Chapter Text
“…and that twat needs to go, Blackbeard - don’t you think it’s been long enough?”,
The last words of Izzy’s tirade filter into Ed’s consciousness as he realises he zoned out a good five minutes ago.
“Mmhmm”, Ed hums as he gives Izzy a vague nod, “Yep, whatever you say Iz”.
Turning towards the captain's cabin, Ed heaves himself off the railing and wanders off ignoring Izzy’s discontented grumbling. He can’t decide if he wants Stede to be in his rooms or not. On the one hand he’s running out of time to talk Stede out of this insane fuckery the crew is planning - though he gets the distinct feeling the gentleman pirate might be the only person on the ship more stubborn than Izzy and any attempts to dissuade him will be futile - but on the other hand, the buzzing in the back of his head is getting harder and harder to ignore as the days pass by. In the past the buzzing could be drowned in alcohol or a good maim, maybe a near death experience as a treat, but being here on this floating mad house everything’s so…quiet. Which of course makes everything in his head seem so much louder.
Stede helps sometimes though.
His particular brand of genial lunacy seems to distract the part of Ed’s brain that just won’t shut the fuck up, leaving his head feeling less like an overstuffed cushion and more like a human person. And the lack of the annoying buzzing noise gives him enough wiggle room to feel less like he's one decision away from the pressure on his brain splattering it all over the deck. Less like his skull is shrinking as his brain swells, and it’s all about to come out his nose and ears if someone asks him a question. A voice that sounds depressingly like Izzy scoffs ‘you’re fucking Blackbeard, fucking grow a pair’.
Ed steps into the darkness of the lower deck, grateful for the reprieve from the afternoon sun. The leather and beard look cool as fuck, but certainly don’t feel it.
He’d said to Stede that everything lately had been so fucking boring, and he wasn’t bloody wrong. Turn up, let people see the beard, make them sit in a pool of their own piss, steal their shit, leave, repeat and repeat and repeat.
Ed scratches at the line where his beard meets his cheek. There’s been summer nights where the rum hasn’t blunted his senses quite enough and he’s wanted to rip it off his face. But then what? All the treasure and ships in the sea and a wall of facial hair is all he really has to his name. Not like Stede. He has everything a man could want to his name. A grand house, gardens, clothes, hell - he probably has stables with a horse for everyday of the week.
That’s why he’s the perfect choice of retirement plan. Izzy is testing him, Ed knows, by asking him to be the one to finish Stede off. Needs to know if Ed is still committed. Still Blackbeard. Maybe Ed needs to know that too. He’s put it off so long already, the excuse of posh knob lessons wearing out pretty early on in the piece. Ed’s pretty sure he could have worked his way around high society - you don’t become as successful as Blackbeard without a certain natural talent. Although after those nasty fuckers on that party ship, with their paint and powder and piss-taking, maybe he never stood a chance.
The problem really is that Ed likes Stede. Likes that they can have a laugh without someone getting stabbed for looking at the other guy funny. Everything is new and just so fun with Stede. Ed didn't expect that when he sent Izzy after him. Hoped for something interesting to pass a few days when they eventually met, but figured it was just some poncy wannabe who didn't know how good he had it at home. And, ok, Stede can be pretty poncy, and he’s no bloodthirsty scoundrel - though Ed doesn’t doubt for a moment that with enough provocation that Stede will go absolutely batshit one day. The thing is he’s also generous with his time, his money, his friendship, all of it. But paired with his generosity is naivety. If Ed’s not the one to finish him someone else will come along. At least he can make it quick, painless. And Stede will never have to be disappointed by Ed, never have the realisation that Ed really is just smoke and mirrors covering up a soft hearted boy who couldn’t save his mother. And then Ed can get away, leave the fleet to Izzy and just start new. Right?
The lit sconces in the corridor reveal the approach of crew members before Ed notices their voices. The bald one, Pete maybe, or the cook, Ed isn’t sure but he knows he can’t take any hero worship right now. His head is too loud, he feels like he’s breathing too shallowly, the distorted shadows on the wall looming ominously and getting bigger - he hurries towards a door at random and bursts through, closing the door behind him.
***
“Oop.”
He's not alone. Frenchie sits hunched over a large pile of black material. Ed’s skin feels ready to split at the seams and while Jim’s silence would probably be more soothing, Ed can’t deny after the party ship he’s got what a softer man would call a fondness for Frenchie. Even if he's apparently taken to smothering his face in green...paint?
“Uh hey Frenchie?”, Ed edges inside the jam room, looking more like a naughty schoolboy than a living legend.
“Aye mister Blackbeard captain, sir?” Frenchie’s head snaps up from his sewing at Ed’s greeting. To his own surprise Ed finds himself saying,
“Ed’ll do, mate”
“Uh yeah, right, ok…Ed. Eddie. Eddie baby”
“Just Ed”
“Yep! Sorry. Um, didn’t see you there. Did you…uh need somethin’? Only I have strict instructions not to tell you anything that will in anyway spoil the surprise of this evening's entertainment” Given the accent Frenchie attempts for the last half of the sentence Ed gathers that Stede has said that particular line to the crew a fair bit through the day. The thought makes him chuckle. It’s nice to laugh. Blackbeard doesn’t laugh unless he’s ripping a guy's lungs out or whatever.
“Nah, nothing about that. I just…you seem like a guy who knows what he’s doing, where he’s going, what he’s about…”
Frenchie nods and goes back threading his needle, tongue sat between his lips, relaxing now he knows he’s not in trouble. He’s got one ear on the conversation - wouldn’t do to ignore Blackbeard - but most of his thoughts turn to the cat outfit he’s finishing for Wee John. Not long until the fuckery starts and they still need to to get into position.
'Well', thinks Ed, 'in for a reale, in for a dubloon', “So I know a guy, a mate I guess you’d call him, and well he’s, he’s done pretty well for himself, got a reputation, a decent amount of money saved, nice ship - the works”, Ed haltingly gets out. Frenchie makes a sound of acknowledgement. “But lately he’s been feeling a bit like everything he’s done has been leading him nowhere, you know? And, like, the thing that made him…successful has become an anchor weighing him down. And this anchor, well, what can you do? It is what it is. Can’t teach a sea dog new tricks and all that”. Ed stares out the porthole at the waves, even after all these years at sea there’s still something soothing about the motion of the ocean, quieting his head.
“Hm,” Frenchie pauses to run his thread through his lips again before casually saying, “So he needs to cut it off?”
“Cut it - cut it off?” Ed goes very still indeed. Eyes wide, eyebrows raised, he stares incredulously at Frenchie. If he was any less preoccupied, the lack of inflection in Blackbeard's voice may well have sent him running. As it is, Frenchie continues, oblivious to the buzzing chaos he’s restarted in Ed’s head.
“This anchor - isn’t that what you do? Like if you’re stuck on rocks, you cut the anchor off the ship. Or put salt under your tongue and whistle until it comes loos - a-ha!” Frenchie grins as he catches the thread, and looks up at the empty space where Ed had been and shivers. “Blackbeard really is a ghost,” he whispers, horrified.
***
‘Cut it off, cut it off, cut it off’ the thought whirls around Ed’s head as he stalks out of the jam room heading anywhere but here.
“Ed!”
Stede’s voice cuts through the storm, “We’re just about ready - Buttons reckons it’s almost time! I’ve saved you a spot to make sure you can really take it all in”
Ed allows himself to be corralled, the buzzing momentarily quieted by Stede’s presence. He also allows himself the indulgence of looking over Stede’s latest outfit - the jumper is clinging in all the right places but the hair seems an odd choice. Still, not a bad look to die wearing.
***