealous, but the fact remains that Stede would do anything not to hurt him like that again.

He hasn’t had a chance to speak to Ed about it. Izzy’s never far away, and besides, Ed’s elation has been too infectious for Stede to bring up his wretched anxieties.

Whatever I do with Izzy, Stede imagines saying, must you have done it first?

He imagines the way Ed’s face would fall.

And that’s without even taking Izzy’s feelings on the matter into account. Touching him still feels a little like an unearned privilege, and Stede struggles to instigate it. He finds himself hoarding the tiniest of things: the way their fingers brushed when Stede passed him a teacup; the way Izzy used Stede’s forearm to pull himself out of bed.

He’d known Izzy wasn’t precisely demonstrative, but Stede hadn’t reckoned for how uncertain he would feel in response, how timid.

When they sleep, Ed takes the spot in the middle by unspoken agreement. That first night, Izzy had slept as close to Ed as could be; the following two, he’s had his back turned on the both of them, resolutely in his own space. Stede is trying not to read into it; Ed certainly doesn’t seem perturbed.

Ed, in fact, has taken to their new circumstances like a fish to water, showering equal amounts of affection on them both. It's familiar to Stede, but seems continually shocking to Izzy. Stede’s noticed that when Ed draws back from a kiss, Izzy has a tendency to touch his own lips afterwards, pressing his fingers down like he’s trying to preserve the imprint of Ed’s mouth.

And so Stede worries about voicing his doubts. Ed and Izzy are newly discovering each other after a rocky decade, and it would be just like Stede to make it all about himself. But he can’t help wondering about what would happen if he kissed Izzy—just kissed him, gently, without the guise of heat. He wonders if Izzy would want that. He doesn’t know how to ask.

 

---

 

When he gets to the captains’ cabin, all thoughts of nonsexual intimacy abandon him.

“Oh my word,” he says, averting his eyes before remembering that he’s allowed to look. “Again?”

It’s not the first time he’s walked in on them like this in the past few days. It’s not even the third.

Ed, who seems more mobile than Izzy at this stage, treats Stede to an unrepentant smirk. “Hey, love. Wanna help?” he says. “It’s just getting good.”

It appears to involve a dressing gown tie repurposed as a blindfold, the remnants of the lovely breakfast Stede (well, Roach) had prepared for the invalids, and Ed’s fingers in Izzy’s mouth. Stede can’t pretend not to be intrigued, and he shifts a plate of bacon aside so that he can join them.

“You’ll be getting crumbs everywhere, I suspect,” he says.

“Probably,” Ed replies. “Iz was just saying he wasn’t hungry, so I’m proving him wrong.”

“Ah,” Stede says. “Well, that’s very sensible.”

Ed chuckles and withdraws his fingers from Izzy’s mouth. Stede tries not to fixate on the spit-slick shine of them.

“Hear that, Iz?”

“You didn’t blindfold my ears,” Izzy says, his breathlessness ruining the pissy tone he’s going for.

“There’s an idea,” Ed says. He pops the wet fingers into his own mouth, showy, and Stede gasps. "Could make it so you can't see or hear anything, Iz. Bet you'd like that."

Izzy makes a soft, wanting noise.

With his eyes hidden beneath the blindfold, it’s easier—Stede reaches out and uses his thumb to pull Izzy’s lower lip down, relishing the slight resistance before Izzy lets his mouth drop open.

“Exquisite,” Stede murmurs.

“Yeah,” Ed says agreeably. “Want to fuck his mouth?”

Izzy’s answering moan is louder than Stede’s, though only just. Ed’s grin widens.

“Mm, Izzy’s got to stay nice and still so he doesn’t hurt his back,” Ed says. “Can’t give a proper suckjob, so you’ll just have to take one.”

“Izzy?” Stede says, his voice a damningly high pitch. “Does that sound…nice?”

“Fuck’s sake, Bonnet.”

“Is that a yes?”

Izzy lets out a long, aggrieved breath. Stede waits.

“Yes,” Izzy says.

“Splendid,” Stede says. “Though, first—”

It’s so easy to steal a kiss like this, with Izzy blindfolded and made pliable by Ed’s hands. Stede loses himself quite merrily in it, licking the taste of orange juice and sugar from Izzy’s tongue. As he tastes, he pictures it: Ed feeding Izzy the sugar-dusted toast and plump, sweet strawberries that Stede had brought for them. With the image at the forefront of his mind, it seems ridiculous that he should ever be anywhere except right here, in bed with these two men.

When he feels a hand in his hair, he knows it’s Ed’s—but for the briefest of moments, he allows himself to imagine that Izzy is the one whose gentle fingers are tugging on his curls.

They go on that way until Stede manages to kick the plate of bacon off the bed, and the resulting sound of shattering crockery makes them all jump. Ed’s the first to laugh, pulling Stede into a lingering kiss of him own before he says, “Should probably get on with it, then.”

“I’m taking my time,” Stede says.

“Taking forever,” Izzy says.

“Oh, hush, you.”

He expects a catty response, but Izzy promptly falls silent but for the sound of his breathing, which quickens. There’s something unnerving about the sudden lack of defiance. Stede opens his mouth, ready to specify that it wasn’t an order, but Ed puts a quelling hand on his before he can get the words out.

Stede’s still getting used to what sex is with Ed and Izzy—the way almost everything is about control, the giving and taking of it. It’s beginning to occur to him that surrendering is Izzy’s way of loving.

What’s surprising is how much Stede likes it. As he looks down at Izzy—at the harsh slice of navy fabric covering his eyes, the stark white press of his lips into each other—his entire body sparks with something hot and addictive. He says, “Oh, that’s perfect, just stay there for me,” and he barely recognises his own voice.

Ed springs into action, undressing him, but Stede keeps his eyes on Izzy all the while. He can see the way Izzy is straining to hear everything that’s going on, compensating for the loss of his sight. And he fancies that he can see, too, the way Izzy’s arousal ratchets up the longer they make him wait. Ed makes sure Stede is stripped bare, and then he dips down and takes Stede into his mouth, getting his prick hard and wet. Stede can pinpoint the moment Izzy realises what’s going on: his mouth drops open, as though he can’t wait to get the combination of Stede’s skin and Ed’s spit in his mouth.

“That’s enough, darling,” Stede says when he’s fully aroused, knowing that any longer with Ed’s mouth on him will catapult him towards completion.

"Really?" Ed says, sounding disappointed. He gives Stede's cockhead a parting kiss, and then sets about arranging pillows beneath Izzy's head. When he's happy with the angle of Izzy's neck, he kisses him and murmurs, just loud enough for Stede to hear, "Comfy?"

Izzy's head tips into the barest nod.

“Will you—touch him?” Stede asks.

“Do you one better,” Ed grins, hooking the same two fingers as before into his mouth. “Knees up, Iz.”

Izzy complies without pause, baring himself to them both. Stede chokes on a sound, and Ed laughs.

“Tell you what, Iz,” Ed says, tracing a finger over Izzy’s hole, “for every noise you get out of him, I’ll give you a finger. That sound fair?”

Stede, whose experience with penetration is admittedly not extensive, squawks. “Surely you aren’t…you need more than spit, don’t you?”

Ed’s answering noise is contemplative. “Do you, Izzy?” he asks.

“No, Captain.”

“Of course he’d say that,” Stede huffs. “Go and get the oil, Ed. For Christ’s sake.”

“I’m meant to be resting!”

Unable to argue with that, Stede ends up waddling across the captains’ cabin in search of the jar of olive oil he’d sequestered from the stores, which he’s sure was last used somewhere in the vicinity of the old bed—but the bed has been taken away, and its nook has been thoroughly tidied.

When he looks back over at Ed and Izzy, he's unsurprised to see that they're kissing. They do a lot of that, these days, and it never gets less compelling to watch. This time, he can see that Ed's teasing, licking deep into Izzy's mouth before pulling back and nipping at his jaw. Izzy is panting.

Indignant, Stede wraps himself in the robe that provided Izzy’s blindfold and stalks in the direction of the washroom. He returns with a jar of scented lotion.

“This should do nicely!” he announces in triumph.

“Hear that?” Ed asks Izzy, rubbing his hands up the underside of Izzy's thighs. “Only the best for your delicate arsehole, mate.”

Izzy’s cheeks go bright pink and he makes a vague, mumbling noise in response, his body still held perfectly exposed for them.

“G’on, Stede,” Ed says, pulling him in by the hand and proceeding to take an active role in positioning Stede exactly where he wants him, thighs spread over Izzy’s shoulders, “he’s gagging for it.”

Whatever tumescence he’d lost in the trip to the washroom is quickly retrieved by Izzy’s tongue, which strains upward, blindly seeking Stede’s cock. Stede releases an unsteady breath at the first touch of Izzy’s tongue, and he looks over his shoulder at Ed.

“Not a proper noise, mate,” Ed says with a grin. “Iz can do better.”

At that, Izzy strains his neck and gets the head of Stede’s cock in his mouth, sucking hard. There’s no artifice in Stede’s response, a drawn-out “oh” that feels like it comes from the depths of his lungs. But Ed clicks his tongue.

“Dunno if he’s even trying hard enough.”

Stede watches Izzy’s blindfold shift, his eyebrows conveying frustration just as clearly through the layer of fabric. Even as Ed changes the rules on him, his tongue keeps working sightlessly, mapping out the shape of Stede’s cock with remarkable thoroughness. Stede balances himself with a hand on the pillow beside Izzy’s head, fingers clenching.

Minutes of this exploratory mouthing pass, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, Izzy manages to take him halfway down his throat. Stede yelps, loud, and loses his balance—which only serves to make his cock sink deeper, until the entire length is engulfed in Izzy’s searing mouth.

“There we go,” Ed says.

Stede feels the moment Ed’s finger breaches Izzy; a shuddery moan vibrates through Izzy’s throat, and Stede is forced to hang on for dear life. When he comes back to some semblance of awareness, he realises he’s got one hand in Izzy’s hair and is pulling himself from the tight clutch of Izzy’s mouth. Izzy gasps for breath in the aftermath, but not without straining to get Stede back inside.

It's overwhelming. Stede strokes his hand down the side of Izzy’s face, struck by a weight of feeling that feels inexpressible.

“Izzy,” he says. Swallows. “You’re incredible.”

Izzy responds by snarling, grabbing Stede’s hip, and pulling him bodily until his cock is within reach of Izzy’s tongue. Stede groans and begins thrusting, pushing past the resistance of Izzy’s throat.

“God,” he says, “oh, god.”

“Careful,” Ed says. “Much more and I’ll have to put my whole hand up Izzy’s arse.”

Even muffled by Stede’s cock, Izzy’s answering whine is impressively loud. Stede asks, “How—how many are you up to?”

“Only three so far,” Ed says. “He’ll have to make you come if he wants my prick.”

Stede looks over his shoulder, catching the tail end of Ed’s smirk. And then—

“Oh—fuck,” Stede says, because Izzy’s clearly taken the incentive to heart, his mouth ablaze with heat and suction. He brings his hand around from Stede’s hip to squeeze at his arse, fingers digging in tight. It’s rougher than Ed would ever treat him, but Stede—

Stede snaps his hips forward and comes, right into Izzy’s waiting mouth. The orgasm crashes over him like a full-body blow, and he keeps fucking Izzy's mouth with twitchy half-thrusts even as his spend begins to drip over Izzy's lips and onto his chin.

From behind him, he can just about hear Ed saying, “holy shit,” past the ringing in his ears.

He pulls out but stays poised over Izzy, watching as he swallows, as he licks Stede’s come from his lips. He leaves a spot of it behind on his chin; Stede's loath to point it out.

After a few seconds of getting his breath back, he releases Izzy’s head from the bracket of his thighs, tipping himself over to lie beside him. He’s just in time to see it when Ed thrusts inside, fulfilling his promise. Izzy’s mouth falls open. His hands scrabble, blindly, searching for something to clutch at. Stede gives Izzy his hand.

“Alright?” he asks.

“Fuck,” Izzy says immediately, as though released from some curse that bound his voice, “fuck, fuck, Ed, Stede—”

Ed grins. He holds one of Izzy’s legs up, getting it so it’s almost underneath his armpit, and grinds in slow. "Feel okay?" he asks.

"Fuuuuck," Izzy responds.

“Taking both of us so well,” Ed says. “Stede, touch him for me.”

Stede still feels a little hazy with orgasm, but he does his best. He uses the hand Izzy isn’t holding and strokes him from the base of his cock to the tip in slow, deliberate motions. Izzy’s head thrashes from side to side, a harsh whimpering sound escaping through clenched teeth.

“Oh, darling,” Stede says, and kisses him.

With his focus split between kissing Izzy and stroking him off, he doubts he performs either task to the best of his ability. But he doesn’t need to: with Ed inside him, Izzy is the very embodiment of bliss. He moans softly against Stede’s lips, his cock slick with the herald of his impending release.

“Want more, Iz?” Ed asks, breathless.

“Mmph,” Izzy responds directly into Stede’s mouth. Stede laughs, pulling away just enough for Izzy to say, “Why do you need to ask? I always want—”

Ed launches forwards and kisses him, folding Izzy almost in half. Stede can’t conceive of it being a comfortable position—for either of them, really—but Ed holds him there, and Izzy’s prick grows yet heavier in Stede’s hand.

“I think—I think he’s close,” Stede says. His hand is crushed between Ed and Izzy’s abdomens; he can barely move it, and devotes himself to simply thumbing the head of Izzy’s cock while Ed fucks into him.

“Yeah?” Ed says.

Izzy’s blindfold has been knocked askew by Ed’s fervour. With one of his eyes freed, he looks between Ed above him and Stede to his side, his mouth forming wordless pleas.

“It’s okay,” Ed says. “Me, too. You can let go, Iz.”

Izzy turns his head in Stede’s direction, and Stede kisses him again, helpless to do anything but. He feels it twofold when Izzy comes—his lips go slack, and then his spend spills wet and warm over Stede’s hand. Stede tries to pull back, to give him a chance to recover, but Izzy locks him in place with a hand on the back of his neck.

“You’re both so—” Ed gasps out, but whatever he meant to say is interrupted by the sound that Stede recognises as the precursor to orgasm.

Stede gets his lips all of an inch from Izzy’s and says, “Would you like him to finish inside you, dear?”

Izzy’s exposed eye is closed. He wets his lips and says, “Please.”

“Fuck,” Ed says, and Stede hastens to watch him. He’s gorgeous in rapture; his lips falling open as his eyes fall shut, breath hitching in a sound almost akin to a sob. He’s matched in bliss by Izzy, whose body drifts into repose, even as he retains his iron grip on Stede’s neck.

Ed must pull out, because Izzy lets out a soft, mournful sigh, and the next thing Stede knows there’s a body on the other side of Izzy, an arm overlapping his. They all stick together—sweat and come and marmalade, too, if Stede’s not mistaken. It’s going to be a nightmare to clean up.

And, of course, the responsibility will fall solely to him, since Ed and Izzy aren’t supposed to be putting undue strain on their injuries. Stede winces.

“I suppose—all that,” he says, “constitutes undue strain.”

“Dunno,” Ed says, slinging his leg into the space between Izzy’s. “I feel pretty relaxed. No one’s ever proved the cure for knee injuries isn’t coming your brains out, have they?”

“I suppose not,” Stede allows. “And how are you feeling, Israel?”

“Fine,” Izzy says. His voice is scraped raw, but he's liquid against the blankets, as relaxed as Stede has ever seen him.

“Fine,” Ed mocks. He flicks Izzy in the nipple. “Ungrateful twat.”

Izzy, gorgeously, laughs.

 

---

 

Stede wakes from the resulting midmorning nap to see Ed on his feet, at the door, murmuring to someone across the threshold. He snuggles into the arm that’s wrapped around his torso. He always likes it when Ed holds him from behind like this. He plays with the fingers that are splayed over his belly, sleepy and content.

And then he realises: Ed can’t possibly be talking to someone at the door and cuddling up behind him.

His heart breaks into a gallop. He feels like he does in the aftermath of a raid, like he’s getting away with something he really didn’t have the skill to pull off. Izzy’s breath is warm on his skin, slow with sleep. It feels unspeakably intimate.

Testing his luck, Stede slots their fingers together on his bare stomach, memorising the texture of Izzy’s bare hand beneath his.

When he looks up again, Ed’s on his way back to the bed, though he’s clearly too wired to get in with them.

“Who was that at the door, darling?”

“Roach,” Ed says quietly. “Asked what we want for the weekly dinner. Forgot that was today, honestly, so I just told him to do whatever. And bring some wine for Iz.”

“How nice of him to remember,” Stede says. “Do you think you’ll be up for eating at the table?”

He’s not sure the bed can survive the fallout of another meal; there are a number of textures sticking to his skin as it stands, few of them pleasant. Were it not for Izzy, in fact, Stede would have leapt up the moment he became aware of them.

“Got to leave the bed at some point,” Ed says. His voice is low, almost conspiratorial. “Think I’ve been scared to. Could’ve got back to work yesterday, if I’m honest. Knee’s not that bad.”

“But you don’t have to,” Stede says, confused. “If your knee’s giving you any trouble at all, I’m more than happy to continue taking care of things.”

“No, I mean—” Ed worries his lip. “Everything’s great in the bed. Me and Iz, we’ve been having a fuckin’ great time—”

“I’ve noticed."

“—but what happens when we have to be Captain Teach and First Mate Hands again? When we’ve got to go back to real life?”

“Oh,” Stede says. “I didn’t realise—”

But he cuts the sentence off, because admitting that he’d been too blinded by his own feelings to even consider Ed’s is too mortifying to go through with.

Ed seems to understand, though. “Didn’t expect you to, mate,” he says. “This is a lot for you, too.”

“And for Izzy,” Stede says in a whisper.

“Alright,” Ed says, “so it’s just a lot.”

“Think of it this way,” Stede says. “Izzy’s stayed in bed, too. I’m sure his back really is giving him trouble, but...”

“But he’s worked through worse,” Ed says in a sheepish sort of tone. “You’ve seen the scar on his thigh?”

Stede hums an affirmative.

“He was back to work the next day. And I just…let him.”

Stede reaches out with his free hand and brings Ed’s knuckles to his lips, trying to break him out of whatever reminiscence has his eyebrows working themselves into a tight knot.

“Both of you are due for a good rest, I think,” he says. “It’s lovely to see you allowing it of yourselves.”

Ed huffs out a ghost of a laugh and pulls his hand from Stede’s grip.

“And what’s more,” Stede says, “you know how you feel about him. You know how he feels about you. There’s no limit to it. It’s certainly not constrained to this bed.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Ed says, though his mouth has softened into a sweet little smile. “The feeling’s always been there, in one way or another. Just comes out in all the wrong ways.”

“Not anymore,” Stede says firmly. He chooses not to press the issue of Ed telling Izzy he loves him, though he can’t imagine Ed holding off on it for much longer. “We’ll just have to keep talking it through.”

“He’ll hate that,” Ed says.

Stede tips his chin down, taking in the interlocked crisscross of his and Izzy’s fingers.

“Maybe at first,” he acknowledges. “He hates a lot of things at first.”

That said, he squeezes Izzy’s hand with enough pressure to provoke a hitch in Izzy’s breathing, followed by the soft sounds of an awakening. Stede looks up at Ed, who’s looking at Izzy. His eyes are huge and gentle, smile just as visible there as it is on his lips.

“Hey, Iz,” he says.

“Edward,” Izzy says, gravelly. “Is Bonnet awake?”

“He is,” Stede says.

“Why’d you let me—?”

Stede feels Izzy’s hand tense beneath his, and prevents him from pulling away. “I’m rather comfortable, actually,” he says.

“Bonnet,” Izzy says, “your knee’s in a plate of scrambled eggs.”

“Comfortably,” Stede retorts.

Ed stifles a laugh behind his hand. “Come on, you two. Up. We’ve got stuff to do.”

“Stuff?” Izzy asks, managing to disentangle himself from Stede. Stede lets him go with regret, which only doubles when Izzy covers himself with his discarded shirt and underthings.

“Date night,” Ed announces. “Got to, y’know, get cleaned up. Pick out outfits. Gonna do it fancy.”

Izzy scratches at the stubbly growth beside his usual goatee. “We’re still doing that?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, remarkably off-hand for someone vibrating with excited tension. “Hey, wanna take a bath with me, Iz? It’ll save water.”

Izzy looks to Stede, as though for answers. But Stede only shrugs, retrieving his dressing gown and wrapping it gingerly around himself. He’d been hoping for the first bath, but if Ed’s looking to spend some quality time with Izzy, far be it from him to stop them. He will simply learn to live with scrambled egg crusting on his leg.

Izzy says, “I can’t go again.”

“Me neither,” Ed says. “Just thought—the hot water helps with my knee, sometimes. Might work for your back, too.”

Izzy still looks bewildered, but he nods.

“Cool. Great,” Ed says, and he darts over and kisses Izzy, quick and close-mouthed. He pats him on the cheek. “I’ll just go and get the water sorted, then. Stay right here. Don't go anywhere.”

When he leaves, Izzy touches his fingers to his mouth. Preserving the imprint.

Notes:

my guarantee is that in any given fic i will find a way for ed to do a cute little hop

Chapter 19

Notes:

1.5k of this took me two months to write. the rest was written over the course of two days. such is writing.

After Ed and Izzy have been in the bath for an hour, Stede begins to get restless.

It would be one thing, he thinks, for them to take such a long, relaxing soak on a day when Stede isn’t waiting for his turn. But he is waiting, and, much as he cares for them both, he’s not exactly looking forward to washing in the cold remnants of their water.  

Already, he’s done his best to clean himself off with the cloth napkins that had accompanied Ed and Izzy’s breakfast tray, but success has been limited. He feels crusty in places, a bit sticky in others, and his hair is stubbornly plastered across his forehead. The discomfort of it all has left him unable to even pass the time by reading, so instead he sits wondering what Ed and Izzy are doing, what’s taking them so long.

Of course, he knows full well that Ed enjoys long baths. About once a week, Ed gathers up candles and his pipe and turns the washroom smoky and fragrant, holing himself up for hours. But the best Stede can imagine from Izzy is a quick, efficient wash.

He’d been tense enough going into it, convinced that Ed had some strange ulterior motive for wanting to bathe together. The uncertainty was almost heart-breaking—the way he’d whirled on Stede the moment Ed left the room, demanding answers. All Stede had been able to offer was a reassurance that the tub was big enough for two, and that it really could be very nice if Izzy would only give it a chance.

Even after that, Stede hadn’t expected Izzy to stay for longer than ten minutes.

He likes to think that he understands Izzy better now—and while Izzy’s aversion to relaxation still isn’t something Stede can wrap his head all the way around, he recognises it as an immutable part of who he is. Over the past week, with Izzy bedbound but still doing his utmost to attend to Ed's every need, this awareness has gained new clarity. Stede suspects that part of the reason Ed had elected to turn breakfast into such a bacchanalia was to force Izzy to eat his fair share.

Still, Stede thinks, even Izzy Hands can’t have been able to turn a bath into hard work.

Unable to wait any longer, he gets to his feet and makes his way across the cabin, knocking on the door to the washroom.

“Is everything alright in there?” he asks.

There’s a soft splash of water, and then Ed’s voice, sweet with languor: “Yeah, love, peachy. You can come in if you want. Door’s not locked.”

“Oh,” Stede says. He dithers, unsure of whether he’s wanted. They’ve gotten on this long without him barging in, after all.

“Stop hovering, Bonnet,” Izzy calls out. “Just come in.”

“Alright, then,” Stede says, and opens the door with haste.

Once inside, he’s greeted by the somehow unexpected sight of Izzy resting against Ed’s chest. It’s the most sensible—if intimate—way to share a bath, but Stede realises that he’d been picturing them each sat on opposite ends, their knees drawn up to their chests: the way Alma and Louis had been bathed together when they were small. Not so. Ed’s arms are wrapped around Izzy, Izzy’s head tipped back against his shoulder. As Stede watches, Ed turns his head very slightly, his nose and lips bumping against Izzy’s hair in a way that could be passed off as accidental if need be. Izzy, meanwhile, has slipped so low in the water that it’s lapping against his beard, his eyes closed. The usual tightness is missing from his face, making him seem—if not younger, then softer. Less ravaged by the word.

The scent of lemon is sharp in the air and Stede can see that they’ve fairly ransacked his supply of lotions, creams, and soaps. A few candles are lit, though it’s easier to breathe than it usually is when Ed’s been at it for a while.

“We taking too long?” Ed asks. He tips his head back against the rim of the tub, hair dripping all over the floor.

“No, no, of course not,” Stede says, feeling the way he suspects someone might upon seeing a unicorn in the flesh. “Take all the time you need. I was simply wondering if you’d like anything—some tea, maybe?”

“We’re good.” Ed smiles softly. “I know we’re hogging it.”

“Hog away,” Stede says—and he means it. It must have taken some doing to get Izzy into this position, and he’s not about to let such a miracle go to waste. Instead, he situates himself on the stool next to the tub, finding himself enraptured by the sight of Ed’s arm around Izzy’s middle, keeping him from sinking too low in the water. Keeping him afloat. “Though if you’d be so kind as to pass me that sponge, there.”

“For the egg?” Izzy asks. His lips twitch.

Stede, saying nothing, holds out his hand. Ed passes the sponge over, and Stede starts scrubbing.

 

---

 

Only later, when everyone’s clean and dressed, does Stede remember that it’s a special occasion.

“This is our fourth weekly dinner!” he says, inspecting his hair in the handheld mirror. He hadn’t been able to give it a proper wash, unable to stomach dunking his head under cold water, but he reckons it’s acceptable—if a little flat. “A whole month!”

“Feels like fucking years,” Izzy comments. He’s in his usual black shirt, though Stede had managed to talk him down from bedecking himself in the rest of his leather. Whatever product he usually puts in his hair is absent, and he keeps having to flick the loose strands out of his eyes, seeming enraged every time he does so.

“Yeah, but in a good way,” says Ed. “Right, Iz?”

Izzy grunts a sort of affirmation, lifting Ed’s legs up from the couch so he can sit beneath them.

Ed’s dressed to great effect: a purple satin shirt undone to just above his navel, a pair of diamonds glittering in his ears. Combined with his leather trousers, he looks an intoxicating mix of seductive and dangerous. Stede’s sure Izzy approves.  

“It’s a bit like an anniversary,” Stede says, setting down the mirror on the desk. “Oh—but I didn’t get anything for either of you.”

“Fuck it, then. I’m calling this off,” Izzy says.

Ed slaps him on the arm. “Don’t even joke, mate.”

Izzy ducks his head, trying to hide a smug little smile. It is, Stede thinks, unfairly endearing.

“We should do something special all the same,” he says. “To mark the occasion.”

“Thought we were just going to do what we normally do,” Izzy says.

“And what would that be?”

“Get pissed and make moony eyes at each other.”

Ed pitches forward with laughter, and Stede has to stifle a chuckle himself.

“Sure, but this time we get to have sex after,” Ed says when he’s calmed down. “That sound nice?”

“Come on now, I’m sure we can think of something more romantic than that,” Stede says—though he does set about changing the bedding, now Ed’s mentioned it.

“Than sex?” Ed frowns. “If you say so.”

“Why’s it got to be romantic?” Izzy asks.

“Because,” Stede says, “we’re romancing you.”

Izzy twitches. He clears his throat, gruffly, and flicks his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t fuckin’ need to be romanced.”

“It’s nice, though,” Ed says. He bends his good knee, tapping his heel against Izzy’s thigh. “First time Stede got me flowers, I was like, what am I meant to do with these? Get him flowers? Better flowers? Kind of thought we were going to competitively trade flowers back and forth until we died. Anyway, what was I on about?”

“The finer points of romance, my dear.”

“Oh, yeah. Turns out it’s easy. You just do stuff you think the other person will like, because you want to make them happy.”

Izzy lets out a choked almost-laugh. “That so?”

“Sure,” Ed says. Then his expression sharpens; he leans forward, his shirt gaping open. “And—even if the other person’s a bit slow figuring out—”

“Shut up,” Izzy says. Then he lays his hands over Ed’s shin in a hesitant manner, looking a little like someone who’s about to start playing the harpsichord. “That wasn’t why I did it. I wasn’t—it wasn’t romantic.”

“No?” Ed places his own hand over one of Izzy’s, dragging it up to the lower part of his thigh. “Why, then?”

Predictably, Izzy’s expression descends into bloody civil war. His fingers tighten on Ed’s leg, leather indenting under his grip.

Stede makes an effort to plump the fresh pillows as quietly as he can.

“Doesn’t matter. I wasn’t any good at it.” Izzy meets Ed’s eye. “Thought you wanted glory. Riches.”

“Pirate stuff,” Ed says.

“Yeah.”

It seems a little like they’re having a competition to see who can hold on to the other more tightly. Stede considers intervening before Izzy’s hand and Ed’s thigh get crushed. In the end, though, he can’t deny that he wants to see this play out—and the quilt isn’t going to replace itself.

“Thought that counts,” Ed says.

Izzy scoffs.

“No, I—” Ed releases a frustrated exhale. “Will you just come here?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, tugging hard enough on Izzy’s wrist for him to tip, awkwardly, onto Ed’s chest. Once he’s there, Ed hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him down, kissing him. It's messy: the wet sound of it is loud even from across the room. Stede tries to busy himself with the counterpane and promptly loses his grip; the fabric slithers out of his hands and lands in an incriminating pile on the floor. He makes no move to pick it up.

“You gonna let us romance you?” Ed asks, cupping Izzy’s face. “Reckon it’s my turn to give it a go, anyway. Was just gonna keep fucking you real nice, but we can add flowers if you want.”

“Do you think you might be getting stuck on the flowers again, my love?” Stede asks, his voice coming out strangled.

“No, that’s—” Izzy kisses Ed again, sucks on his lower lip. “I wouldn’t mind. Flowers.”

“Really?” Stede says. “What kind?”

“Fucking—roses, whatever, I don’t care.”

“Sounds like you do, mate.” Ed’s smiling too widely to kiss, which doesn’t stop Izzy from trying. “Roses. Red roses?”

“Edward—”

“Don’t think they do ’em in black.”

“Edward—”

Izzy’s face is burning red, but his body is also pressed tight against Ed’s, so it’s difficult to parse the exact nature of his feelings on the matter.

“I’ll get you a thousand,” Ed says.

Izzy’s hips jerk forward. Ed, in a display of self-control Stede’s not sure he could match if their positions were reversed, holds him still.

“Whatever you want,” he says insistently. “I promise.”

Izzy chokes out a breath. “Don’t do that. Don’t make promises.”

“Try and stop me,” Ed replies—at which point they’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Izzy freezes. Stede feels himself stiffen, too, remembering Izzy’s reaction to being caught unawares by Lucius. But, as Stede watches, Izzy only sits back up. He doesn’t move to shove Ed’s legs off him, or to disguise the messiness of his hair and the puffiness of his lips. His posture’s ramrod straight, but Stede’s not inclined to dismiss the extent of the progress on that basis alone. Ed, for his part, looks thrilled.

“Come in,” Stede calls, after too long a pause.

It’s Roach with their food. He smirks when he sees Izzy but doesn’t comment—perhaps the novelty has worn off, since it’s an open secret that Izzy’s recovery has been taking place in the captains’ cabin, with its new and massive bed.

Their dinner looks to be a pot of stew and a few bottles of wine courtesy of the Dutch ship. Ed unfolds himself from the couch as the warm, hearty smell suffuses the room, giving Roach his thanks and offering Izzy a hand up. Izzy hesitates before taking it.

“This looks lovely, Roach, thank you,” Stede says, abandoning the bed to its disarray and approaching the table.

“Mm. Now they’re better,” says Roach, setting down the tray, “no more room service. Oh, and congratulations. One month anniversary—that’s a big one.”

 

---

 

Halfway through his first glass of wine, Izzy says, “Things’ll go back to normal tomorrow, then?”

“Depends on how you define normal,” Ed says.

“Work,” Izzy says. “Back to work.”

“Yeah, probably.” Ed tips back in his chair. “Still. It’ll be different.”

“Because we’re—” Izzy sucks in a loaded breath, looking to Stede for a conclusion to the sentence. Stede stares serenely back. “—whatever we are.”

“Lovers?” Stede suggests.

“Christ.”

“Proper good mates,” Ed says. “Look, Iz, doesn’t matter what you want to call it. At the end of the day, you’re sleeping in our bed, yeah?”

Izzy nods.

“It’s all well and good talking it to death,” Ed says, with a significant look at Stede, “but things are good. We just need to keep letting them be good.”

This seems to Stede like a dangerous line to walk; inevitably, there are going to be conflicts, and bad days, and not talking is what led to the dissolution of Ed and Izzy’s relationship in the first place—

But maybe it’s what Izzy needs to hear right now. Maybe it’s what Ed needs to hear, too, even if he’s the one saying it.

Izzy rotates his spoon in his stew, a frown sneaking over his brow.

“They all know,” he says, “don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Ed says.

“I think some of them have known for quite a while,” Stede adds.

Izzy nods, his jaw set.

“They won’t think less of you for it,” Ed reassures him.

“It may actually endear you to them,” Stede says.

“Never wanted them to like me,” Izzy says, which is so blatantly untrue that Stede can only blink at him in response. “Fear, respect. That’s what they’re supposed to—but no. Never had their respect to start with, did I?”

Stede manages an equivocal head tilt.

“They’ll think I’m soft,” Izzy says.

Ed makes a sympathetic sound—a sound of understanding. “It’s scary,” he says. “Gets easier, though. And you can always show off with your sword if they’re getting a bit comfortable. Remind ’em who they’re dealing with.”

Draining the rest of his glass, Izzy says, “That reminds me.”

Both Ed and Stede wait expectantly, but Izzy doesn’t seem inclined to go on.

“…Of?” Stede prompts.

“You need to be taught how to swordfight,” Izzy says.

“He was taught,” Ed says, grinning. “By the greatest pirate who ever—”

“I need to teach him,” Izzy interrupts. His shoulders are set as though he’s headed for the gallows, as though this is a punishment inflicted on him by a cruel god.

Stede claps his hands together in delight. Ed muffles laughter behind a napkin.

“Don’t you already have a student?” Stede asks. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on Frenchie’s time with you—or your time with Frenchie—”

“I’ll just teach you some other time,” Izzy says, and then adds, “twat.”

“You really ought to be nicer to me,” Stede says. “I’ll soon be trying my best to stab you with a deadly weapon.”

“You’ll soon be failing to stab me with a training sword.”

Stede’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “Will we be starting tomorrow? Or is your back still giving you trouble?”

“If you want,” Izzy says, ignoring the second question, “yeah.”

“Why now?” Stede asks. “I’ve been badgering you about this for weeks.”

Izzy tops up all three of their glasses, taking his time with it, but Stede’s willing to wait. He drums his fingers on the table.

“I won’t always be there. You need to be able to protect yourself,” Izzy says. “I need you to—be able to keep yourself safe. And Edward.”

“Like I need protecting,” Ed says.

“You’re a reckless fucking nightmare,” Izzy says. “Protecting you’s a full-time profession.”

“Yeah, but it’s what I’ve got you for.”

Izzy looks over at Ed, his expression so nakedly adoring that Stede feels an answering pang in his chest.

“Izzy,” Stede says, his smile dropping as his heart fills with an emotion larger than happiness, more consuming. “Were you really that worried about me?”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

Izzy’s cheeks go bright with blood. He gulps down more wine while Stede tries to put a name to the feeling that's coursing through him.

He knows that he and Izzy—that they’re something to each other, something thorny and difficult and incredible in its own right. But there’s something new, here—something about Izzy caring about him the way he cares for Ed, about the reluctance and the sincerity of it.

Whatever it is, Stede finds himself saying, “You know, I think I love you, too.”

“I didn’t—” Izzy gapes at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh!” Stede remembers himself—that, by too, Izzy must have thought he was presuming Izzy’s feelings, rather than accurately referring to Ed’s. “No! I just meant—I love you. Irregardless of—of anyone else’s feelings for anyone. In this room. Or elsewhere.”

“Fucking hell,” Izzy whispers. “You love me?”

“Yes?” Stede tries. Then, firmer: “Yes. Very much so, actually.”

“You love me,” Izzy repeats quietly.

“I take it this is your first time receiving an expression of love,” Stede says. “The polite thing would be to—”

“Love you back?”

“Or say thank you.”

Izzy swallows. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Stede says.

“Stede—”

Ed scrapes his chair back.

The sound of it punctures the bubble of euphoria in Stede’s chest. He hadn’t forgotten Ed was there, exactly, but he’d forgotten to account for Ed’s reaction. Being in love with Izzy had simply occurred to him, and he’d immediately blurted it out without so much as a thought for the consequences of such a monumental confession.

Quite unwittingly, he’s taken another of Izzy’s firsts. And this one, of all of them, rightfully belonged to Ed.

It’s a struggle to look over, to meet Ed’s eye, but Stede does it.

The expression on Ed’s face reminds Stede most strongly of how he’d looked during the Kraken fuckery. His breath is coming rapidly and his eyes are wide, shiny. It’s not anger or jealousy—though perhaps those will come later. It’s fear.

“Sorry,” Ed says, his breath shuddering out as he speaks. “You guys are—it’s very cute—I just—”

“You need a moment,” Stede says. “That’s—understandable. Take all the time you need.”

Ed gives him a grateful half-smile. For his part, Izzy looks resigned. As if there was no other way this could go—as if someone was always going to get hurt.

And he says, “Edward. It’s an infatuation. He doesn’t mean it.”

“Iz—”

“Doesn’t know how to fuck someone and not go around blabbing that he loves them yet,” Izzy says. “It’d be normal for a lad of twenty.”

This, Stede acknowledges, is Izzy’s misguided attempt at controlling the impact of Stede’s words. But it doesn’t make it any less offensive—to him or Izzy. He opens his mouth to refute the accusation, but Ed gets there first.

“Is that really what you think?”

Izzy nods.

“And you’re going to stay here anyway?”

This time Izzy looks between them, as though in search of an answer, before he nods.

Stede hears himself make a sound of dismay.

“Fuck, Iz,” Ed says thickly.

“Is there anything I can do to convince you?” Stede asks. “I won’t claim to be an expert in matters of the heart, but I can assure you I know the difference between love and lust.”

Izzy shrugs. “Whatever it is,” he says, “you’ll get over it.”

“I was rather hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

Izzy picks up his spoon again, though there’s no stew left in the bowl. Both of his hands are bare tonight, and that’s what makes it possible to see that they’re trembling. Regret once again pierces Stede: neither Ed nor Izzy were ready for this, and Stede’s gone and forced the issue anyway—and why? Because Izzy looks so lovely tonight, because he’d admitted to wanting to keep Stede safe?

Across from him, Izzy’s hair falls into his face, obscuring his expression. Stede can’t help but think of how long Izzy has kept his love for Ed a secret, and how agonised he’d sounded when he admitted it to Stede. Love, for Izzy, isn’t the liberation or comfort it had been for Stede. For more than twenty years, love has been a length of rope for him to hang himself with.

“Why don’t we just pretend I never said anything?” Stede suggests.

 

---

 

There are gorgeously flaky pastries for dessert, but Stede barely tastes them. He feels foolish and guilty, an echo of the way he used to feel with Mary—though for very different reasons.

Once their plates are clear, Izzy clears his throat and says, “Have I fucked it?”

“No,” Stede says, looking up at him in surprise. “Have I?”

Izzy shakes his head before turning to Ed.

“Probably still time to get pissed and make moony eyes at each other,” Ed says, “if that’s what you’re into.”

 

---

 

They take the last of the wine over to the couch and pass it between them, sealing each of their lips over the mouth of the bottle in turn. Izzy is in his preferred position on the floor, leaning back against Ed’s calf with his face turned up towards Stede. After a few passes of the bottle, Ed puts his hand in Izzy’s hair.

“I can’t promise I’ll be a good student,” Stede’s saying, back on the topic of the swordfighting lessons. “I was forever getting into trouble at school.”

Izzy scoffs. “What did you get in trouble for?”

“Asking questions out of turn, mostly. I was a rather curious child. And I liked other people to know how clever I was.”

“Haven’t changed, then, have you?” Izzy says, laughing softly.

“Well, what were you like at school?” Stede retorts. “Sunshine and daisies, I imagine.”

“Didn’t go to school,” Izzy says. “Learned to read in church, and—yeah, got into a fair bit of bother.”

“Really?” Ed presses, winding his index finger around a lock of Izzy’s hair and tugging gently.

“There were a few of us young lads who made our fun playing Bible stories in the back of the church. Made a right mess when we tried to do the flood.”

“Oh,” Stede says. He tries to imagine Izzy as he was then and ends up picturing a scrawny, dark-haired boy ordering around other children armed with buckets of water. “You spent a lot of time at church, then?”

“His dad was a priest,” Ed says.

“Vicar,” Izzy corrects him.

“Same thing.”

Izzy hums, tilting his head into Ed’s touch.

“That must have been—” Stede tries to think of a word. “—interesting.”

Izzy’s mouth twitches up at one corner. “Not really, Bonnet. I came up in a little village, nothing to do for miles except go to church or tend to horses.”

“What made you decide to go to sea, then?”

“I didn’t,” Izzy says, his face abruptly going serious. “I went looking for my sister.”

Stede holds his breath.

“She—her name was Kath,” Izzy says. “And everyone fuckin’ loved her, it wasn’t just me. She was that kind of person: always smiling, never done anyone wrong. But she…got herself into a bit of trouble the year she turned seventeen. There was a lad from a—not your sort of rich, Bonnet, but his father had land. He got himself infatuated with her.”

“Did she love him back?” Ed asks quietly, still stroking Izzy’s hair.

“She let him get her pregnant,” Izzy says, “so—yeah. Maybe.”

“Outside of marriage, I presume,” Stede says. He sets the bottle of wine down on the floor and shuffles closer, reaching out for Izzy’s hand. Izzy gives it to him.

“Yeah,” he says. “When she found out—she was so used to being the good child. Me, I was always getting into trouble for stealing apples, getting into fights. Kid stuff. But Kath was so sweet that even if she skipped church or stayed out late, you couldn’t get angry with her. So she did the stupidest possible thing. Told my mum. Who told my dad.”

He’s quiet for a stretch, using his thumb to spin the rings around Stede’s fingers.

“You can probably imagine,” he says, “how he reacted. Long and short of it was that she wasn’t welcome in our home anymore. Couldn’t stay in—in a godly house, in her condition. So she left.”

“To be with the boy who loved her?” Stede asks.

Izzy scoffs. “No. She wasn’t an idiot, Bonnet. She knew—a girl like her, a boy like him. That’s not how it works. Even if he’d wanted it different, his parents would’ve put a stop to it. I don’t know where she went. That night, she disappeared.”

“And you went after her,” Ed says.

“Not right away. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That she’d come back on her own, maybe, that she’d be forgiven. I was twelve, still believed in that sort of shit. But then, a week or so later, the boy turned up. She hadn’t been meeting him at their usual spot, he was beside himself. And he knew she was carrying, so he came to our house looking for her. Told my parents that he was planning on doing the right thing, on marrying her. He was a naïve sort. Grown up coddled. You could tell he really thought he’d do it.”

“Maybe he would have,” Stede offers.

“My father said he was welcome to try and find her, but that she was long gone. That was when I realised she wasn’t coming back.” Izzy swallows. “Started packing my bags the moment the boy left—and I managed to catch up with him. Told him I was going after her. I think I was expecting him to come with me, but—no, he wasn’t the sort. He was used to other people doing the hard stuff for him; why should this be any different? All he did was give me the ring he was planning on marrying her with, so that if I found her, I could give it her. To assure her of his intentions.”

“He sounds like a dick,” Ed says. “She probably did better for herself, wherever she ended up.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says, his voice dull. “Fuck. Sorry. Wasn’t meant to start nattering on.”

Ed pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, mate.”

“We want to hear about your life,” Stede adds. “We want to learn everything about you.”

Izzy turns his face into Ed’s thigh. Ed starts playing with his cravat, brushing his thumb over Izzy’s sister’s ring. It earns a soft noise from Izzy, muffled in the space between Ed’s legs.

“You kept it for her this whole time,” Ed says.

Izzy nods. “It’s all I have of hers. Even if she never knew it existed.”

“That’s very—” But Stede doesn’t know what it is. All he knows is that Izzy’s devotion, once earned, seems a very permanent thing. “Oh, Izzy.”

“Don’t start saying you love me again, just over some stupid ring,” Izzy warns him.

“I wasn’t going to,” Stede lies. He flicks his eyes over to Ed, but there’s nothing to worry about—Ed’s only smiling fondly down at the top of Izzy’s head. Wine and the warmth of the candlelight in the dark have softened whatever sharp edges the love confession had to start with, rendering it—perhaps temporarily—benign. Another one of Stede’s indulgences, Izzy would probably call it. “I was just going to ask if you’d like to go to bed, or stay up a little longer?”

There’s a subtle change in Izzy’s posture, starting at his shoulders and rolling down his back. It’s not tension, exactly, but it signals an awareness of his own body that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Dunno if I’m up for—” Izzy cuts himself off, raising his head to look up at Ed. “Could probably suck you off.”

“Never doubted your abilities on that front, love,” Ed says, “but I think Stede was talking about going to sleep.”

“Oh,” Izzy says, looking to Stede for confirmation. Stede nods. “But I thought—”

“We don’t always have to fuck,” Ed says, matter-of-fact. “Sometimes we just have a bit of a cuddle and go to sleep. Think you’d like that?”

Izzy seems considerably more discombobulated by this than by the prospect of servicing Ed when he isn’t in the mood for it. His eyes are wide, reflecting the amber of the candlelight, and he’s still kneeling there at Ed’s feet—which, Stede realises, is a convenient way to garner affection while performing subservience.

“Ed likes it,” he says.

“Yeah,” Ed agrees. “Like that first night—that was nice, wasn’t it?”

“Nice,” Izzy repeats, sounding achingly unsure.

“You might like it in the middle,” Ed soldiers on. “Now Stede loves you and all.”

That sets Izzy grinning. “Fuck off.”

“Is it going to stop being a joke to you two at any point?” Stede asks, mock offended. He stands up, taking the unfinished wine bottle back to the table and beginning to straighten things out.

“Maybe when it stops being funny,” Izzy offers. He groans a little as he gets to his feet. Ed takes him by the arm, smiling and murmuring “old man” at him. Izzy smiles back.

Stede elects not to argue further; he’s far happier with his ill-timed confession being a source of amusement than one of  contention between them. And if he can’t make Izzy believe him with words—as seems to be the case—he’ll have to settle for Ed’s technique of imparting love through touch. Assuming Ed lets go of Izzy long enough for Stede to get a turn, that is.

Ed’s smile fades quicker than Izzy’s, but Stede doesn’t have long to worry about it: Ed comes over to him while Izzy’s occupied with settling himself so directly in the centre of the bed that it’s as though he expects to be evaluated on it.

“Love you,” he murmurs quietly, brushing his lips over Stede’s.

“And I you,” Stede responds. He peers into Ed’s lovely face, searching for whatever hurt he may have put there with tonight’s actions.

“And you him,” Ed says, with a smile that very nearly reaches his eyes.

“Is that…alright?”

“Mm,” Ed says. “If I wanted you both to myself, probably could have gone about this better.”

“But you don’t,” Stede checks.

“But I don’t.” Ed kisses him again. “Come on. Don’t want to keep him waiting.”

“He might change his mind,” Stede acknowledges.

“No,” Ed says, light tone going serious, “I don’t think he will.”

Notes:

my first time managing to write a backstory for izzy's ring that doesn't involve ed giving it to him. forcing myself to have the range

there's extra izzy backstory (and edizzy being soft with each other) here

Chapter 20

Ed and Izzy’s emergence from the captains’ cabin the next day is met with nothing short of rejoicing.

Frenchie bursts into song—a new one he’s composed for the occasion—and everybody else claps along, stamping the beat out on the deck. The lyrics take a few liberties with how they sustained their injuries (Ed allegedly wrestled with a shark, while Izzy took on ‘Dutchmen three / who lost their lives to injure thee’), but Stede supposes that’s only to be expected with pirate songs.

When it’s finished, Ed claps enthusiastically. Izzy looks around, surveying the crewmembers’ sweet and expectant faces, and says, “Ship’s in a right fucking state. S’pose you all treated this last week like a holiday, then?”

For reasons beyond Stede’s comprehension, a cheer goes up.

 

---

 

The remainder of the morning is consumed by a return to the status quo. Izzy spends it doling out tasks, Stede spends it fielding complaints about the tasks Izzy has doled out, and Ed manages to untangle to ensuing conflict into some semblance of order.

By the time everyone’s happy (or as happy as they can be while swabbing the deck to Izzy’s satisfaction) Ed has withdrawn to the prow of the ship. He’s leaning his weight against one of those ropes that Stede still hasn’t determined the purpose of, his hair streaming out to one side like a flag waving in the wind.

When Izzy spots him, he groans. “Best stop him before he climbs out onto the bowsprit. Come on.”

Stede has to jog to keep up with the pace Izzy sets.

“Has he done that before?”

“Of course he has,” Izzy says. Then: “Edward!”

Ed laughs without turning around. “Here to stop me falling, Iz?”

“We could joke about it if it hadn’t happened,” Izzy responds.

“Ah, come on, Iz, I was shitfaced that time!” Without looking, Ed reels Izzy in by his baldric. “Didn’t you miss her?”

“Her?” asks Stede.

“The sea, you twat,” Izzy says. His skin has gone pink—whether from the lash of the wind or from the way Ed’s hand has settled on his hip, Stede couldn’t possibly say. “And no, Ed, I didn’t fucking miss it. We’ve been at sea the entire time.”

“Not the same,” Ed muses. He looks up, studying the wisps of cloud above them. “Looks like a clear one tonight. You starting up your lessons again, Iz?”

Stede perks up immediately, pressing in on Izzy’s other side.

“If Frenchie’s not forgotten how to hold his fucking sword,” Izzy says, “I can teach you after.”

“Excellent,” Stede says. “Thank you, Israel.”

Izzy grunts his acknowledgement of the gratitude.

There’s a lull, then, as the ship spears a cresting wave. They’re close enough to the front of the ship that Stede feels the sharp spray of the ocean against his cheeks, the rise and dip of the prow under his feet. Gazing out at the undulating expanse of blue, Stede fancies he understands what Ed means when he said he missed her. He puts his arm around Izzy’s shoulders, his knuckles brushing Ed’s upper arm. He smiles.

“Are we done here?” Izzy says after a minute, puncturing the peace of the moment. “Some of us have work to be doing.”

Stede kisses his temple fondly before letting him go.

 

---

 

He sees very little of Izzy until that evening. It seems there really is quite a lot to be done, and Izzy always seems to be doing it somewhere else: when Stede stops for lunch, Izzy is checking the rigging; when he does his round of the deck, Izzy is in the stores.

Ed, on the other hand, seems to be everywhere at once. He’s clearly thrilled to be back to captaining, and his enthusiasm is infectious, brightening the mood of the entire ship. He quizzes Oluwande and Buttons about their heading and exclaims with delight when they tell him the name of the port they’re planning to stop at.

“Started a riot there, once,” he says with fond reminiscence.

The lively atmosphere makes the afternoon fly by, until suddenly the sun is kissing the horizon and Stede feels a flutter of excited nerves in his belly; soon, he’ll be being taught swordfighting by a master. His mind runs away with him as he imagines he and Izzy fighting the way Ed and Izzy had, their blades dancing together in the moonlight, in sync even as they press each other’s weaknesses. A thrill runs through him at the thought, right from the nape of his neck to his tailbone. 

He eats distractedly in the mess, thin cuts of meat and spiced potatoes, and then returns to the captains’ cabin to pick out a suitably rakish outfit.

 

---

 

In the end, the swordfighting lesson does not go as well as Stede might have hoped.

With Frenchie, Izzy is playful—trouncing him in a couple of bouts before telling him to get some rest, smiling the whole while. And then he thrusts a sword at Stede—handle first, thank goodness—and barks at him to get into position. Those on deck, having received no forewarning about Izzy’s decision to extend his teachings, start buzzing with interest. Only Ed seems unperturbed: he gets out his pipe and leans against a cannon, watching.

“Right—” Izzy starts.

“Hang on!” Lucius says, furiously scribbling in his book. “I need to take down all the bets!”

“What bets?” Izzy demands.

“The ones on who’ll win. Obviously.”

“Neither of us are going to win,” Stede says. “It’s a lesson! I’m being taught!”

“Odds are fifty-fifty,” says Lucius.

“What?” Izzy shouts.

“Stede won last time,” Jim points out from their perch on a nearby barrel.

“He did-fucking-not,” Izzy mutters.

“Call it a draw, then,” Lucius says. “That still makes it fifty-fifty.”

As Lucius and Izzy bicker about the exact circumstances of Izzy’s defeat in combat, Stede grips his sword tightly and tries to remember all Ed taught him about swordfighting. Those teachings had been enough for him to hold his own against Izzy before—but all he remembers now is Ed finding a lot of reasons to touch him. He’d wrapped his hands around Stede’s on the hilt of the sword, had adjusted Stede’s stance by holding his hips.

With those adjustments in mind, Stede spreads his feet to a shoulder-width apart and raises his sword, saying, “En garde!”

“Shut up,” Izzy says.

“You might consider making this fun, Israel.”

“No. Your form’s shit.”

“Your form’s brilliant, mate,” Ed contributes.

“You can shut up, too,” Izzy tells him, to Stede’s delight, “or else I won’t let you watch.”

Ed mimes stitching up his lips. Stede gives him a thumbs up with the hand not holding his sword.

“Flirt on your own time,” Izzy snaps, flicking Stede in the wrist with the flat of his sword. “If he’s going to be a distraction, Bonnet—”

“No, no distraction!” Stede says. “Just a bit of moral support!”

Izzy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’ll need it,” he says.

 

---

 

By the time Izzy’s done with him, Stede is beginning to wish he never asked. He’s sore all over, and, though otherwise unharmed, his pride is severely wounded. Izzy had not held back his criticisms.

“I cannot possibly be,” Stede huffs, “the worst swordsman you’ve ever faced.”

Izzy appraises him from above: he’s still standing, whereas Stede had sunk to the deck the moment the lesson ended, sword abandoned beside him. Around them, the crew are making a lot of sympathetic faces but not, Stede notes, jumping to his defence.

“Maybe not,” Izzy acknowledges. “There was—what was his name, Edward?”

Edward, having stood witness to the whole sorry affair, comes to stand beside Izzy. He gives him a be nice sort of nudge.

But then, “Sid the Kicker,” he says. “Lopped his own ear off with his sword. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”

When Stede makes an affronted sound, Ed shrugs apologetically. Izzy looks contemplative.

“Still early days,” he says.

Despite himself, Stede touches his own ear. Ed, unhelpfully, mouths It was the other one.

 

---

 

Afterwards, Izzy declines to join them for storytime.

“Work to do,” is the only explanation offered. Stede’s about to protest that Izzy’s been working all day, for goodness’ sake, when Ed claps him on the shoulder and says, “You’ll join us later, yeah?”

Izzy nods shortly, gives Stede an impenetrable look, and stalks off.

“That good mood of his didn’t last long,” Stede comments.

“Hm? No, he’s fine,” Ed says. “Hey, d’you want to tell the one about the dragon tonight? I’ll do sound effects.”

“Oh, would you!” Excitement quickly expunges Stede’s disappointment. “That would be brill. I’ve no doubt the crew’s missed your fiery roar.”

Ed grins and pecks him on the cheek. For the following hour, they sit side-by-side on the capstan and regale their spectators with a partially improvised tale of a misunderstood dragon who longs to be a knight. (“Not for the king, though,” Ed makes sure to specify. “Sort of a freelance sitch.”) It’s a joy to have Ed back, with his spirited interjections and dramatic instincts. By the time they’re done, Stede is smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, and he’s almost forgotten Izzy’s snubbing.

That is, until they get back to their cabin.

“He’s not here,” Stede says. He hadn’t quite realised he’d been expecting Izzy to be waiting for them, but the sinking feeling in his chest exposes the delusion.

“Yeah, no,” Ed says, flopping down on the sofa and pulling his boots off. “He’ll probably put himself on watch for a bit, if he’s run out of stuff to do.”

“But why? We’ve got plenty of people on watch already.”

“He likes the late watches,” Ed explains. “His way of getting some alone time. Poor bugger probably needs it after this last week.”

“I’m sure he cherished all the time he got to spend with you,” Stede reassures him.

Ed laughs. “Mate, it’s not personal. Izzy’d need space from a—I dunno, from anyone. And I told him to come back after, didn’t I?”

“I see,” Stede says. “And do you need some alone time?”

In the pause before Ed gives his answer, he vows to himself not to take it personally. Even if he can’t understand it. Things are so good between the three of them, after all. It’s enough to make him wonder—he’d always interpreted Mary’s need for her own space as intrinsically linked with her dislike of his company, but perhaps she’d have needed it even if he had been a better husband.

“Not right now,” Ed answers. “Might do, at some point—but I’ve missed having you to myself.”

He grabs Stede’s hand, tugging him closer.

“Yes,” Stede responds thoughtfully. “Me too. That’s going to be a bit tricky, isn’t it? We should probably find a way to make it equal, so no one feels left out. Oh, I know! I’ll go get Lucius; he can draw us up a rota.”

He begins towards the door, only to be arrested in his progress by a tightening of Ed’s grip.  

“Love the idea, mate,” Ed says, “but the only thing that’d be hot about a rota is sneaking extra time with someone when you’re not meant to.”

“It’s not about being hot, it’s about being fair.”

Ed goes the kind of silent that Stede knows means he’s taking extra care with his response—previously, it’s happened when Stede doesn’t know something about pirating that Ed considers abundantly obvious.

“I get why you want that,” he says in the end. “Rules and shit. We’re in uncharted waters, it’s fuckin’ scary. And…I know you meant it, but d’you think that telling Iz you love him—you think maybe you were trying to make it all equal? Like one of those triangles that’s the same length on every side?”

“We could be,” Stede says, sitting down beside Ed, “that kind of triangle.”

“Nah, mate,” Ed says. “No one is.”

Stede pictures a triangle with two very long sides and one very short one. That short one, he supposes, would represent him and Izzy. Uncharitably, he has the thought that it’s unfair for Ed to get both long sides.

Then again, he thinks, they’re not actually a triangle. And—

“I did mean it,” he says. “I do love him.”

“I know,” Ed agrees, seeming a fair amount more relaxed about it than he had been last night. He nudges his knee against Stede’s. “And I love both of you. But do I have a point, here?”

“A small one,” Stede acknowledges. “Perhaps I did—perhaps I do—want things to be equal on all fronts. Is that such a bad thing?”

“No,” Ed says. “Not at all. Just not practical, is all I’m saying. I mean, what are you proposing here? Dividing up the week: two days for each pair of us—and then we come together on the seventh day? It’s not gonna work like that.”

Stede thinks a little longingly of a schedule exactly like that, but then he sighs. “I know. I know.”

“Iz needs more time to himself than you do,” Ed continues. “It’s not unfair to give him that.”

Finally, it dawns on Stede what Ed actually means. He’s not talking about different amounts of loving—just different ways. The problem is, Stede’s only just recently learned how to love Ed—in what he suspects even Izzy would admit is a far easier undertaking. Ed basks in affection in all its forms, whereas getting Izzy to accept love is more like navigating a maze full of complicated and deadly traps.

“I just feel like I’m going about this all wrong,” he admits. “Making a fool of myself at dinner last night, and being such a disappointing swordsman, and—oh!”

“You,” Ed says, climbing into Stede’s lap and raining kisses all over his face, “are doing great. Fuckin’ seduced two of the deadliest pirates on the seven seas, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’m starting quite the collection,” Stede responds. Ed playfully bites the tip of his nose.

“I’m just saying, don’t underestimate yourself. Learning to fight properly takes time, and it’s frustrating as shit.”

“It wasn’t when you were teaching me,” Stede says, aware that he sounds a bit sulky.

“Yeah, mate, because I was so fucking smitten I let you get away with anything.” Ed pulls back, a little, looking him in the eye. “Anyway, your main problem’s just a lack of confidence. You’re second-guessing yourself, trying to figure out what he wants. Iz’d probably tell you swordplay’s about artistry and discipline, some shit like that. And those things—sure, they’re important. But what it really is, for my money, is finding the thing your opponent won’t see coming. Izzy’s a fuckin’ beautiful swordsman, but he’s predictable. Only way I’ve ever been able to beat him is by being the opposite. And to do that, you’ve got to trust yourself. No other way to go about it.”

Stede appreciates the reassurance. But he still feels unaccountably like he’s disappointed everyone, like tonight was a mistake he’ll have to fix. He turns his head, focusing on the tattoos on Ed’s forearm rather than his face.

Finally, he says, “When I decided to become a pirate, it wasn’t the fighting that interested me. I had some silly notion that the captain was above that sort of thing. But Izzy—even before I met you, he made me want to fight. To beat him. To impress him.”

Ed chuckles. “You two,” he says. “Lost on each other right from the fucking start, weren’t you?”

“I’m not sure I’d put it like that.” Stede chews on the inside of his lip. “But—yes, there was something there. Some spark. And I think some part of me is still back there, wanting to show him that I’m a real pirate, too.”

“Real piracy’s shit,” Ed responds. “You know that, right?”

“I thought you were going to tell me I already am a real pirate,” Stede says, unable to keep the note of disappointment from his voice.

“Nah, mate. Reckon even Iz would tell you this is a better way of doing things, at this point.” Ed brushes his mouth over Stede’s. “We’ve got our own thing going. I like it. You like it. And Izzy does, too, even if he’d rather eat his own tongue than admit it.”

Stede figures that if he’s going to let all his insecurity spill out, he may as well get it all over with at once. “He thinks I’m a joke,” he says.

“No,” Ed responds instantly. “He doesn’t. He was teasing, earlier. And I think—maybe he doesn’t realise he can get to you.”

“What?”

“Love, remember when he ran you through, and you stood there and laughed in his face?”

“That’s not exactly how it happened, but—”

“You intimidate him,” Ed interrupts.

“I do not.”

“And he likes it when you boss him around.”

At that, Stede splutters, “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“It’s not,” Ed says. “But pretty soon we’ll be having sex with a full range of motion, so I thought I’d bring it up.”

As distraction techniques go, it’s remarkably effective. Stede can barely remember his own name, let alone what they were talking about before.

“You really think he’ll be back tonight, then?” he asks.

“Come hell or high water,” Ed assures him.

Notes:

bit of a shorter chapter because i've been tinkering around with the subsequent scenes for many, many months now! maybe feedback will help me figure out how to make it work <3

Chapter 21

Notes:

after i wrote the first draft of this chapter, i was doing my bimonthly re-read of In Safe Hands and realised i may have inadvertantly repurposed Alex's compliment sandwich joke. so if you enjoy the sandwich-based humour in this chapter, you should absolutely read In Safe Hands. in fact, you should read it anyway! it's amazing!

It’s just after midnight when Izzy slips through the door. As though by rote, he sheds his baldric and sword and bends down to remove his boots; only after that does he look up, spotting Ed and Stede on the sofa.

“You’re still up,” he says.

“Yes,” Stede says. Ed’s feet are in his lap, recipients of a half-hearted foot massage. Ed himself, meanwhile, has been flipping through a book containing illustrations of other pirates, delivering his judgement on the accuracy of each depiction.

“Yeah,” Ed confirms. “Hey, Stede won’t believe me that Kidd’s got a talking parrot. Back me up, will you?”

“Can’t say anything but swear words,” Izzy replies, unbuttoning his vest and leaving it draped over the back of a chair. “I wouldn’t exactly call that talking.”

“It’s a bit like if Izzy was a bird,” Ed muses. “Called me a cockless cunt, once.”

“The parrot, or Izzy?” Stede asks.

“Can’t remember.”

Izzy scoffs. He takes off his glove and leaves it on one of the side tables, following it with his ring and cravat. Then he approaches them, his socked feet soft against the floor, and looks down at Ed and Stede.

“Are you going to make room, or keep hogging it?” he drawls.

Ed laughs and takes his feet out of Stede’s lap, swinging them down onto the floor.

“There,” he says, “plenty of space for someone tiny.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy says, wedging himself between them. Once there—and Stede suspects he can’t help himself—he launches into a report. “We’re a few days off landfall still. If anyone’d thought to tell me our heading—” Here he turns to glare at Stede. “—I would’ve advised against it, but there’s no changing now. Just have to keep—” He switches to glaring at Ed. “—a low fucking profile. We’re well-enough stocked on everything except fruit and other perishables. Shouldn’t have to stay in Antigua longer than a day.”

“Good, good. Anything else?” Ed asks.

Izzy nods, then lapses into silence.

“Go on,” Stede encourages him.

Looking down at his own knees, Izzy says, “I shouldn’t’ve—that was unprofessional, earlier. With the lesson.”

Stede can barely contain his surprise.

“Well,” he says, “you don’t have to be professional during the swordfighting lessons. It’s your leisure time, remember?”

“But I hurt your feelings,” Izzy responds, extremely stiffly. He sounds like a child reading the words from a book.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Stede protests.

Ed clears his throat.

“I suppose—it stung, a bit. To think you were—” Stede searches for the least humiliating way to put it. “—unsatisfied with my performance.”

“I wasn’t unsatisfied.”

“I appreciate the thought, Israel, but you don’t have to pretend—”

“Shut up, Bonnet, I’m trying to explain,” Izzy snaps. “You didn’t have fencing lessons as a boy, did you?”

“No,” Stede says.

“Me neither,” Izzy says. “You, Edward?”

“Nah.”

Izzy nods, decisively, as though that settles the matter.

“Um,” Stede says, “could you, maybe, expand on that thought?”

“No one ever taught you this stuff,” Izzy says, rolling his eyes. “Shut up, Edward.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you were going to.”

“Right, because I did teach him stuff. Might not be up to your exacting specifications, love, but—”

“This isn’t about you,” Izzy says to Ed, for perhaps the first time in his life. “Look, Bonnet. I was shit when I first started out, too. Ed was probably less shit, but that’s—” Izzy waves a hand, which Stede supposes represents Ed’s general aptitude for things. “The thing that made me better was having something to prove. Back then, I couldn’t’ve held my own in a fight if I’d tried, so I had to make myself worth something. And it was hard fucking work, but I did it.”

“That’s very admirable,” Stede says.

“Shut up, no it wasn’t. It was survival. No one was giving me any prizes.”

Even as he snipes, Stede can feel Izzy relaxing into the space between them, spreading out enough that there’s a lovely pressure along the side of Stede’s thigh. Ed puts his arm over the back of couch and Izzy eases into the embrace, keeping his eyes on Stede.

“I’m not expecting prizes,” Stede says. “I’m excited to learn, that’s all.”

Izzy makes a frustrated sound. “But I don’t know how to be encouraging! Or—or nice. I thought I’d make you work harder if you had something to prove. And then I felt shit about it.”

The earnest sentiment makes Stede’s heart swell, but he knows Izzy won’t take kindly to being called on his own sentimentality. So instead, Stede affects a businesslike tone.

“Thank you for telling me that,” he says. “Now that I’m a little more familiar with your teaching style, you should feel free to go as hard on me as you want.”

Ed snorts.

“Oh, hush, you. Perhaps, in the interest of good feelings all around, we might try a little balance? Why, the crew, for example—whenever they feel some aspect of my leadership could be improved, they put the criticism inside a compliment sandwich!”

Izzy looks especially blank.

“That might be a little advanced for you,” Stede acknowledges, just the slightest bit unkindly. “We could make it an insult sandwich! For every two insults, you have to say one nice thing about me.”

“About you, or about your swordfighting?”

“About my swordfighting, I suppose,” Stede says, a little crestfallen about not becoming privy the full variety of compliments he’s sure Izzy keeps stashed away somewhere. “Probably best to stay on topic.”

For a moment, Izzy sits silently, frowning. Then he says: “Today.”

“Yes?”

“You cared too much about how you looked,” Izzy says.

“This outfit—”

“It’s not about the outfit,” Izzy says. “I’m only allowed two insults, so I’m not saying anything about the fucking outfit.”

Ed sniggers.

“What’s it about, then?” Stede huffs.

“You wanted to look good,” Izzy says, “and swordfighting isn’t about looking good. It’s about stabbing your opponent somewhere that’ll kill them. If you’re too focused on the fact that your boyfriend’s watching,” he adds, nodding at Ed, “you’ll start showing off. And showing off, at your level—not worth doing.”

It’s interesting, Stede thinks, that Izzy has correctly divined the effect but not the cause. Stede had been distracted—just not by Ed. It had been Izzy he’d wanted to impress. He decides to save that revelation for a more opportune moment, when it might cause Izzy to blush, or flub his footwork.

“Alright,” he says, “less showing off. That’s one insult.”

Izzy spreads out further, his head dropping to Ed’s shoulder, his right leg overlapping with Stede’s from knee to foot.

“Compliment,” he says, drawing the word out. “You’re stronger than you used to be. When you weren’t worrying about hurting me, there was a…decent amount of force behind your sword.”

“Think there was a bit of insult in that one, mate,” Ed says, flicking Izzy on the cheek.

“Second insult, then,” Izzy says. “You were worried about hurting me. Stop that.”

“But what if I—”

“You won’t,” Izzy interrupts. “Not for a long while yet. Worst you’ll do is nick me.”

Stede frowns; the logic of that doesn’t seem sound. Even someone as unskilled as himself could get a lucky strike in—which is to say nothing of the fact that he’s already killed two people by accident, and would like to avoid adding a third victim to that list.

Izzy sighs theatrically. “You stabbed Edward, yes? During your…lessons?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“He was bleeding through his clothes for days afterwards,” Izzy says. “That’s not the point. Was it easy?”

“Er—”

“Was stabbing him easy?”

“No!” Stede says. “Of course not. I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“For fuck’s sake, Bonnet, I’m not talking emotionally. Was it easy, physically, to drive your sword through someone’s flesh? Was it the sort of thing that could be done by accident?”

Stede sniffs. “I think you’re being rather cavalier about your own safety. Ed?”

“What?”

“Don’t you think Izzy’s underestimating the harm I could cause him?”

“Don’t ask me,” Ed replies. “Me’n Iz have stabbed each other loads.”

Stede gapes at them.

Izzy sits up, a triumphant expression on his face. “There, then. That was the whole fuckin’ sandwich,” he says. “Can we go to bed, now?”

 

---

 

Stede wakes up the following morning in the middle of the bed, naked from the hips down, with a sour taste in his mouth. They’d been too tried to properly clean up from their—activities, last night, which had involved some competition, on Stede and Izzy’s part, over who got to suck Ed’s cock, followed by some rather undignified rutting into each other’s hands. The competitiveness had brought its own kind of heat, and as Stede stretches out into the warmth of the sunrise through the cabin window, a contented sigh slips from his mouth.

“Shut up,” Izzy says, immediately.

“Oh, come on, Israel—”

“No, shut up,” Izzy says again. “Can you hear anything?”

Stede blinks his eyes open. Izzy’s sitting up beside him, sheets pulled over his lap for decency, wearing an intense look of concentration.

“Not really,” Stede says.

“Fuck,” Izzy says, springing out of bed and grabbing his clothes. “Edward.”

“I’m up,” Ed mumbles into his pillow.

“We’re fucking becalmed,” Izzy says.

“No, we’re not,” Ed says. He raises himself up on his elbow and grimaces at Stede. “Iz always thinks the worst. We’re not becalmed, mate, it’s just a low wind. Not uncommon this time of year,” he adds for Stede’s benefit.

“Low wind’s still less than fucking ideal, Edward,” Izzy bites out, now half-dressed.

“Mate, you said yourself we’re not exactly desperate for a restock,” Ed replies, though he swings himself up and grabs a discarded dressing gown. To Stede, he says, “You stay here, love. Me and Iz just need to sort this wind thing. Back in a tick.”

Stede thinks about doing the captainly thing and accompanying them. He thinks about getting out of the warm sheets, which smell like the three of them, and going out to listen to Ed and Izzy talk very technically about rigging and wind speed and sails and bearing.

“I’ll have breakfast ready for when you get back,” he says.

 

---

 

Over tea, coffee, and marmalade scones, Ed and Izzy argue without pause about what to do next.

Izzy is of the opinion that they need to begin rationing supplies immediately. He says that everyone’s freshwater allowance should be cut in half, that they should plot a new course, that going to Antigua would’ve been a mistake in the first place—

“You worry too much. Ship’s still moving,” Ed says, sipping at his tea. “And we’ve still got those connections in Jolly Harbour.”

“You’ve got half the establishment in Jolly Harbour after your fucking head.”

“No one can prove it was us burned down the governor’s mansion,” Ed says, gesturing with his fork.

Izzy rubs at his temples, his elbows on the table.

“Iz,” Ed says, “if we stopped going everywhere we burned something down or killed someone or stole something, there’d be nowhere left in the Caribbean for us to go. Come on, man, lighten up.”

Izzy’s head snaps up, and Stede winces as he opens his mouth, clearly about to say something they’ll all three of them regret.

Then something amazing happens.

“I hate this,” Izzy says, articulating each word with care. “I hate planning for what’s supposed to happen, and then having to change it all because of the fucking wind. I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it. But—I do know none of it’s your fault. Even if you probably saw this coming a mile off.”

“Only since last night,” Ed says. “Look, the wind was on our side yesterday. Today it’s not. And, yeah, it’s one of the worse things about being at sea, having to adjust for this shit. But you’ve got to trust me when I say it’s gonna be fine, Iz.”

“I do,” Izzy replies. He picks at the tablecloth, the way he always does when approaching emotional intimacy. “Just feels like there’s an eel in my gut, whenever there’s something like this to deal with.”

“Gross.” Ed reaches out and takes Izzy’s hand, preventing further damage to embroidery. “Dunno if it’ll help with your eel situation, love, but I’ve got you. Won’t let anything bad happen, not anymore.”

“Right.” Izzy clears his throat. “Yeah.”

And he goes back to eating his breakfast, as though nothing has happened. Ed pulls his hand back and picks up his scone. For a few seconds, the only sound is of their chewing. Then—

“I’m very proud of you both,” Stede says.

“Shut up,” they respond, in unison.

 

---

 

Izzy’s jitteriness, though assuaged somewhat by Ed’s reassurance, persists throughout the day. Still, he insists on carrying out his duties as normal, up to and including delivering swordfighting lessons.

To Stede’s relief, everybody else seems to be taking the semi-becalming in stride. As they drift into clumps to watch Izzy and Frenchie, conversations are jovial and punctuated with bursts of laughter, and the only dour expression on display is Izzy’s usual one.

“Hurry up,” Izzy says to Frenchie. “We haven’t got all night.”

“Why?” Lucius contributes from the sidelines, “Have you got somewhere else to be?”

Izzy’s mouth twitches. “We’ll have no more from you, Mr Spriggs, thank you.”

Lucius mimes stitching up his lips. Izzy and Frenchie position themselves a few paces away from each other, and begin.

Because it hasn’t happened all at once, it’s been easy to miss just how much Frenchie’s improved under Izzy’s tutelage. But tonight, Stede is paying close attention. He notices how confident Frenchie’s become, the ease of his movements, and he notices, too, that Frenchie is cunning—in a way that marks him out as a different type of fighter from Izzy, or even Ed.

“Again,” Izzy barks, when Frenchie fails to block, and Izzy pokes his chest with the tip of his sword. The sword, though sharp, doesn’t so much as pierce the fabric. Which doesn’t prove anything really; after all, Stede knows that Izzy possesses the control necessary to slice through a shirt without breaking the skin beneath.

Frenchie and Izzy reset, and this time, the block goes off without a hitch.

“Better,” Izzy says in that grudging way of his. “Again.”

They keep on going, repeating the same move until Izzy deems them ready to move on.

“Seems a little excessive,” Lucius comments, giving voice to Stede’s thoughts.

“No, babe, it’s so his muscles remember,” Pete responds earnestly.

“That’s not a thing,” Lucius scoffs.

“It kind of is,” Jim contributes. “I mean, not about muscles having memories, but the repetition thing. It does help.”

“Muscles do have memories,” Pete insists. “It’s like, when I was working for Blackbeard—”

As they continue to argue the point, Stede switches his focus back to Izzy and Frenchie. Izzy’s moved on to teaching Frenchie what to do if his sword gets knocked out of his hand during a fight.

“If you can’t get to your sword, use anything you can get your hands on,” Izzy’s saying. “No use fighting clean.” He looks over, meeting Stede’s eyes. “Captain taught me that.”

Stede beams.

 

---

 

A week passes, and the wind is still little more than a whisper against the Revenge. They’re closer to their destination, Buttons assures them, but progress is slow.

Water rations are cut to three-quarters the usual amount. They eat eggs from the chickens and drink milk from the goats to preserve both their stores and their morale—even the weekly dinner, on Friday, consists of omelettes and no dessert, with Roach remaining impervious to Stede’s entreaties for something a little more romantic.

Each morning, Ed and Izzy spend hours with Oluwande, trying to make the best of what little wind there is by adjusting the sails. Sometimes, Stede accompanies them and listens, but mostly he leaves them to it.

He knows he should mind the delay, that he should be worried about the breeze dropping away entirely, but he isn’t. Instead, he’s focused on his nightly lessons with Izzy: on the pleasant ache that’s settled into his muscles and the way Izzy looks at him when he gets something right. There’s no room for anxiety, not when every evening he gets to thrive under the full intensity of Izzy’s focus, gets to be the target of a slightly-unbalanced combination of insults and compliments.

He improves.

Watching Frenchie’s lessons helps; he essentially understands what Izzy wants from him, even if implementing this knowledge takes a little getting used to. And Ed’s assertion that he taught Stede well has been borne out: as Stede gets back into the swing of things, flashes of Ed’s instruction come through, surprising Izzy—and thus giving Stede the advantage—every time.

He’s finding that the biggest difference between Izzy and Ed’s teaching styles is Izzy’s aggressive focus on the minutiae. Where Ed had encouraged him to look at a fight in its entirety, Izzy insists on breaking it down into its component parts. One lesson is consumed by Izzy coaching him on how to breathe.

“I’ve been breathing for quite some time,” Stede argues. “I rather think I’ve gotten the hang of it.”

“No,” Izzy responds. “You’re shit.”

Once he’s satisfied that Stede knows how to breathe, Izzy drills him on how to grip his sword, how to pull it from his belt, even how to hold it by his side when he’s not using it.

Each lesson concludes with a bout, and though Stede’s sure he’s no closer to beating Izzy than he was when they started, he is making Izzy work harder for his victories. They both end each lesson tired, panting—and that’s a sort of win, Stede thinks.  

At the very least, Stede thinks he’s starting to understand what Ed was getting at. He’s started watching Izzy, rather than just his sword, trying to anticipate which move he’s going to make next. Even if he’s still wrong more often than he’s right, it’s a strong foundation to work from.

Then there are their debriefs in the captains’ cabin afterwards. There, Izzy presents his insult sandwiches with relish, stepping in close as he tells Stede what it is he’s doing wrong, stepping yet closer as he delivers compliments so quiet that even Ed, right there in the same room, can’t hear.

And then they fuck.

Something about the lessons, it seems, gets them both worked up. Stede loves the way Izzy smells afterwards, the hot tang of his sweat, and putting him on his back is doubly satisfying after losing to him out on deck. It’s a different sort of surrender, of course, but Stede’s baser instincts don’t seem to care.

Luckily, Izzy seems to enjoy the reversal just as much. Almost the moment the cabin door shuts, enclosing them, he sheds his swordmaster’s authority and gives himself over to Stede’s hands. On the first night, Ed stepped in to help put Izzy in that soft, wanting place he goes to. On the second, he only watched, then burst into action towards the end to lick Stede’s come off Izzy’s open thighs, making Izzy come in turn. In the nights since, he’s been both observer and participant, seeming equally content in both roles.

It's a sign, Stede hopes, of Izzy’s increasing sense of security in the relationship. He sleeps in their bed, initiates sex, takes some of his meals with them. He seems settled.

Stede loves him more by the day.

He hasn’t said it again, of course, though he wants to. He’s waiting for either Ed or Izzy to open those particular floodgates, with an acceptance he may be waiting for some time. Even as the two of them blossom under the light of their renewed affection for each other, very little is communicated out loud. When they talk, it’s about the same things they’ve always talked about: the ship and its running. The only difference is that these conversations now take place with Ed’s head in Izzy’s lap, or with Izzy sat at Ed’s feet, the way he still likes.

It's all very different from the notions of romance Stede had been raised with. For one thing, he’d always thought poetry was a big part of it.

Then again, there’s poetry to be found in the way Ed and Izzy know each other—the way their conversations fragment out of a shared understanding, sentences running into one another. Stede hasn’t seen them like this before, so effortlessly attuned to one another, and it hurts his heart to think that there was ever a time when that attunement was disrupted.

Despite his worries, they’re muddling their way into a sort of routine—one that allows for everyone’s affections to be tended to. Thus far, Izzy hasn’t joined Ed and Stede for lunch, and Ed and Izzy have taken to staying behind in the cabin while Stede delivers the crew’s story.

And as for Stede and Izzy, they have their lessons.

 

---

 

“Are you even trying, Bonnet?” Izzy goads from a few paces away, his sword held lazily aloft. Stede is learning that Izzy’s style of swordfighting is as much about performance as skill: the way he holds his sword, now, would be frowned upon by a fencing instructor but communicates exactly what Izzy wants—that Stede isn’t a threat to him.

Stede isn’t a threat to him. He may be improving, but they’re at the tail end of their lesson and his energy is waning.

“I expect a little more stamina,” Izzy continues. “Or are you more of a one and done—”

Hot with blood, Stede lunges forward and tries not to let the effortless way Izzy parries get to him. But it does. These lessons are becoming the arena in which the echoes of his and Izzy’s antagonism towards each other ring out loud and true, and Stede—well, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it. From the look in Izzy’s eyes, Stede can tell that they’ll be stumbling into one flat surface or another before the night is out.

“Better,” Izzy says, flicking the blade of Stede’s sword away like it’s an irksome fly.

“I do wonder,” Stede responds, huffing and puffing with exertion, “what would happen were we to fight—physically?”

Izzy snorts. “Keep dreaming, Bonnet.”

“I’d wager I’m the stronger man by far,” Stede says.

“I’d wager you’d struggle to lift anything heavier than a teapot,” Izzy ripostes, like he doesn’t remember Stede lifting his full bodyweight only last night, pressing him against the bookshelf—

Izzy hits Stede’s upper arm with the flat of his blade. “Distracted?”

“Lulling you into false confidence,” Stede says. “You’re falling for it nicely.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Izzy says, smirking, “sir.”

Stede drops his sword.

That’s—the other thing. He wouldn’t have thought of Izzy as adept in the art of seduction. For one, Stede really doesn’t think Izzy’s had sex with anyone apart from Ed (and now him, too). Izzy hasn’t said as much, but Stede’s got a romantic sort of inkling about it. For another thing, Izzy rarely approaches anything with less than the utmost seriousness. Stede would have expected being seduced by him to feel like getting hit over the head.

It does, a bit, actually.

Izzy’s smirking at him, his chin titled at where Stede’s sword has fallen. “Ready to yield, then, Captain?”

“Well,” Stede blusters, “if you’re getting tired, I suppose we can call it a day.”

Lucius, who along with the rest of the crew is pretending not to watch, snorts. Izzy ignores him—another sign, Stede hopes, of progress. Although Izzy couldn’t be described as happy about the crew’s awareness of their relationship, he’s settled into a sort of grudging acceptance of it.

“Yeah,” Izzy responds, still smiling. “Think I might head to bed after all that.”

“Oh! I think—perhaps—me, too,” Stede says. He turns, somewhat unsteadily, in the direction of the nearest crewmember. “How would you feel about taking up the mantle of storyteller tonight, my good man? I’m shattered, honestly, I think I’ll be out like a light the second my head hits the pillow.”

“Sure, Captain,” says Oluwande. “You do that.”

Stede glances at Izzy, who’s sitting on his haunches, inspecting both blades for damage. He shifts from foot to foot and tries not to want too openly.

“What are you waiting for, Bonnet?” Izzy asks—back to Bonnet now he’s not pressing the advantage. He rises smoothly to his feet, both swords held in his gloved hand, and smirks. “Go on. I’m right behind you.”

Wee John wolf-whistles. Stede feels himself turning an especially bright shade of red.

“Right,” he says, straightening his shirt. “Yes. I’ll just—”

And he flees to the captains’ cabin.

 

---

 

By the time Izzy gets there, Stede’s already got Ed on the bed and is halfway to ravishing him.

“What’d you do to him, mate?” Ed asks when the door bangs shut, peering out over Stede’s shoulder. Though he’d been occupied when Stede had returned, studying the book of pirates again, he’d responded immediately to Stede’s mood. Now, he’s exposed, dressing gown pushed back over his shoulders, his mouth red from the ardour of Stede’s kisses.

Izzy clutches the edge of the side table beside the door. He clears his throat. “Think Bonnet’s got a thing for being publicly humiliated,” he says at last.

“Maybe I’ve just got a thing for you,” Stede says. He means for it to come out snappish, and it does, but there’s not really anything to be done about the saccharine quality of the words themselves. Izzy scrunches up his nose in response.

“Hot for teacher,” Ed suggests, shimmying under Stede in a way that evokes sexual activity without, in fact, providing any stimulation whatsoever. “Get over here, Mister Hands.”

“Haven’t discussed the lesson yet,” Izzy says, though he takes his boots off, leaving them by the door, and steps closer, as receptive as ever to Ed’s orders. “But if Bonnet’s too insatiable—”

“I’m no such thing!”

Izzy smirks. He walks all the way over to the bed, then stops right at the foot of it. Stede twists around to look at him.

“You were distracted,” Izzy says chidingly.

Stede splutters. “You were the one distracting me!”

“Yes,” Izzy says. “And I won the bout, didn’t I?”

Indignance burns in Stede’s chest, hot enough that he’s able to—mostly—ignore the way Ed’s hands are sliding up under his shirt. “In a real fight,” he argues, “I won’t be sleeping with my opponent, will I?”

Izzy shrugs. “You never know. And anyway, that was only one way to get you off-balance. In a real fight, you can expect your opponent to use whatever distraction techniques are at their disposal. Threats, bargains, sexual overtures. You need to be ready for it all. Sir.”

Ed looks between them like he’s following a tennis match.

“Alright,” Stede says, voice cracking, “I will be. What else?”

“You’re getting more aggressive.” Izzy sets one knee on the bed. “That’s a good thing. You’re not just waiting for openings—” He wets his lips. “You’re taking them.”

Stede grabs Ed’s arm for support. “And the second insult?”

“You’re still holding back,” Izzy says, setting his other knee on the bed and crawling towards them. He kisses Ed first, deeply, pressing Ed’s naked body against the bed with his still-fully-clothed one. Then he pulls back, and continues: “There were a couple of times tonight you could’ve had me. And then you stopped.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stede says.

“So you’ve said.”

“Well. I—appreciate the feedback, Israel.” Stede swallows. “Perhaps next time I really will stab you.”

Izzy smirks. “Perhaps.”

As they gaze at each other, tension thick between them, Ed sits up and says, “Speaking of stabbing, I think Stede should fuck you tonight.”

Sat there in Ed’s lap, Izzy looks small and dark, encircled by bare skin and soft silk. His breath hitches on his next three inhales, almost like he’s hiccupping, and he drops his forehead to Ed’s shoulder. There, he says something, too low for Stede to hear.

“That’s a yes,” Ed says for Stede’s benefit.

Stede raises his eyebrows. “If I’m to be the one fucking him, he’ll have to say it to my face, I’m afraid.”

Ed cups the back of Izzy’s head before stroking his back. “He’s got a point.”

“Could just get you to fuck me,” Izzy mutters.

“I still will,” Ed assures him. “After Stede. You’ll be so wide open, you think you’ll even feel me?”

In response, Izzy’s hips jerk, his knees scrabbling over the sheets as he tries to pleasure himself against Ed’s abdomen. The attempt earns him a low chuckle and Ed’s grip locking around his waist, holding him still.

“Let’s get your clothes off, shall we?” Stede says, making a gentle approach. He sidles up behind Izzy and begins by opening his waistcoat, one button at a time. Ed presents an active hinderance by running his hands up and down the length of Izzy’s torso—until, impatiently, Stede slaps them away. Izzy hisses in an affronted breath, but Ed only laughs.

“Down, boy,” he says, and Izzy subsides.

Next, Stede unknots Izzy’s cravat, sliding the ring free of the fabric and putting both into his pocket for safekeeping. Then he peels the glove off his left hand. Izzy stays still, pinned as he is between Stede and Ed, but his breath starts breaking into little gasps the longer Stede takes undressing him. Ed cups the side of his neck, covering the swallow tattoo, and thumbs at his Adam’s apple.

The rest of Izzy’s clothing takes a bit more hassle to get off—though Izzy’s gone pliable enough that he moves wherever Stede’s hands lead. When he’s finally naked, he gets straight back into Ed’s lap and hides his face in his neck, sucking at the skin there if Ed’s sudden gasp is anything to go by.

Stede strokes Izzy’s hair and then, acting on an impulse he doesn’t stop to examine, grabs a fistful and pulls.

“You’re going to have to tell us what you want, Israel,” he murmurs into his ear. “Tell us, and then we can give it to you.”

“Fuck,” Izzy spits. He’s fighting Stede’s grip on his hair, but not hard—Stede knows that Izzy would be quite capable of pulling himself free if he applied himself to the task. Beyond him, Ed’s eyes are as wide as saucers.

Stede leans down to kiss the side of Izzy’s neck that Ed isn’t holding. “Anything you want,” he says.

“Fuck me, then,” Izzy says, the words sounding like they’re being wrenched from his chest. “Just stop talking about it, fuck.”

“Good man,” Stede praises, kissing the hinge of his jaw. Then he stands up and retrieves a serviceable jar of hair oil, handing it off to Ed. “Would you do the honours, darling?”

Ed blinks up at him. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “You can stay right where you are, Iz, just relax. We’ve got you.”

Moving back to his previous position, Stede kisses the knob at the top of Izzy’s spine. Then he looks down, watching as Ed’s oil-shiny fingers start playing with Izzy’s hole. Izzy curses at the first touch, then curses even more when Ed penetrates him with two fingers at once. Ed kisses him quiet.

“It’s really very easy to take you apart,” Stede comments softly. He presses kisses to the melee of scars on Izzy’s back, worrying at a few of them with his teeth. When he wonders how many of them were caused by Ed’s blade, his entire body flushes hot.

By the time he notices that Ed’s got three fingers inside Izzy, he’s sweating through his shirt and his cock is hard enough to hurt. He hastily divests himself of his clothing and waits for either Ed or Izzy’s go-ahead.

“I’m fucking ready, Edward, you don’t have to—”

With the hand not four fingers deep in Izzy’s arse, Ed smacks him on the thigh. “You’re ready when I say you’re ready.”

“His cock’s not that fucking big,” Izzy grouses. He’d be more convincing in his griping, Stede thinks, if he weren’t pushing back onto Ed’s fingers like his life depends on it. If his dick wasn’t bouncing in the space between them, looking fit to burst.

“Trust me, mate, you’re gonna thank me for this in a minute,” Ed says. “Stay still.”

Izzy does so, and immediately starts shaking with the effort. He hangs his head in the space between himself and Ed and whines.

“Oh, poor dear,” Stede says. He puts his hand over the red mark Ed left when he slapped Izzy’s thigh, and squeezes. “Just a little longer, now.”

“Fuck you,” Izzy says. “Fuck—ah!”

“Be nice,” Ed rumbles, with another harsh thrust of his fingers. “There. Think you’re just about ready, now. Let’s get you on your hands and knees.”

Izzy makes a soft, punched out sound. His legs seem so shaky, when Ed withdraws his support, that Stede isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep himself upright. And his hole—bright red, slick from Ed’s ministrations. Stede can’t help himself; he replaces Ed’s four fingers with three of his own, working them as deep inside of Izzy as they’ll go.

“Stede,” Izzy croaks, “please, just—”

“Underneath it all,” Stede interrupts, “you really are such a darling.”

Before Izzy has a chance to respond, he withdraws his fingers and presses the head of his cock to Izzy’s hole. Even open as he is, it’s still a tight fit. Stede anchors himself with a hand on Izzy’s hip and begins to slowly thrust forward.

“God,” Izzy babbles. “Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck.”

He collapses down onto his elbows, then pushes himself back up again, arms shaking.

“You’re alright, Iz, just let yourself feel it,” Ed says. He’s lying beside them, propped on one elbow and shamelessly watching Stede’s cock as it sinks into Izzy’s body. “You can go down if you need.”

Izzy moans with relief and falls back onto his elbows.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Ed continues.

“Yeah,” Izzy gasps, “it’s a fucking lot.”

“You can take it, though.”

Ed takes his own cock in hand, stroking it almost idly.

“Stede,” he says, “don’t go easy on him.”

“I won’t,” Stede promises.

He’s true to his word, though perhaps not in the way Ed or Izzy expect. As soon as Izzy adjusts to the stretch, his hips shifting impatiently beneath Stede’s hands, Stede holds him still and fucks him deeply, slowly, without allowing Izzy even the slightest leverage to control the pace. At first, Izzy curses him, as well as God and a few other minor deities, trying to get him to speed up. And then his voice loses what was left of its harshness, and his body goes lax under Stede’s hands.

“Keep going,” he slurs. “Please, I want—”

“I know what you want,” Stede says, and realises, with a flash of pride, that it’s true. “You’ll get it, darling boy.”

Izzy muffles his answering sound by pressing his face directly into the bedsheet.

Having tortured him quite enough, Stede chooses the next moment to pull out almost all the way and slam back in, pulling Izzy back by his hips at the same time. The slap of their skin together sounds like a cannon-shot in the hushed heat of the cabin. And then he keeps going, relentless, driving into Izzy’s body with a controlled sort of brutality.

“Fuck,” Ed comments from beside them. “You like that, Iz? That what you want?”

“Mmph,” Izzy responds, emphatically.

“He’s taking such good care of you.” Ed slithers closer to them, close enough to draw Izzy’s mouth to his and swallow Izzy’s wet, gasping breaths. “What do you say, hm?”

“Thank you,” Izzy responds instantly, twisting his neck to chase Ed’s mouth. “Thank you, thank you, th—”

His back bows as he comes, untouched, in messy spurts over the bedspread. Stede feels him twitching in the aftermath, and fucks him harder. Ed has to hold onto Izzy’s arms to stop him from getting pushed up the bed. Stede can hear him whispering encouragement—you did so well, just a little longer now—and he can hear the naked awe in Izzy’s answering whimpers. It isn’t often that Ed talks to Izzy like this, even now—this kind of softness is usually left to Stede. But he hears Ed say sweetheart, say darling, and it sounds—perfect.

“I’m—” Stede gasps out, “oh—”

His orgasm goes on so long it makes his head spin. His grip on Izzy’s hips tightens, and he grinds deep to ride it out. Izzy’s moaning, louder than he was during his own orgasm.

Eventually, when the ringing in his ears has stopped, Stede pulls out. He watches with fascination as come slips out of Izzy’s body and begins to drip, the white standing out against the violent red of Izzy’s puffy hole.

“That was gorgeous, Israel,” he says breathlessly.

“Hear that?” Ed adds. “So good, love, so beautiful. You’re all done now, don’t have to take any more.”

Izzy’s breath hitches. “Y’said.” He rolls onto his side. “You said you’d fuck me after.”

Stede watches Ed’s eyes go wide.

“If you want,” he says.

Izzy closes his eyes and nods.

“Right,” Ed says. “Alright. Up we get, then.”

He shifts to the left side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, and then reaches for Izzy to join him. Izzy hesitates.

“In his lap, dear,” Stede says.

For another long moment, Izzy just stares at Ed—and Stede can understand why. Ed’s hair is wild from all the rolling about, framing a gentle, adoring expression. One of his hands is outstretched.

When the internal struggle is over, Izzy takes the offered hand. He lets himself get pulled into the circle of Ed’s limbs and then, without so much as a pause for breath, he sinks down onto Ed’s dick.

“Fuck, man,” Ed yelps. He grabs at Izzy’s waist, and Izzy stills. Both of them are breathing hard. “Oh, fuck, you’re so wet.”

Izzy keens and hides his face in Ed’s neck. Ed holds the back of his head, braces his feet against the bed, and rocks gently into Izzy.

“Here, I’ve got you,” he says. “That feel good?”

Izzy sobs.

“Iz—”

“Don’t stop,” Izzy begs.

“I won’t,” Ed says, sounding a little choked up himself. “Won’t ever stop if you don’t want me to.”

As they move against each other, locked in each other’s arms, Stede wonders if he should make himself scarce. But then one of Ed’s eyes opens, and he beckons Stede towards them. Too tired to take much of an active role, Stede tucks himself alongside Ed and scratches Izzy’s thigh encouragingly.

This close, he can hear so much: the squelch of Ed fucking Stede’s come back into Izzy; the soft pant of his breath; the way Izzy’s crying, overwhelmed.

When Ed’s breath starts coming quicker, when he stops being so gentle and starts chasing his pleasure, Stede kisses his shoulder. Izzy seems to feel the change, too, raising his head and giving as good as he gets, meeting each of Ed’s thrusts even as his thighs tremble and tear-tracks shimmer on his face.

“Izzy,” Ed says, “come here, come on, kiss me—”

No sooner is Izzy’s mouth on Ed’s than Stede hears a muffled groan and sees the both of them go still, pressed together as Ed spills.

They keep kissing afterwards, Ed lowering Izzy to the last remaining clean stripe of bedding as though they’ve made a secret pact to ensure that they’ll have to change the sheets before any of them can get any sleep. Stede sighs, fondly, and goes to retrieve some handkerchiefs and clean dressing gowns from the auxiliary wardrobe—as well as a change of bedding.

 

---

 

By the time he gets back, Ed’s lying in the centre of the bed while Izzy sits on the edge of it, neither of them looking at each other. Though disappointing, it doesn’t come entirely as a surprise.

“How are you feeling, Izzy?” Stede asks.

“Fine,” Izzy says. He grabs the handkerchief Stede offers and wipes his face almost violently with it.

“And you, Ed?”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Fine.”

Stede presses his lips together. “Well, if we’re all fine,” he says, “I’d love some help putting this bed to rights, and then we can all have a cuddle.”

“Izzy’s not in cuddling mood,” Ed says, possibly meaning to sound cutting and instead sounding extremely hurt.

“I’m fine,” Izzy insists.

“Then you won’t mind indulging for my benefit?” Stede tries.

Izzy crumples the soiled handkerchief in his fist and scoffs. “I know what you’re trying to do, Bonnet.”

“Do you? Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Izzy stands up and starts untucking the sheets, not looking at anyone. There’s so much tension in his shoulders that it looks painful.

“You think I’m pathetic,” Izzy says. “That I need your flowery shit to make me feel better.”

It’s about what Stede had expected him to say, but it still hurts to hear.

“I assure you,” he says, “I think nothing of the sort.”

He looks to Ed for support—but Ed just looks resigned, like this has happened before. And, Stede realises, it probably has. He may well be looking through a window into the past, to the conclusion of a hundred liaisons between Ed and Izzy.

Well, then. There’s nothing to do except forge a different future.

“We won’t order you to stay,” he tells Izzy. “But I would like it if you did. I think Ed would, too.”

“Not if he’s gonna be a dick,” Ed mutters. Stede reminds himself that Ed had put himself in a very emotionally vulnerable spot, too. That he’d said things to Izzy that he probably never has before, and is completely justified in feeling rejected. He tugs Ed up from the bed and kisses his cheek, handing him a burgundy dressing gown.

Then he rounds the bed, to where Izzy is attempting to change the bedding while shivering and fully naked, and hands him the navy-blue one.

Izzy looks down at the silk in his hands, then down at his own bare chest.

“I’ll mess it up,” he says.

“Nothing that can’t be washed off,” Stede says.

“Right,” Izzy says. He puts the dressing gown on, tying it tightly around the middle, and goes back to his task.

In the ensuing silence, Stede pours three glasses of water from the pitcher on the table, struggling to come up with something to say. It isn’t exactly a revelation that Izzy despises showing emotion in front of other people—that he would despise crying in front of them, specifically—but Stede had hoped it might be an issue for the following morning. After all, Izzy had seemed so—so wrung out, and relaxed, and at home in Ed’s arms. If anything, Stede had expected to return to find them fast asleep.

He looks over, just as Ed starts trying to help with the bed.

“Don’t,” Izzy snaps. “You’ll just mess it up.”

“I know how to make a fucking bed,” Ed snaps right back. He grabs a few of the scattered pillows and starts fluffing them, with more aggression than Stede typically ascribes to pillow-fluffing. “Learned how to do shit like this before I even learned to sail.”

Izzy has the decency to look abashed. His shoulders hunch further, and he looks at the floor. “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot.”

Instead of calming him down, the apology only seems to incense Ed further.

“Why’d you always do this, Iz?” he demands. “Why’s it always so fucking difficult with you?”

“Alright,” Stede steps in, “that’s enough—”

“I don’t know!” Izzy shouts. There are tears in his eyes again, bright spots that he angrily banishes with the back of his hand. “I don’t fucking know, Edward, and I’m not him—”

Right then, at the worst possible moment, Stede hears Buttons yelling from above.

“Land ho!”

Notes:

the mortifying ordeal of crying during sex, or indeed crying at all: the izzy hands story

Chapter 22

Notes:

while i was writing this i was hurting my own feelings with the tension between ed and izzy. and then a clip dropped that really put it all in perspective

thank you to HiddenLacuna for stepping in to beta!!

It’s almost disconcerting, Stede thinks, how quickly Ed and Izzy transform back into Captain and First Mate. Stede watches as both their spines lengthen, as Ed’s expression goes from furious to commanding and Izzy’s, in turn, snaps into its usual harsh lines.

“Get dressed,” Ed orders Izzy. “Meet me on deck when you’re ready.”

Izzy nods with a jerk of his chin.

“What about me?” Stede asks. “What should I do?”

Ed’s expression softens a fraction. “It’s nothing to worry about. Me’n Izzy just need to make sure your girl’s guided safe into port. Could leave the crew to it, but—”

“They’ll fuck it up given half a chance,” Izzy says from where he’s crouched, collecting up his scattered clothes. Stede takes a moment to wonder how it is that two people can go from spitting at each other one minute to completing each other’s sentences the next.

“Exactly,” Ed says. “Coming into port’s always tricky. Worse at night—that’s when your inexperienced sailors start bashing into landing wharfs.”

“I think I’ll come up anyway,” says Stede, glancing carefully between them.

“Suit yourself,” Izzy says. With his clothes in his arms, he disappears in the direction of the bathroom.

Stede frowns. “He could have dressed in front of us.”

“He’s got more to do than get dressed,” Ed points out.

“Oh,” Stede says, going red, “yes, of course. What dreadful timing.”

In response, Ed shrugs. He sheds his robe, uses it to wipe the sweat from his chest, and picks up his trousers. “Might be for the best.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stede asks. Seeing no good reason to change out of his own dressing gown at this time of night, he stands and waits.

“He’ll be distracted,” Ed says.

“From what? His own emotions?”

Ed looks at him like he’s being dense. “With any luck, yeah.”

“That’s—that’s not healthy, surely.”

Ed exhales a disbelieving, bitter laugh.

“Right. Well, your options are, he completely shuts down and doesn’t speak to us for days, or he focuses on his fucking job,” Ed says, scraping his messy hair back and tying it out his face. “Which would you prefer, Stede? Or have you got some magic way to make him less fucked up?”

“Ed.”

Ed's eyes reflect the light like the surface of a lake. Then he blinks, banishing the tears, and pulls on his jacket. “Fuck it. Let’s just go.”

Unsure of what else to do, Stede follows.

 

---

 

Things on deck, Stede discovers, are proceeding less than optimally. The ship’s wheel is being manned by both Frenchie and the Swede, neither of whom seems sure of which direction they’re meant to be going, and several other crewmembers are up in the rigging, being egged on by those below.

Ed puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles sharply.

“Right,” he thunders. “What’s going on here?”

Everybody falls silent. At first, it seems no one is going to answer, but then Oluwande gets nudged forward by Pete.

“Sorry, Captains. We thought it was going to take longer to reach land,” he says, “you know, as of this morning. And Izzy said we were meant to change the flag before anyone official could see us, but most of us were asleep, so we’re trying to get it done now.” He glances upwards. “Think the ropes up there are a bit tangled, or something.”

“Remind me, mate, which flag were we flying before?”

“Blackbeard’s, sir,” says Izzy, appearing from the companionway without so much as a hair out of place, giving every impression of having spent the evening doing—well, anything other than what he was doing. “There was that tricky stretch, crossing the shipping lanes: we wanted to discourage anyone from trying their luck.”

Ed rounds on him. “Who’s this we? Don’t remember you asking me about this.”

“It was—my own initiative,” Izzy says. “Captain.”

“He spoke with me about it,” Oluwande adds. “Sounded reasonable at the time.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s just painted a massive fucking target on us if these fuckers can’t change it before someone sees,” Ed yells. The shadowy shapes in the rigging freeze, then start moving again at twice the pace.

“I’ll go,” Izzy says, putting one foot on the lowest rung of the rope ladder.

Ed grabs him by the back of his collar. “Not the first mate’s job, is it?”

Izzy bristles. “Anything needs doing is the first mate’s job.”

There’s a sludge of tension rolling over the deck of the ship, as everyone in turn comes to the realisation that Ed and Izzy are at odds with one another. Oluwande steps back into the huddle, while Frenchie lets go of the ship’s wheel and approaches, frowning.

“It’s not that big a deal, is it?” he says. “It’s night-time.”

“Yeah,” Ed says venomously, “they stop looking out for pirates when it’s dark. Good call, mate.”

“I’m just saying,” Frenchie insists, “it’s dark, it’s a black flag, you don’t have to be such a pri—”

“Maybe we should all take a breath,” Stede says quickly. “Izzy, you can go and help with changing the flag. Ed and I will take care of things down here.”

Ed opens his mouth, and Stede has a fraction of a second to worry about Ed contradicting his orders. If he does so, there’s just a shadow of a doubt about which of them Izzy will defer to, given the circumstances.

But then Izzy says, “Yes, Captain,” so pointedly that Stede’s surprised Ed doesn’t start to bleed. And he follows Stede’s order.

 

---

 

There follows a tense hour, wherein Ed pulls himself together well enough to steer them into port. Izzy first climbs up to change the flag and then, down on the main deck, delivers an increasingly aggravated series of orders for the rest of the crew, who scramble to comply.

Somehow, even while each pretends the other doesn’t exist, Ed and Izzy guide them perfectly to an appropriate spot to drop anchor.

This, apparently, is only the beginning of their work for the night.

“Any luck,” Izzy tells the crew, loud enough for his voice to carry to the stern, “we’ll be left alone ’til morning. Port lookouts tend to be as lazy as you lot. But that’s no excuse to slack off. We need to get ourselves looking fucking respectable. Spriggs, how’re those ship’s papers coming?”

“Well, you haven’t given me a lot of time,” Lucius gripes.

“You’ve had all fucking week!”

“And I’m an artist! Would you tell Rembrandt to have his works finished in a mere week?”

“Who the fuck is that?”

Lucius scoffs imperiously. Then he pulls a sheaf of papers from his waistband and presents them to Izzy, who inspects them with a critical eye.

“These’ll do,” he says. Lucius squawks with exaggerated offence, stepping in close to point out the finer points of his artistry.

Casting a quick glance at Ed, Stede descends the steps to the main deck and takes a look for himself. The papers are dense with writing and remind him uncomfortably of the contract he and Ed had been forced to sign when they gave up their freedom to the Navy.

“What’s all this?” he asks.

Izzy doesn’t look at him. “Kind of papers a merchant ship would have,” he says. “Manifest, trade papers, that sort of shit. They’re required for inspection.”

“Oh.” It’s an interesting sort of fuckery—not unlike the one Stede and the crew had enacted upon Nigel Badminton and his crew—but Stede wishes he’d been given a heads up, and more time to prepare. He twists his hands together. “Do you really think we’ll be able to fool them? Everyone still looks rather—piratical, and there isn’t enough in the wardrobe—”

“We’re not trying to fool them,” Izzy interrupts. “We’re trying to bribe them. And give them just enough legitimate-looking stuff for plausible deniability with the higher-ups. S’long as they don’t know it’s Blackbeard’s ship, it’s not worth turning us into the authorities. Too much hassle in a backwater of the Empire like this.”

“Wow. It really is good to have you around, Izzy,” Stede says, infusing the words with warmth. “We’d be lost without you.”

In response, Izzy sneers. “Any real pirate worth their salt knows this shit, Bonnet.”

“All the same.” Stede touches Izzy’s shoulder, imparting what he hopes is reassurance. Izzy stiffens and pulls away.

Stede backs off, then, returning to Ed—who, while equally upset, at least isn’t taking it out on Stede. It’s a coward’s move, but perhaps also a sensible one. After all, Stede has far more experience with Ed’s emotions than he does with Izzy’s.

“So we’ll be impersonating merchants,” he says.

Ed grunts in agreement.

“That should be fun,” Stede perseveres. “We could dress up for the occasion, if you’d like. Use fake names. And backstories! We’ve got a few hours, still, to come up with some excellent backstories.”

“Not really in the mood,” Ed says. His fingers are tight on the ship’s wheel.

“No, I understand,” Stede says. “But it’s hardly going to make things better to stand out here glaring at him, is it?”

“I’m not glaring at him,” Ed says, without removing his eyes from the back of Izzy’s head. “You know how he is. Got to keep watch, else he’ll start biting your guys’ fucking heads off.”

“The only one who’s yelled at the crew tonight is you,” Stede points out. It’s not precisely true—Izzy had not been leading quiet discussions during the flag changeover and associated tasks—but the general spirit of the statement holds up. “Come on. If we go, Izzy might follow. And then you’ll be able to have a chat.”

“Oh yeah?” Ed snorts. “About what?”

Stede can think of a number of pertinent topics, Ed and Izzy’s shared difficulty with expressing their feelings for one another chief among them. And the way they both harden, holding sorrow at bay by lashing out—feeding into one another’s black moods.

“Our plan for tomorrow, of course,” is what he says.

“Oh, that.” Ed waves a hand. “We already have a plan. Or—he does, anyway. Seemed sound when he told me.”

At this, another plan made without consulting him, Stede feels a prickle of annoyance. “You know, Ed, I’m a captain of this ship, too.”

Ed glances at him sidelong. “’Course you are, mate.”

“Do you think you—or your first mate—could do me the courtesy of including me in the planning process every once in a while?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. It’s just—stuff like this, selling and resupplying, it’s boring as shit. Figured you wouldn’t want to get bogged down in all the details. And mostly Iz can do it by himself, but you know he likes to—” Stede watches Ed’s jaw tic. “You know he likes talking it through with me.”

“Yes,” Stede says, because he does. Izzy might be the only person who considers giving a dry report on the running of the ship intimate, but there’s no doubt that he does. “I wouldn’t want to take that away from him. Maybe he could make a report to me separately.”

Ed’s throat works silently for a couple of seconds, and then he says, “Yeah, we should get ready. You wanna do the whole—you’re a merchant captain, I’m your accountant? Wasn’t part of Izzy’s plan, but we should be allowed to have fun with it.” Before Stede has a chance to respond, Ed calls out, “Ivan! Take over the helm, will you?” and starts back towards the captains’ cabin.

 

---

 

Back in their quarters, Stede can’t quite resist the siren song of the bed, even if he does feel wretched sinking into the clean sheets with neither Ed nor Izzy by his side.

“Thought we were picking out disguises,” Ed says, stopping in his tracks.

“Oh yes,” Stede replies, “you go ahead. I’ll just—rest here, a bit. Aren’t you tired?”

“Nah. But I don’t need as much sleep as, you know, your usual bloke. Went without for three days, once, when I was stuck with a guy who I didn’t trust not to stab me the moment I drifted off. This is—”

 

---

 

It’s still dark outside when Stede is jerked from his repose, the hand on his shoulder tight enough that he knows it’s Izzy without opening his eyes.

“You need to get up,” Izzy hisses. “I’ve had water brought up for you. Wash up, put on one of your stupid fucking outfits, and meet us on deck when we can pass you off as a gentleman.”

“Where’s Ed?” Stede asks, blinking into the darkness. He can feel Izzy’s hand curled roughly around his shoulder, but the cabin is so dim that it’s hard to make out his face.

“Fucking around in his new costume,” Izzy says. “Did you tell him to dress like a twat? We’re meant to be drawing less attention to him, not more.”

Between the unexpected awakening and Izzy’s continued bad mood, Stede feels a headache pulsing in his temples. He sits up in bed, rubs his eyes free of grit, and looks at the vague grey smudge of Izzy’s face.

“I’m sure Ed looks lovely,” he says. “And you should feel welcome to help yourself to a disguise of your own. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a merchant ship’s first mate before, but—”

“For fuck’s sake, Stede, we’re not playing dress-up.”

“It seems less dangerous that way,” Stede argues, knowing Izzy won’t be able to argue on the point of safety. “A lot of people know about Blackbeard’s esteemed first mate, after all. And we’ll be less likely to run into trouble if we all look the part.”

There’s a pause as Izzy considers this. “I’ll figure something out. Hurry up.”

Stede does hasten through the process of washing, dressing, and doing his hair—but Izzy still seems dissatisfied when he appears on deck, casting a critical eye over Stede’s attire and saying, “Is that the best you can do?”

“You know full well what happened to the frock coats that fit me, Israel.”

Izzy shrugs. “It’s been ages since then.”

“And good tailors are hard to find!” Harder still when the Revenge tends towards familiar pirate locales, none of which boast a tailor up to the standards of the one Stede had frequented in Barbados. “I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much. We can say that I’ve lost weight on the long journey from England.”

“We’re not saying we came from England.”

“Why not?”

Izzy rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and says, “Because we’ve sailed in from the west, Bonnet. Tell me you know which way England is.”

“Ah. Yes, I see. Can we say we’ve come from the colonies, then?”

“…Fine.”

 

---

 

Just after sunrise, a small boat is spotted coming towards them. Izzy changes into a white shirt and dove-grey silk waistcoat, which Stede elects not to tell him clashes horribly with his trousers and boots. From the waist up, at least, he looks every bit the distinguished gentleman.

Ed, meanwhile, sports a red frockcoat with a ruffled shirt and golden necklace underneath—it is admittedly a striking look, and not the sort of thing that blends into any sort of background.

When he says as much, Ed replies, “If I’m the merchant, and you’re the accountant, I don’t reckon anyone’ll raise any eyebrows.”

“Maybe not,” Stede says, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. “I wish we had any wigs left—that really would complete the ensemble—but we can always blame the lack on the heat.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if people are gonna be stopping us in the street to ask us why we don’t look like proper dickheads,” Ed muses. “Speaking of which, what’s Izzy being?”

Stede looks over at him again, this time appreciating the way the new waistcoat cinches in at the waist, its silken texture rendered yet softer by its contrast with the leather underneath.

To Ed, he says, “Himself, I suspect.”

 

---

 

After all that, the harbourmaster barely spares them a second glance when he boards. He shuffles through Lucius’ forged documents, shakes Izzy’s hand, and takes his leave before Stede can so much as offer him a cup of tea.

“We didn’t even have to bribe him!” he says brightly.

“Of course we did, Bonnet,” Izzy says. “Wouldn’t’ve shook the bastard’s hand if we didn’t.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” Stede claps his hands together, gaining the attention of the crew. “We’re not stopping for long, so listen closely. This morning, we’ll be refilling the water casks. Once that’s done, we can peruse the market: we could do with a nice selection of fruits and veg, and you can ask Roach about anything else that needs adding to the pantry. Now, this is a work outing, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun! Once the work is done, you should feel free to explore the island, as long as you’re all back to the ship by sundown.”

Izzy clears his throat.

“Ah, yes—while we’re shopping, Izzy will be taking whoever he needs to assist with the sale of our ill-begotten gains,” Stede adds. “Is everyone clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” comes the scattered response.

“Fab!” Stede says.

 

---

 

They take three dinghies to the shore, each cramped owing to the large amount of stolen goods they plan to sell, plus the empty water casks. When they disembark, Izzy immediately grabs Frenchie and Ivan, instructing them on how best to transport the cargo on land.

“I’ll get us a horse and wagon,” he says.

“Hold on, there,” Stede says, waving him over. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“Why? You know any buyers in the area?”

“No, but—”

“Just let me do my job, Bonnet,” Izzy sighs. “I’ll report back before sundown. You and Edward can have the day to yourselves.”

That’s not what Stede wants at all—a day of hurt feelings left festering on all sides. But he feels obliged to respect Izzy’s professed wishes, so he proceeds with care.

“Ideally,” he says, “I’d get to spend the day with you both. But I understand that you want to get on with it. Perhaps, if you’re finished earlier than you expect, you might join us for dinner.”

Izzy sighs. “Maybe.”

“That would be lovely,” Stede emphasises. “We’ll wait for you just here at, say, four o’clock.”

“Might not be done by then,” Izzy says. “But if I am—yeah.”

“Alright,” Stede smiles. “We’ll see you then.”

Izzy rolls his eyes. “Try and stay out of trouble. Don’t go ’round calling yourself the Gentleman Pirate. And keep Edward clear of anyone in uniform.”

“You think he’ll be recognised?”

“He’s the most wanted man in this part of the world,” Izzy sighs. “Why you insist on forgetting that—”

Stede lowers his voice. “But he’s not Blackbeard anymore.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says flatly, “I’m sure they’ll forget all about the crimes once they learn he’s changed his name. Are we done here, Bonnet?”

Something tightens in Stede’s gut. He doesn’t want to let Izzy go, but there’s no good reason to make him stay.

“You’ll be careful, too?” he says in the end.

Izzy scoffs. “I’m always fucking careful.”

And then he’s beckoning Frenchie and Ivan over to him, and the three of them disappear down the beach and into the trees.

 

---

 

At four o’clock, Stede drags Ed to the appointed place.

“He’s not coming,” Ed insists. “He was fobbing you off. He needs—”

“Alone time, yes, I understand that perfectly,” Stede says. “But I think there’s a difference between desiring a little peace and quiet and pushing us away. And—” he goes on, “—I think, perhaps, that when he’s pushing us away is when he needs us most.”

In the gold light of the late afternoon, Ed’s expression is unreadable. “Maybe,” he says. “He’s still not here, though, is he?”

“We’ll wait,” Stede says decisively. “Maybe he’s been delayed, or he might not have had a chance to check a clock, or ask someone for the time. There’s no point in assuming the worst.”

“Iz says always to assume the worst,” Ed says. “That way you’re never caught on the back foot.”

“Yes,” Stede responds, “well, that explains rather a lot.”

 

---

 

An hour passes. Ed sits down and starts constructing a sandcastle. Stede’s stomach grumbles.

“When he gets here,” he says, still determined to be optimistic, “we need to sort things out.”

Ed dedicates his attention to the turret he’s building and doesn’t reply.

Stede continues, firmly: “This is nothing more than a bump in the road. We’ve been driving our carriage fast, and so it’s understandable that such a thing would veer us off course—”

“Probably easier to explain without the metaphor, mate.”

“I like the metaphor,” Stede says, grouchily, but he readjusts before going on. “Surely you understand why he was—perturbed, last night?”

“Of course I don’t bloody understand! Do you?”

“Well,” Stede admits, “not completely, but enough. It’s tricky for him, isn’t it, showing emotion? And where a more well-adjusted individual might express that embarrassment, Izzy turns it into anger.”

“That’s only about half of it,” Ed responds. “At most.”

“And what’s the other half?”

“Fuck if I know.” Ed flounces back in the sand, kicking his sandcastle into rubble. “Did I tell you, the first time I fucked him, he didn’t speak to me after for a week?”

“No,” Stede says. “But it doesn’t shock me.”

“Back then, he was all I fucking had. Didn’t have a ship of my own, didn’t have any friends, but I had Izzy. And I thought I’d ruined it for something as stupid as getting my rocks off.”

“That sounds horrible,” Stede says. He can picture it all too clearly: Izzy retreating into himself, Ed’s aching loneliness. “But you gave him the time he needed, and he came back to you.”

Ed grinds his skull back against the shore, shaking his head back and forth. “The whole time we were—together, or whatever you want to call it—it was the same thing. When you got him down, that way he gets, you’d start saying all sorts of shit. How pretty he was, how beautiful. And he loved it, went fucking wild for it, until about three seconds after he’d come. Then the whole thing would start over again—and it was fucking exhausting. Trying to read his moods, trying to figure out how to make it so he didn’t hate himself after. And trying to figure out what it was about—about me, that made him hate himself.”

“Oh, Ed,” Stede says, helplessly.

“Just thought it’d be better this time,” Ed says. His eyes are closed, his mouth trembling with emotion. “Thought maybe I’d do it right.”

Stede lays a hand on his chest, over his heart. “It is better this time. Isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Last time, we weren’t so fucking old.” Ed laughs ruefully. “Didn’t feel like it was my last chance.”

 

---

 

The sun starts to set. Hunger is gnawing at Stede’s belly—but he’s committed to the course of action, now, to sitting here with Ed until Izzy comes back to them. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with waiting to eat until they’re all safely back on the ship, after all.

“He won’t be late for us setting sail,” Stede says, as much to reassure himself as Ed, who’s spent the last few hours flipping between righteous anger and outright despondency. “It was him who didn’t want to stay here any longer than we had to, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’ll have Roach make him some shortbread, and then we’ll sit and have a proper talk. We’ll put all our feelings on the table, so he feels comfortable sharing his, and then—is that Frenchie?”

Ed sits up and twists to look in the direction Stede’s pointing. There, where the beach thickens into palm trees and dirt, a figure is sprinting towards them.

“Think it is, yeah,” Ed says.

“Why’s he in such a hurry?” Stede asks. His voice comes out quiet and uncertain. He half-rises to his feet, calling out, “Frenchie?”

Frenchie yells something, but he’s too far away for Stede to make out anything except Izzy’s name. Ed makes a low, anxious sound.

“It’ll be fine,” Stede says nonsensically, patting him on the shoulder. “Everything is fine.”

But then Ivan appears, too, running towards them with the same urgency, albeit slower. Stede’s heart contracts painfully; he has to clutch onto Ed’s shoulder for support.

“Captains!” Frenchie yells, feet skidding through the sand. “Some arsehole’s taken Izzy!”

Notes:

these guys simply cannot step foot on land without someone getting kidnapped

Chapter 23

Notes:

no chance of getting this finished before season 2 starts airing, but here we are! the penultimate chapter! i'm feeling very emotional and thankful to everyone who's stuck with this fic for over a year now ❤️❤️

and thank you again to HiddenLacuna for beta'ing!!

For a moment, Stede can’t think past the buzzing in his head. His breath stutters in his throat, his legs almost giving out.

“The fuck do you mean, taken?” Ed demands. His head swings from side to side, as though he expects Izzy to come running out from the trees any moment now. “Who the fuck took him? Where is he?”

Frenchie comes to a stop a few feet away from them, folding forward with his hands on his knees and panting. “He—some guy—said he knew—Blackbeard would come—for his lapdog.”

Ed bursts to his feet, so abruptly that Stede, still holding onto his shoulder, stumbles back and nearly falls. “White guy?” he asks. “Looks like a rat?”

“Rich rat,” Frenchie confirms with a wheeze.

“Fuck,” Ed says. “That’d be the governor.”

 

---

 

It takes an excruciating few minutes to get the full story out of Frenchie and Ivan. In their telling, the fencing of goods had gone well enough in the morning—so well that Izzy had permitted them a break for lunch in a nearby public house.

“We were careful,” Ivan insists. “Know better than to go splashing Blackbeard’s name about, or even the boss’.”

“But we noticed we were getting…looks,” Frenchie says. “Thought it might just be because of me and Ivan, y’know, but it wasn’t like that. Felt more like we’d been recognised.”

“He told us,” Ed says, clutching at his hair. “He told us it wasn’t safe to come here, and I said—fuck.” He kicks out, sending a plume of sand flying through the air. “It’s my fault.”

Ivan and Frenchie look uneasily at one another.

“I mean, yeah, when he hustled us out of there he did start going on about roughly the same thing,” Frenchie says. “But I wouldn’t say he seemed mad with you about it? More like he was looking forward to saying I told you so. Obviously, might be different now he’s been, er, kidnapped—”

“What happened next?” Stede interrupts.

“We hadn’t sold all the stuff yet,” Ivan says, “and he seemed to think that was important enough to stick around, so we tried to keep our heads down, but—”

As they describe what happened next, Stede’s lungs tighten. Frenchie describes the three of them, suddenly surrounded by the governor and his men, and Izzy telling them not to draw their weapons.

“The rat guy said that Izzy wasn’t who he wanted, and Izzy said yeah, obviously, so one of the goons, sort of, punched him. Said not to get smart. And then they seemed to remember about me and Ivan, so they said that we should go find our master—” Frenchie wrinkles his nose, “—and tell him to turn himself in. Izzy started laughing, then.”

“Why?” Stede asks.

“Well, firstly, because he’s always been a bit weird like that,” Frenchie says. “And secondly, he said on your head be it.”

Ed stops pacing, a satisfied sort of smile spreading over his face. “That’s my Iz,” he says.

But Stede finds himself unable to take spirit from Izzy’s defiance in the face of his captors. Of course Izzy believes that Ed will save him; Izzy falls just short of believing Ed can move the heavens and the earth.

“Might it be wiser,” Stede says carefully, “in that case, for you to leave Izzy’s rescue to us? There’s no sense walking into a trap.”

“No, see, fuck that,” Ed responds. “Because I’m gonna stab that guy in his fucking face.”

Stede surprises himself with how viciously he agrees with such a gruesome plan of action.

“Right,” Frenchie says. “Okay. There is one other thing.”

“What?” Ed says.

“He did say that Blackbeard should turn himself in by morning,” Frenchie says, “if he wants his first mate to keep his head.”

“Well, then,” Stede says, his heart thundering, “there’s no time to waste.”

 

---

 

The rest of the crew arrive on the beach as the sun disappears behind the horizon, their jovial attitudes dropping one by one as they learn of Izzy’s capture. All of them are fiercely committed to saving him.

“Little bastard’s one of us now,” Wee John says.

“He is,” Lucius agrees. “We’ll do whatever you need us to do.”

There’s little space underneath Stede’s anxiety for his heart to be warmed by the display, but he appreciates it nonetheless. He squeezes Lucius’ shoulder and accepts a one-armed hug from Oluwande.

But then he looks over at Ed, and all else is blotted out by worry. It would be one thing if his only concern was for Izzy—but Izzy isn’t the real target, here. Ed is determined to march headlong into what is, by all accounts, a trap—and Stede can’t even bring himself to stop him. Not when Izzy’s life might be the forfeit for inaction.

They all agree that it’s not worth wasting the time it will take to get back to the ship, so they’ll have to make do with the weapons they have on them. Luckily, most everyone is armed: the only exceptions are the Swede and Lucius. Some of the weapons are a little unorthodox—Fang reveals a set of knuckle spikes, while Buttons puts his ghastly set of teeth in—but most carry swords, knives, or guns. The supplies they gathered during the day are loaded into the dinghies, with Black Pete left to keep watch over them—a job he quickly convinces himself is the most important of all.

Ed’s weapons are well hidden under his coat: a single gun and a long, deadly-looking knife. Stede has a rapier at his hip, though it suddenly feels less substantial than it has done during his swordfighting lessons. It’s so light, so delicate—how can it possibly be enough to save Izzy?

Everyone’s looking to Ed to take the lead—but he’s lost in self-recriminations and justifications. He mutters to himself that it’s been years since he and Izzy were last here, that the fire and the riot weren’t that bad anyway, that only rich bastards like the governor (whose name, he fumes, Izzy would remember) can afford to hold such stupid grudges.

Stede steps forward. He confronts a line of sceptical faces.

“Right,” he says, “we need a plan.”

“That’d be good, yeah,” says Frenchie.

Stede proceeds undeterred. “On this occasion, no amount of violence is too much violence. So—what are we thinking, crew?”

“We can light the guy’s house on fire,” says Roach, just a smidge predictably.

“We should probably avoid burning Izzy to death,” Stede says, “if at all possible. Anybody else?”

Seven hands rise at once. Looking at them—at his family, at the determination on each of their faces—Stede manages to take his first full breath of the evening.

 

---

 

Ed predicts—accurately, as it turns out—that the location of the governor’s mansion won’t have changed, even if its previous iteration was destroyed. What’s harder is dredging up the memory of where it is. At least six times, Ed grouses that Izzy would know, but after a few false starts they manage to get themselves on the right track. Ed remembers that it was at the top of a hill, so when the ground starts to incline they follow Ed’s sure steps upwards, keeping themselves behind the bushes and trees that must have been imported from England, so out of place are they in the Caribbean climate.

“Stay low,” Ed advises. They’re covered by the blanket of night, but Stede still feels uncomfortably exposed as they scuttle up the side of the hill, a clump of unprepared pirates up against the highest authority on the island.

When they reach the top of the hill, they hunker down in the foliage that lies opposite the mansion, pressed low and tight together.  

“Ed,” Stede says softly, “do you think—can we do this?”

Ed reaches out and grips his hand, hard. But he doesn’t say anything.

“At least let the others go first,” Stede begs. “You’re the one they’re really after.”

“They won’t kill me,” Ed murmurs. “Or, should say, they’ll want to save killing me for a public hanging.”

“You’re willing to bet your life on that?” Stede says, horrified.

“For him,” Ed replies, “yeah.”

Stede’s shocked into immobility—which means he isn’t quick enough to catch Ed by the arm when he starts to rise, ready to fling himself headfirst into danger.

Frenchie, thankfully, grabs him by the back of his jacket and pulls him back.

“Sorry, Captain, but that’s stupid,” he says. “You think Izzy’s gonna thank you for it? The guy’s two favourite things are plans and you not being in danger. Prove you love him some other way. Jesus Christ.”

Ed blinks.

“Well said,” Stede says, releasing a sigh of relief.

“I’m not done,” Frenchie says. “We all care about him. We all want him safe. So stop thinking you’re the only one and let us help.”

Ed’s eyes shimmer in the darkness. “Fuck,” he says. “Being a dick again, wasn’t I?”

Frenchie shrugs. “It’s understandable. He’s your—you know—”

“—Izzy,” Stede completes.

“Whatever that means,” Frenchie says. “So d’you think we could have a Blackbeard sort of plan right about now? Because I think that would, probably, increase the survival odds all around.”

Silence falls as Ed reformulates his plan. The tension eats at Stede’s nerves; he’s both trembling and sweating at once. But before long, Ed turns to Jim.

“How are you at climbing? And sneaking?”

“Got you covered on both,” Jim says.

Ed points to the uppermost window on the right, which is half-concealed by a large tree. “You can usually bet if an upper window’s hidden like that, it’s the servants’ quarters. That’s probably the safest point of entry. Think you can get up there?”

“Easy,” Jim responds.

“If there’s anyone in there—” Ed glances at Stede. “—knock ’em out, don’t kill ’em. That, or put the fear of God in them. Don’t trust them to keep quiet. Never can tell how loyal servants are to their households.”

“Got it,” Jim says, while Stede wonders whether his and Mary’s servants would have tried to protect them from intruders into their home. “And then?”

“Find Izzy. Try not to be seen. Find a way out that’s unguarded, and then you can lead us right to him.”

“What if they’re caught?” Oluwande asks.

“I won’t be,” Jim says mulishly.

“If you are,” Ed says, “start stabbing. That sound good?”

Jim smiles. They look up at the imposing height of the mansion, and then slowly rise out of their crouch. “Now?”

“Now,” Ed says.

Jim sprints from their hiding place in the bushes to the base of the tree and then, without pause, starts scrambling up its trunk. Their dark clothing blends into the night, but Stede still feels his heart thudding in his throat as they ascend to the window, peeling back the shutters and disappearing inside. Beside him, Ed starts murmuring to Frenchie—perhaps another apology for his earlier snappishness. Stede can’t bring himself to listen, so focused is he on the house: the shadows of men moving behind the windows, the long barrels of their guns protruding like antennae; the upstairs windows with wavering candlelight peeking through the shutters—perhaps the governor’s wife and children are inside, tucked away from the unsavoury happenings around them.

“When we go in,” Ed murmurs to him, “the main thing is to get Izzy a sword.”

Stede can understand the reasoning behind this, but he says, hesitantly, “What if he’s in no fit state to fight?”

Ed tilts his head, confused.

“What if he’s injured?” Stede insists.

“Then he’ll definitely want a sword,” Ed says.

“Alright,” Stede says. After all, he doesn’t disagree; he just thinks Izzy might not be the best judge of his own limitations. “I’ll give him mine.”

 

---

 

Jim emerges not from the front door, or even from the front of the house, but from the side. They dash towards the crew of the Revenge like a shadow and say, “Come on. They’ve got him in one of the rooms upstairs.”

“How many guards?” Ed asks.

Jim hesitates. “I counted six wandering around, but there’re probably more. Think we can take them?”

“We’re going to have to,” Stede replies. He gulps in a couple of deep breaths, touching the sword at his hip. Then he wipes his hands on the knees of his breeches, leaving dark sweat stains behind. “Alright, Jim. Lead the way.”

 

---

 

The side door Jim leads them to opens into a dark room lined with shelves. The shelves are filled with sacks, boxes, and bottles enough to feed and water a small army, let alone one household.

“Servants told me to try coming in through the pantry,” Jim murmurs.

“And you trust them?” Ed asks.

“Yeah. Apparently the governor’s a shitty boss.” Jim shrugs. “Plus I said I’d stab them if they didn’t help us.”

“It was a bit like that when we burned this place down, actually—” Ed starts to say, but Jim shushes him. They’ve reached a door, and Stede can see light spilling through the edges.

“Ambush?” Jim says.

“Nothing else for it,” Ed responds.

“Cool,” Jim whispers, and kicks open the door.

 

---

 

At first, it seems that luck is on their side. There are three men in the adjoining entrance hall, all appropriately taken aback by the sudden explosion of pirates into the room. Ed leaps into action with his knife; Jim does the same with theirs, and just as Stede raises his sword—

“I’d stop there if I were you.”

The voice comes from above, from the top of the grand staircase. It belongs, Stede is fairly certain, to the governor. There is indeed a certain rodent-esque quality to his small, close-set eyes, to his sallow skin and thin grey hair—but Stede’s gaze doesn’t rest on him for long. Far more important to him is the sight of Izzy, barely conscious, held up by his hair with the governor’s knife to his throat.

Stede goes still. Izzy’s face is swollen and red, blood crusting in the gap between his nose and mouth. He’s been stripped of his shirt and his torso is covered in a patchwork of developing bruises. The sight provokes a rage so intense that Stede feels it as heat, rising in his chest and spreading outwards, into his frozen hands.

The governor smiles down at them. “Would the great Blackbeard be so kind as to step forward?”

His eyes are already trained on Ed. Looking at him in turn, Stede wonders how they ever could have thought that Ed wouldn’t be instantly recognisable for who he is. Not Blackbeard, exactly, but a leader of men. A captain. As Ed brings himself up to his full height, his crimson jacket begins to look like a cloak of blood, a harbinger of violence. His expression puts Stede in mind of avenging angels.

“Let him go,” Ed says.

“Certainly,” the governor says. “Once you’re hanging from the rope.”

Izzy’s eyes open into painful-looking slits. “Edward—” he croaks.

The governor shakes him by the hair. “We’ll have none of that.” He smiles. “You see, he was mouthy at first, but we soon trained that out of him. No bark, no bite. Just a homing signal for his master.”

“Should’ve made sure that fire killed you,” Ed growls.

“Perhaps. Or you should have known better than to show your faces here again. Did you really think we’d forget?”

“Kind of hoped so, yeah,” Ed says.

The governor sneers. “You’ll pay for your arrogance, Blackbeard.”

“Probably,” Ed says, though there’s an odd edge to his tone, an odd sharpness to his gaze, “at some point. Don’t reckon it’ll be today, though.”

“Wh—” begins the governor, but whatever he planned to say is cut off by a blade through the gut.

At first, Stede has the absurd thought that it must have been Izzy—but Izzy only sways, unsteady as the governor’s grip on his hair loosens. Before Izzy can tumble down the stairs, though, someone catches him. That same someone withdraws their sword and kicks the governor down to the floor like a sack of unwanted potatoes.

For a moment, the foyer is silent and still.

And then Ed says, “Good one, Frenchie.”

Frenchie pokes his head out from the shadows, still holding Izzy upright. “Thanks, Cap’n. Nightmare climbing that tree. Think I’ve got a splinter in me nether regions—oh, shit, look out.”

Cursing, Ed spins and drops out of reach before the opportunistic guard can stab him.

“Mate, come on, it’s over,” he says, slashing out at the man’s legs with his knife. Blood sprays onto the carpet.

It’s as though the blood acts as a sort of signal, spurring the rest of the guards into action. Guns come up once more; swords are drawn. By now, there are a dozen of them in the hall, all decked in facsimiles of British Army uniforms. As though they aren’t common mercenaries, as easily bought—or perhaps more so—as pirates.

As they advance, the crew of the Revenge meets them.

Stede yelps as violence explodes into the foyer, as Ivan starts swinging his axe and Roach leaps into the fray with his cleaver; as even Lucius wrestles a gun out of a guard’s hands, assisted as he is by Buttons biting a chunk out of the man’s neck.

From his position against the wall, Stede can see a relatively clear path to the stairway. He raises his sword in front of him and runs, dodging the growing pool of the governor’s blood and the lump of his body at the bottom of the stairs, and rushing up to Frenchie and Izzy.

“Oh, god, Izzy,” Stede says, his hands fluttering as he tries to figure out somewhere to touch him that won’t hurt. He settles on taking his hands.

“Not now, Stede,” Izzy says. In speaking, he opens his split lip; blood seeps into the grey of his goatee. “Edward needs you.”

Stede glances down, through the balusters, just in time to see Ed impale a man on his own bayonet.

“What Ed needs,” Stede says decisively, “is for us to protect you. It would be quite the thing to go to all this trouble rescuing you, and then not even bother keeping you safe.”

“Yeah,” Frenchie agrees. “We’re staying right here, mate.”

Izzy’s brow furrows.

“You can take my sword,” Stede offers. “If that would make you feel better.”

“Are you insane?” Izzy says with a startling laugh. “No. It’s better in your hands than mine.” He pauses. “Just this once.”

“Right you are,” Stede says, unable to suppress an answering smile. He feels a bit bad about the glow of happiness he can feel in his chest, since he can so clearly hear the sounds of murderous carnage from below—but with Izzy’s hands warm and alive in his, he just can’t help it.  

Between himself and Frenchie, they manage to get Izzy propped safely against the wall, where he slumps with an almost bemused smile on his battered face. “Was a fucking stupid plan, by the way,” he mutters.

“It was Edward’s,” says Frenchie, which shuts him up.

“Was it really?” Stede asks in a low tone.

“Yeah,” Frenchie says. “You know how he likes a big, dramatic reveal.”

Stede knows he should be annoyed—another plan made without him, really?—but instead, he looks down at Ed and feels a desperate affection for the whole ridiculous, breathtaking sum of him. Then he glances behind him, at Izzy’s closed eyes—the trust he has, that Stede and Frenchie will keep him from harm—and his heart swells with the love he has, not only for the two of them, but for their entire crew.

His reverie doesn’t last. When a guard manages to slip past Fang and Ivan, lunging up the stairs, Stede runs forward to meet him. He doesn’t think, consciously at least, about anything Izzy’s taught him over the past week. All he thinks is that he can’t allow anyone to get to Izzy.

Fighting on a staircase proves considerably harder than fighting on the deck of a ship. Stede senses an advantage in the higher position, but his feet feel clumsy and unbalanced as his sword clashes with his opponent’s.

“Should I help?” Frenchie asks.

“I’d appreciate it!” Stede says, struggling to keep his footing.

When Frenchie jumps in, his sword immediately clangs against Stede’s, sending the both of them reeling. Frenchie manages to stay upright, but Stede falls backwards onto the steps, winding himself.

From above, he hears Izzy mutter, “Fucking hell.”

Stede, however, sees an opening. With the guard’s concentration fixed on Frenchie’s flurry of attempted blows, Stede swings his arm up and drives his sword through the meat of his thigh. Izzy was right; it is difficult. Particularly when the man groans in pain, toppling forward and landing face-first on top of Stede.

“Eurgh,” Stede says, kicking out until the man’s body slides back down the steps and onto the floor. Based on his continued whimpering, he’s alive. But Stede doubts he’ll be getting up anytime soon.

He smiles to himself. It’s probably not how Izzy would’ve done it, but it worked.

 

---

 

When it’s over, and the only sounds left are heavy breathing and the pained gasps of their enemies, Ed drops his blade and thunders up the stairs so fast Stede’s surprised they don’t crack under the force. He launches himself at Izzy, rather more heedless of his injuries than Stede would like, and curls around him.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying, right into Izzy’s ear. “I’m sorry, Iz, I’m so—”

“Give it a rest,” Izzy says, gruffly, but he wraps his arms around Ed’s waist and holds onto him, both of them gently rocking back and forth. Stede hears it when Ed starts to cry. Izzy pats his back, awkwardly, stiffly, and says, “Edward, it’s—I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

“Could’ve lost you,” Ed says into Izzy’s neck. “You can’t do that to me, Iz. I love you so fucking much, I was gonna burn this island off the fucking map to bring you home.”

Stede’s heart stutters. Frenchie starts whistling a tune and flees down the stairs, out of earshot.

“Edward,” Izzy says, sounding more wrecked by Ed’s words than he was by any of his physical injuries, “don’t.”

He’s still clutching Ed tightly to him, their limbs twining around each other like a sailor’s hitch. Stede can’t see much of their faces, but there’s something in Izzy’s posture that makes Stede suspect he’s holding back tears of his own.

“I love you,” Ed says again. It seems suddenly clear to Stede that the best way to get Ed to say it was for Izzy to argue against it, as contrary as they tend to be with one another.

“No, you don’t,” Izzy says, stroking Ed’s hair.

“Fuck off,” Ed sniffles, “yes I do.”

Stede sits down on the top step, sensing that this may take some time to reach a resolution. As Ed and Izzy continue to argue, the crewmembers below are already—bless them—collecting up everything worth stealing, from the candlesticks on the mantle to the paintings on the walls.

After the crying’s stopped, and Ed’s lifted his face from Izzy’s neck, he says, “I love you. And I’m carrying you back to the ship.”

“Like fuck you are,” Izzy says.

 

---

 

Ed carries Izzy back to the ship. Along the way, he tells him he loves him no less than fifty times, which even Stede considers a tad excessive. The rest of the crew gives them a wide berth.

“Bonnet,” Izzy gripes, “talk some fucking sense into him, will you?”

He looks, frankly, adorable, cradled in Ed’s arms and wrapped in the red jacket, which is far too big for him. Even the bruises on his face make him appear vulnerable, rather than tough. Stede knows better than to say so out loud.

“About what?” he asks guilelessly.

“All of it,” Izzy says. “Make him put me down. Make him—stop talking nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Ed says. “Realised you could’ve died today thinking I’m just putting up with you, or whatever you’ve got in that head of yours. So now I’ve got to make you believe I love you before we die of old age, which I reckon gives me twenty years to get it through your thick skull.”

“Pirates don’t live that long,” Izzy says.

“Better start believing me quick, then.”

Izzy scowls—or Stede thinks he does. It might be a wince. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t think you’re just putting up with me,” he says. “I think you’ve grown accustomed to me.”

“So much better, thanks for the clarification,” Ed says, shifting Izzy in his arms. “You know, this’d be easier if you put an arm around my neck or something, love. Yeah—just like that. That hurt?”

“No,” Izzy says.

“Liar,” Ed responds.

“It doesn’t hurt any worse than before.”

They fall silent, then, navigating a tricky bit of the steep decline towards the beach. Stede walks a little ahead, pointing out obstacles and chopping tree branches out of the way with his sword.  

“What exactly did they do to you, Israel?” he asks when they reach a relatively easy stretch of flat sand, unable to stifle his morbid curiosity any longer.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Izzy says. “Just a typical beating, they weren’t being creative with it. Never had me spitting up blood.”

Ed takes this—literally—in his stride. “Good, good.”

“But—” Stede frowns. “It still must hurt.”

“I’ve had worse,” Izzy says defensively, as though that were ever in question.

“You’ll let Roach look at you, though?” Stede persists.

Izzy sighs. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

Ed turns his head, kissing Izzy’s knuckles. Stede darts in to do the same, then kisses Ed’s cheek for good measure.

“I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Izzy warns them. “You see if I won’t.”

“Nah,” Ed says. “You like us too much.”

Izzy’s mouth twitches. He lets his head relax, resting it against Ed’s shoulder.

“God fucking help me,” he says.

Notes:

they're in loooove :')

Chapter 24

Notes:

merry christmas everyone

there’s an Actual Storm in this chapter but really it’s just cover for my favourite thing: people having long conversations about their feelings

After his wounds have been tended to and the ship is underway, Izzy sinks into the middle of the bed in their cabin and sleeps for ten hours. Ed starts fretting after four.

“This isn’t like him,” he says.

“How so?” Stede asks. He’s changed out of his soiled clothes and is sitting by the fire with a glass of brandy; Ed, meanwhile, is looming near the bed in his bloodstained shirt, staring down at Izzy with a complicated expression.

“He’s never this peaceful,” Ed answers.

“Oh.” Stede smooths down his nightgown and cranes his head, trying to make sense of Ed’s intense expression. “But isn’t that a good thing? He’s been through quite the ordeal, after all.”

Ed shakes his head. “What if something’s wrong? What if he doesn’t wake up?”

At this—the tremor in Ed’s voice, the way his hands are flexing by his sides—Stede stands up and goes to him, taking Ed’s tense fingers in his own. Here, he’s close enough to see the rise and fall of Izzy’s chest, to hear the soft whistle of his breathing.

Still, Stede can understand how Ed’s feeling. They’d come so close to losing him; one sunrise away from the worst. Having brushed up against the possibility, everything now feels fragile. Izzy seems fragile, lying there unarmed, his lips parted and lax. There are indigo splotches of bruises all over his face and chest, so many that their edges have become indistinct, one bleeding into another.

During Roach’s examination, Izzy had insisted that he was fine—that it was only a few punches, that the governor’s men were a bunch of weak-wristed fops anyway. But the sight of so much hurt is startling all the same.

“Why don’t you lie down with him?” Stede suggests.

Ed shakes his head. “Not tired.”

“No, of course not. You’ve only been up for going on two days.”

But there’s no reasoning with him: Ed keeps up his vigil beside Izzy’s bed for five more silent hours, until there comes a knock on the door and the news that a storm has been spotted in their path. For a brief, uneasy moment, Stede thinks Ed might choose watching Izzy over steering them to safety: there’s a worrying blankness to his expression as Oluwande lays out the situation. But then Oluwande says, “Could do with your help, Captain.”

“Right, yeah,” Ed says. “Probably won’t be a big one, this time of year, but we’ll have to batten down the hatches just in case.”

“Already on it,” Oluwande says.

Ed looks pleasantly surprised.

“Izzy’s been going through storm drills with us for months,” Oluwande says. “Bit of it’s sunk in.”

Ed nods, smiling. He strokes his hand through Izzy’s hair in a way Izzy would surely object to during his waking hours (without a few glasses of wine in him, at least) and then turns to Stede. “Stay with him?”

Stede glances at the window, where rain is just beginning to spatter the glass. In the distance, the sky is an inky expanse streaked with black clouds. From here, safe and warm in his cabin, it’s beautiful.

“Of course,” Stede says. “I’ll make sure everything in here stays secure.”

“Good man,” Ed says. He gives Stede a brief kiss before he makes his way out of the door. The rain isn’t coming down heavily, yet, and so Stede extinguishes the candles and tucks away the cabin’s fragile items at a leisurely pace. 

Ed pops back in a few times over the next hour, updating Stede on how well the crew’s doing, on the size and ferocity of the storm, and—at length—on his own skilful manoeuvring out of its direct path. It helps; Ed’s confidence has a way of emanating from him and consuming all in its path. Stede’s delighted to get swept up in it.

By the fourth time Ed returns, the storm is clearly upon them: he’s dripping rainwater all over the floor, hair plastered to his face and a sparkle in his eye like lightning.

“Missed this,” he says.

Stede, in the middle of securing the bookshelves, looks over his shoulder and smiles.

“And when Izzy wakes up,” he says, and promptly trails off. Whenever the Revenge has run into storms in the past, Ed and Izzy have worked like a fulcrum and lever, one facilitating the other. Though Stede’s preference would be to observe all storms from the relative safety of his room, Ed and Izzy seem to thrive in them.

So it surprises him when Ed says—

“Keep him here. Tie him to the bed if you have to.”

“Oh?”

Ed’s mouth quirks into a rueful smile. “He fucking hates storms, love. Couldn’t let him sit them out when the crew was, uh, less prepared. But now? Let the poor bastard rest.”

“He hates them? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Ed says. “Given the way he’s told me—oh—every fucking time we’ve sailed through a storm in the last twenty-odd years. Way he goes on, you’d think I control the bloody weather.”

Stede wonders if Ed is aware of quite how fond he sounds.

“Wow,” he says. “I always thought—well, you two were so attuned to one another.”

“Yeah, we always are when it counts,” Ed says. “Life or death stuff, ’s like he can read my mind. Like I can read his.” He tilts his head, gaze fixed on Izzy’s slumbering form. “Then the danger passes and we’re right back to usual. No idea what’s going on in that head of his.”

“Keeps things interesting,” Stede comments.

“One word for it.” Ed grins. “Right, enough lollygagging. Work to be done. You’re all set down here, yeah?”

“Yes,” Stede says. “Everything shut away and tied down, and I’ve got a spot of tea and biscuits for when he wakes up.”

Ed affects a serious expression. “Can’t have him going without tea and biscuits, right on.”

“Oh, hush.” Stede abandons the books to their fate and crosses the floor, kissing the rainwater from Ed’s mouth. “There’ll be some left for you, too, once you’ve steered us to safety.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” Ed salutes, then bows, then skips lightly from the room. Stede’s never known anyone’s spirits to be so raised by imminent peril. He doesn’t think it would be half so charming a trait on anybody else.

Once Ed’s gone, and all that’s left is the soft hammering of the rain on the window and the sound of Izzy’s breathing, Stede sits down on the edge of the bed. Knowing it’s the sort of thing Izzy would detest if he were awake, Stede smooths his hair back from his battered face. He traces the bruises with the pad of his thumb, gently so as not to cause pain, and then ghosts his fingers over Izzy’s split lower lip. Finally, he lays the palm of his hand over Izzy’s bare chest, feeling the reassuring thump of his heart.

 

---

 

There’s a crash of thunder, and Izzy wakes.

“Stede?”

“I’m fine!” Stede tacks on to the tail end of a startled yelp. “And you’re fine! We’re just going through a rough patch—bit of stormy weather, nothing to worry about.”

Izzy props himself up on his elbows with a groan. “Stop panicking.”

“I’m not,” Stede retorts.

“Edward’s on deck?”

“Yes.”

“And he left you here?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll be fine. He knows storms like the back of his hand.”

And then Izzy lies back down.

Stede waits, sure that, any moment now, Izzy is going to leap up and start demanding to know the status of every last granule of gunpowder, every rope and sail. But there’s only silence. After a minute, Stede crosses the cabin and sits down on the edge of the bed. He takes Izzy’s temperature with the back of his hand, at a loss.

“And you’re…happy staying here?”

“Crew’s well prepared,” Izzy says. “Or as well prepared as I could make them, at least. And Edward’s got us.”

Roach hadn’t said that he’d given Izzy any laudanum, but Stede can’t think of another way to make sense of the utter serenity in Izzy’s tone.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks.

“No,” Izzy replies. He pauses. “I might vomit.”

“Oh.” Stede looks around for a bucket, alarmed. “Right now?”

“Nah. Maybe later.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Stede says. “I’m sure I’ve got some kind of tea that suits an upset stomach, somewhere around here—”

“Won’t help,” Izzy says. He turns onto his side and fixes Stede with a half-smile. “Relax, Bonnet. This is the first time I’ve had an excuse to stay on my arse during a storm in fucking decades. It’s as good as it gets.”

Stede tries not to gape too openly. “Alright,” he says. “I’m making you some tea, though. It’ll do you good.”

Izzy snorts. “Do you good. Fussing.”

“It’ll do us both good, then,” Stede says, rising to his feet and navigating the pitching floor with bent knees and outstretched arms. “No, don’t get up. You’ve been through an ordeal.”

“Have I, now?” Izzy says, amusement laced through his tone.

“And you deserve nice things,” Stede persists, checking the temperature of the teapot with the back of his hand and judging it sufficient. “I’m going to make you as comfortable as I can.” He sloshes a bit of the tea onto the saucer as the ship hits a rough wave. “Given the circumstances.”

“Not arguing,” Izzy points out.

With remarkably steady hands, Stede carries the cup of tea over to the bed and sits down beside Izzy again. He peers down at his perfect patient, frowning. This wasn’t at all how he’d expected this to go. With all the lights in the cabin doused, he can’t make out Izzy’s precise expression. He feels off-balance, and not only because the floor is literally tilting beneath them.

“No,” he says, slowly, “you’re not arguing. It’s actually rather worrying.”

Izzy sighs, heaving himself up and, miracle of miracles, leaning some of his weight on Stede for support. Then he takes the teacup and sips at it. He makes a face at the taste—because he’s still Izzy, thank the heavens. Stede puts an arm around him.

“Yeah, it’s just. Look. When that fucker had me,” Izzy says, “he was saying all kinds of shit. Cunts like that always have a lot to say. And he was wrong about most of it, just running his mouth.” Izzy takes a deep breath, then another sip of his tea. “But one thing he kept saying was that he knew—that everyone in the fucking Caribbean knew—Blackbeard would always come for me.” He smiles ruefully. “That I was his weakness.”

“That’s not—”

Izzy butts his head into Stede’s chin, silencing him. “Blackbeard was never supposed to have a weakness,” he says, a faraway sort of tone to his voice. “That was why—when you came along, and you started bringing out all his soft bits, making him vulnerable…couldn’t imagine anything worse.” There’s a hitch in Izzy’s breathing. “But I was wrong. That’s who Edward’s always been. He’s always cared too much.” He pulls back just enough to look Stede in the eye. “About the wrong people.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stede says, as though he hasn’t had precisely the same thought.

“You’re one of the better ones,” Izzy says. Then his voice drops, turning almost shy. “Maybe even the best one.”

“Oh,” Stede says, “Izzy.”

“Shut up. I can take it back,” Izzy says, draining the last of his tea. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to fight it anymore. If the two of you care about me, so be it. If you want to—to fuss over me, and make me tea, and whatever-the-fuck— it’s fine. It’s not going to be anyone’s downfall.”

“No,” Stede says. “Of course not. It’s just tea.”

He says it like that, even though he knows—and Izzy knows he knows—that they’re talking about something a lot bigger than tea. Nonetheless, Stede takes the empty cup out of Izzy’s cold hands and places it in his lap, where it settles safe from the motion of the storm.

When it becomes clear that Izzy has reached the end of his ruminations for the time being, Stede interlinks their fingers and asks the question that’s been playing on his mind ever since the walk back to the ship.

“What did you mean,” he says, “when you said he’d grown accustomed to you?”

Izzy sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Should’ve known you wouldn’t let that lie,” he says.

“It’s only—you knew he’d come for you,” Stede says. “And you know he wants to be with you. Is it so hard, then, to—”

“I know he cares for me,” Izzy interrupts. “I’m not stupid. There’s a thousand times he could’ve cut me loose, over the years, and he never did. Even when it might’ve done both of us some good.” He laughs, quietly, teeth flashing in the low light. “But I also know that if we were to meet today, he and I—it wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t pick me.” Izzy’s eyes are averted, but certainty rings through every word; it’s clear that he considers this the gospel truth. “It’s only that I’ve become familiar to him. It’s difficult to give up on the familiar.”

“But—”

“He thinks he loves me. That’s enough.” Izzy shuts his eyes. “More than I ever thought I’d get.”

“And I think I love you,” Stede says. Izzy’s eyes flash open again, locking on his. “But you don’t believe me, either.”

Lightning illuminates the cabin, and in its aftermath Stede can see that Izzy’s counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder, judging the storm’s proximity for himself. Stede lets him, and waits.

When the thunder comes, Izzy nods to himself with seeming satisfaction. Then he says, “You—both of you—get these notions. Can’t talk you out of them. Doesn’t mean I have to believe you.”

“Hm,” Stede says, aware that they’re neck deep in the list of things Izzy prefers not to talk about. “And how would you feel, I wonder, if Edward told you that you didn’t love him? If he said that it was only a notion.”

Izzy splutters for a second, then manages, “That’s different.”

“Really? How so?”

“Because—” Izzy’s eyes rove restlessly over Stede’s face, as though he’ll find the answer there if he only looks hard enough. “He knows.”

“Does he, now?”

When Izzy replies, his voice is like a shipwreck.

“I’ve given him everything I know how to give.”

“You have.” Stede takes Izzy’s hand, wishing ardently that the depth of his love could be conveyed through so simple a touch. “So—I have to ask—what’s three little words compared to all that?”

Izzy tips his head back against the headboard. Stede watches his throat work.

“Because it’s not good,” he says, at last, in a tortured whisper. “You think it is, but you’re naïve. You don’t realise, the way I love him—it’s not like you and him. It’s not even like—” Izzy swallows, “—like you and me. There’s something rotten at the core of it. Something bloody.”

Stede wonders if it’s appropriate—or kind—to share how similar Ed’s own thoughts had been on the matter.

“Something bloody,” he echoes instead. “Like a heart?”

Izzy hisses out a splinter of a laugh. “Don’t get clever.”

“I’m not,” Stede says. “But I should have known you wouldn’t appreciate metaphor.”

“That’s your problem,” Izzy ripostes. “It’s not a metaphor. I’ve killed for him. Bled for him. Might still die for him, odds being what they are. And all of that pain, all that suffering—for me, for him—it’s love. But it’s not the sort of love he wants, is it?”

“He wants your love,” Stede argues. “He knows what it is.”

Dark, obsessive, devout. But also: passionate, devoted, protective.

The ship keeps rocking, but gentler now. The storm outside is less vicious. Stede dares to kiss Izzy’s bruised cheek, to wrap an arm around his waist. “I want it, too,” he murmurs. “However much you’re ready to give.”

Izzy inhales, sharply. He twists and kisses Stede full on the mouth.

Stede fancies he can feel the love behind it.

 

---

 

The rain stops. In its absence, the sky outside is a pale, watery blue, clouds scattered like loose threads. Stede relates all of this to Izzy, who isn’t ideally positioned to see out of the window, and earns an approving snort in response.

“Didn’t ask for poetry, Bonnet.”

“If you think that’s poetry, you’re even less cultured than I feared,” Stede says.

Izzy laughs. “I’m cultured. Had one of those poncey Greek plays read to me and all.”

“That was only the start. It’s Milton, next,” Stede warns. Izzy mimes being shot in the heart. Stede’s heart thuds, as though in answer, and he adds, “Then the sonnets.”

From the doorway, Ed speaks. “What do you think, Iz? Want us to read you love poetry?”

Stede whirls around. Ed is drenched, as though he’s just emerged from a bath. But he’s smiling, ear to ear, eyes crinkled with affection.

“Not now,” Izzy says. He starts hoisting himself up, ignoring Stede’s best efforts to keep him in bed. “What’s it looking like on deck? Everyone safe? Did we take damage? What’ll be the cost of the repairs? If we need to head back to port, we’ll be—”

Ed strides over and gathers Izzy up in a bridal carry before unceremoniously dumping him in the middle of the bed. Then he follows him down, straddling Izzy’s legs to keep him still. He places a sodden hand over Izzy’s mouth and says, “One at a time, love. Everyone’s fine. Rigging’s an absolute state, we had a bit of unsecured loot overboard—”

Muffled, Izzy says something doubtless acerbic.

“Nothing major, don’t start,” Ed says. “Our crew did great. You couldn’t have asked for better, Iz, not even you.”

Izzy emits a begrudging sort of sound.

“Repairs can be done at sea,” Ed continues. “Everyone pulled their weight. You would’ve been proud.”

Izzy hums, seemingly mollified.

“Right.” Ed blinks, seeming to realise where he is, what he’s doing. “I’ll—uh—let you go, now. Sorry.”

He removes his hand. Izzy licks his lips.

In a confusingly small voice, Ed says, “Want me off?”

Izzy rolls his eyes. “Only because you’re fucking dripping everywhere, Edward.”

“Oh,” Ed says. “But it’s—”

“If I was going to lose my marbles every time you got on top of me, we’d not have gotten very far, would we?”

At that, Ed breaks into a grin. “You sort of do lose your marbles, actually—”

Izzy shoves him off the bed.

 

---

 

Later, when Ed’s dried himself off and Izzy’s insisted on making the arduous journey from the bed to the settee, Stede goes off in search of a bite to eat.

He returns laden with a makeshift charcuterie board. Izzy’s leaning against Ed’s side, legs slung over the arm of the settee. Ed’s eyes are closed, a half-smile teasing his lips. It doesn’t appear that they’ve had any important discussions in his absence. It’s a disappointment—but Stede, by now, knows better than to force it.  

“Roach said we shouldn’t risk heating anything, yet, so we’ll just have to make do,” he announces. “The grapes are a bit squished, but I checked, and they taste about the same. And—wine!”

Ed nudges Izzy. “Hear that? Squished grapes and wine.”

“You spoil me,” Izzy says.

Stede exchanges a pleased glance with Ed. “We do try,” he responds.

 

---

 

Admittedly, Stede had procured the wine with the intention of loosening Izzy’s lips. But he needn’t have: after a single sip, Izzy sets his cup down on the floor, twists his fingers together, and stares down at his feet.

“It—occurred to me,” he says. “That you might like to hear it back.”

Ed perks up. “That I might like to? Yeah, guess I might.”

“Right.” Izzy nods, sharply.

About ten seconds pass in absolute, excruciating silence.

“And when should I be expecting your impassioned declaration of love, Iz?” Ed asks, squeezing Izzy’s knee. “Next week?”

“Shut up. It’s not easy for me like it is for you two.”

Ed’s eyes widen. “You think it’s easy for me? Come on, mate. How long’ve we known each other?”

Izzy glances sidelong at Stede. “Going on twenty-seven years,” he says.

“Fuck.” Ed whistles. “That long, hey?”

Izzy’s mouth goes very straight, like he’s suppressing a smile. “You know how long it’s been, you twat.”

“Then you know,” Ed persists, “that it’s not easy. Nothing with us is ever easy, is it?”

“Fuck no,” Izzy mutters. He sounds, oddly, pleased about it.

Thus encouraged, Ed moves his hand from Izzy’s knee to his hands, untangling the knot of Izzy’s fingers so his own hand can sit between them.

“I love you,” Ed says, simply. “And you’re right, hearing it back would be nice. But—I don’t need to, Iz. I know how you feel about me. Haven’t always, but I do now.”

Stede delicately brushes a tear from his eye, which causes Izzy to frown at him.

“I can give the two of you some privacy,” Stede says.

“No,” Izzy says. “It’s—you can stay. I want you to.”

“Oh.”

“Shut up,” Izzy says. He’s not holding Ed’s hand—more inspecting it, toying with the fingers, tracing the lines on the palm like he’s about to start telling Ed’s fortune. “I love you,” he tells Ed’s hand. “It’s not pretty, mind. Not like it is with him.”

“I know, Iz.” Ed slides their fingers together and squeezes. “I know it’s not pretty. But it’s ours.” He raises their interlocked fingers, kissing the back of Izzy’s hand. “And it’s not as bad as it used to be. Right?”

Izzy finally manages to wrench his eyes away from his lap, looking up into Ed’s open face.

“No,” he says. “Not as bad as it was.”

“We’ve given it a fresh coat of paint,” Stede suggests.

Ed breaks into a grin. “Moved the furniture round.”

Izzy rolls his eyes, but indulges them. “Patched up the holes.”

“Fixed some stuff that was broken,” Ed says. “Can’t help that the original decorator was into—skulls, and blood, and shit.”

“I think the skulls and blood make a nice accent to the room,” Stede says. “Now we’ve scaled them back a tad.”

“That’s enough, you fucking nutters,” Izzy says around a smile. “Spare me your thoughts on the carpeting of our relationship.”

“Plush,” Ed responds immediately.

“Burgundy,” Stede adds.

“Jesus Christ,” Izzy says.

 

---

 

Later, in bed with Ed sleeping on his other side, Izzy twists to face Stede and says, “You, too.”

“What?” Stede whispers.

Even in the dark, he can tell that Izzy’s scowling when he says, “I love you, too.”

Stede gives it a moment, ample time for Izzy to take it back.

“You don’t have to say it,” he says. “You’re under no obligation to love me just because you love him.”

“It’s like you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying,” Izzy says grouchily. “The two of us wouldn’t work without him. Same as me and him weren’t working before you. And without me, you and him would get too caught up in each other’s nonsense to function.”

Stede isn’t sure he agrees, but he makes an interrogative noise, wanting Izzy to continue.

“It feels—right,” Izzy says. “All three of us. Feels like balance.”

“Oh,” Stede says. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. It’s very romantic.”

“Shut up, no it’s not.”

“Balance,” Stede repeats, testing the word out for himself. Trust Izzy to find a much sweeter way of conceptualising their relationship than Stede would ever have given him credit for. When he tells Ed about it, he half-wonders if he’ll be believed. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

 

---

 

The next morning, Izzy insists on inspecting the storm’s damage for himself. He limps around griping about the state of the deck (wet) and the sails (also wet) and the rigging (windswept). He doesn’t spare so much as a single compliment for the way the crew conducted themselves during the storm. Stede sighs to himself, but doesn’t otherwise intervene. Rome wasn’t built in a day—or even in a month and a bit—after all.

And anyway, the crew don’t seem at all put out by Izzy’s grievances. Maybe it’s just because he’s still so visibly injured, but most of them acquiesce to his demands with a minimum of complaint. Frenchie improvises a song about untangling ropes that Stede finds inexplicably touching. Izzy likes it, too, if the way he taps his foot is any indication.

Then, once he’s finished his inspection, Izzy turns to Stede and says, “I’d like a night off.”

Stede blinks at him. “A night off from what?”

“Everything,” Izzy says. “Work, swordfighting lessons, all of it.”

Stede had honestly assumed Izzy wouldn’t be leading any lessons, given that he can barely walk, but he’s still astonished to hear Izzy come out and say it.

“That sounds nice,” he says, managing to keep his voice neutral. “Any reason?”

Izzy folds his arms across his chest. Like it’s being dragged out of him, he says, “Yeah. I want to listen to your stupid bedtime story, and eat cake and drink tea, and then I want to laze around doing fuck all with you and Edward.”

Stede kisses him right on his downturned mouth. “I think all of that can be arranged,” he says. “If all goes well, you could even do it more often. Say, a couple of nights a week, set aside for you to get some proper rest and relaxation.”

“Don’t push it,” Izzy says.

“I think you’ll find that me pushing it is what got us here,” Stede informs him, sniffing in a way he knows Izzy will find insufferable.

Sure enough, Izzy makes a face of utter disgust. “We got here in spite of—”

They’re still arguing fifteen minutes later, when Ed emerges from a good long rest and joins them. He slips into the disagreement perfectly, switching between Stede’s side and Izzy’s as the mood takes him.

The three of them bicker all the way back to their cabin, and then for a little bit longer—just because they can.

Notes:

not me doing a callback to the first chapter as though any of you can be expected to remember the fictional events of 20 months ago

but on a serious note! i'm very emotional about this fic being finished!! it's the longest thing i've ever written and i've treasured every comment and every tweet and just--everything about the reaction has been incredible. thank you to everyone who opened their heart to steddyhands in general and this fic in particular. there may be more to come in the series, but for now i bid you adieu 💖

you can find me on twitter here and tumblr here

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of love like a powder keg