Work Text:
"Are you going to stab me?"
"What? Nup, no," Brown eyes meet his own. Shhk . "Why would I stab you?"
Stede shuffles and the hot sand squeaks uncomfortably in a way that makes his skin feel tighter. He fucking hates sand. "Well," he says, and it stutters out just as uncomfortably. He clears his throat, "I certainly won't hold it against you. I think I probably… deserve it."
Shhk , chk , shhhhhk . "Mm, maybe. Maybe not," comes out with a shrug. "Don't really care about that type've shit."
"Well… what's that mean?" Stede asks. He feels like he's been really holding it together pretty well so far. While ignoring the steadily growing pile of wood shavings that sits between them, like some sort of mock campfire. Not that Stede has ever set fire to anything. Let alone something outdoors, let alone with another person, let alone on a beach . With all the, like, sand. And Blackbeard.
"I'm not, like," Blackbeard's face scrunches, nose all twitchy. The hand holding the stick he was gradually sharpening to a point gestures in wishy-washy circles. "Look, first of all, fucknut–" Stede blinks a bit, "If I was going to stab you, I would just use the fucking knife." He holds it up and wiggles it condescendingly, like, see .
"Yes, well," Stede concedes, "As I was saying, that would be… regrettable, but quite understandable, given–" his voice cuts out, and his eyes stop-start track slowly to the body, and then back. Yes, the other thing about all the sand on beaches, he's found, is that it soaks up blood unexpectedly well.
" Second of all," Blackbeard says, louder and a bit more pointedly now, and Stede's jam preserves of a heart squishes nervously about it. "I said I don't fuckin' care, and I meant that. Dickhead." Rude. "Look, I don't even know that guy."
Oh. Well, that's good then. Wait– "What!?" Stede yelps, choking on his pulse, "But you're holding me! For… for my crimes!" His skin feels itchy.
Blackbeard's nose scrunches again, and he makes a face like, jeez , this guy . "No I'm not," he says. "I'm just sitting here. You're not even tied up or anything." He starts stabbing the sticks he was sharpening into the ground. Closer to the water, the sand is wetter where he sits and the gritty squelch of it is loud.
Stede kind of feels sick. He stares at whatever weird thing he's doing, then at Blackbeard, and then the sand. And the body out of the corner of his eye. Then that makes him feel even more sick, so he looks at the sand again, which reminds him of the blood, so he looks at his hands. They're dirty. His nails look gross. "Right," he says, with no breath behind it. "Sorry. I suppose that's true. And you're just some… guy. Shit."
The man who is probably not Blackbeard, actually, looks strangely thoughtful for a second. He shrugs. "S'pose, yeah. Shit."
Stede was not having a great day.
Well, okay. His life had kind of been a long line of what he would consider very bad days with the occasional only sort of bad day and he had figured that's just what most people felt. Like, everyone else was pretending to be having a great time all the time naturally, and he was just incapable of doing that because something was wrong with him deep down buried in his guts, and he really needed to suck it up.
And then he runs away from home and ends up stabbing someone in the head the second he nearly gets mugged, and in the moment all he can think is, Oh, maybe those were good days.
"Fucking hell, mate," someone says, and the sudden proximity of it has Stede feeling like his blood is curdling like cow's milk does. He startles, and his ankle twists uncomfortably in the substrate and sends him half stumbling, half falling. He can feel in his neck the way he's whipping his head around a little manically but isn't really registering what's going on until the man holds his hands up carefully and Stede finally freezes, panting.
He's tall, and has a great big beard. Stede didn't even hear him approach, but he'll forgive himself just this time.
The man whistles sharply, and says, " Oi ," like Stede is a misbehaving horse. "Settle, petal," he tells him, in the least calming voice ever. "Go– sit down over there. Come on. Sit– Sit down ."
Stede sits. It makes him feel a little bit better. He thinks he might be in shock, or something, probably. And then the man with the great big beard pulls a knife off his hip, and Stede realises shock is the least of his problems and he might be in some kind of actual situation here.
"I'm sorry," Stede whimpers. His eyes feel hot, so he squeezes them shut. God, crying in front of a stranger somehow feels worse than brutally murdering one. "I don't– I didn't mean to, to…"
Whump . A jacket gets thrown on the ground in front of him, and he's left blinking stupidly at it until its owner joins it. Stede sniffles kind of pathetically, and wonders how long it'll take him to die in prison. Maybe he can go on the run, or something? No, you can't go on the run from being on the run. That's just, like, continuing the run.
"I don't care," the guy tells him. "Really, the bloke did it to himself."
They're sitting underneath some sort of coniferous tree. Stede didn't really know these kinds of trees grew so close to the water. If it weren't for the… unpleasantness, it would be a beautiful little pocket of a beach. Unfortunately, he was in Hell, like from the Bible, and couldn't admire the water or the seagulls or the sunlight. Or the new company.
The man starts methodically collecting stray pieces of wood about as far as he can without actually putting any effort into it. Stede could absolutely not fight him. Even if he did manage to run, and not trip immediately and somehow fall on a rock the wrong way and crack his head open coconut-style and die, this guy looks… strong. Like, capable. He's got nice arms, and they've got tattoos all over them. Which is honestly really cool.
He looks cool. And suave. Stede thinks he looks like a weird overgrown teenager that was left outside too long and got all fucked up in the sun. He stole the clothes he's wearing from someone's laundry hanging to dry because he is a no-good ruffian, and he knows the dye job doesn't suit his complexion.
"Are you in the Navy?" Stede asks because he doesn't know what else to say. He thinks he might still be crying a little. His hands are still dirty.
The man pauses plucking leaves and twigs from his branches to pull a face at him and giggle like how a little kid laughs at a rude joke. " Eurgh . You serious, man?"
Stede's eyebrows come down, and he sniffles again. He doesn't want to wipe his face. "Sorry, I…" he trails off, confused and still a bit scared, and stares at the snake tattoo winding up the man's arm like it'll speak to him instead. And the mermaid. And the nautical star. Oh.
"Oh," Stede says, and his mouth makes the shape of it. His head sort of cocks to the side in time with the phantom sensation of the entire beach shifting on its side for the second time that day. For some reason, this is the most nervous he's felt so far. "You're a pirate?" he asks, but it doesn't really sound like a question.
The man shrugs. "Yep, s'pose," he says, all no big deal . Stede wants to say That's so cool or Wow! or maybe even Golly gosh! or I've always wanted to be a pirate, actually or Do you want to make out? but all that actually comes to mind is this incessant rattling, tapping thing like his mind is a loose window pane in a storm: Huh . His beard is quite black.
"So, what's… this?"
Blackbeard smiles, eyes going crinkly. Despite this, "Sandcastle, duh," comes out mumbly and too quickly, and suddenly it's obvious. Stede nods, and blinks, and looks down at the square-ish lump of crumbling, damp sand with its custom stick fortress arranged in a sort of blockade, and a little leaf flag sticking out the top.
"Are they at… war?" he asks, carefully. Blackbeard shakes his head a little, using his finger to carve out faux little windows in the castle. He's kind of hunched over at this point now, supporting his weight with one arm. His dark hair falls to one side and over his shoulder, all curly like a princess.
"Nah. Well, sort of. Maybe just looks cool."
"Maybe they're protecting something important," Stede suggests, "Like…" Blackbeard's eyes shift over to him, kind of guarded, reminding Stede of the groundskeeper's cat, and Stede makes himself smile and says, "A dragon?"
"A dragon," Blackbeard repeats, slowly, nodding. "Right. 'Cause, all these knights'll come to this swanky place they heard all about," he says, carving out a rough sort of path with the side of his hand. "And go, ah , where's the beautiful maiden and riches and gold I was promised, this place sucks ," he puts on a silly sort of low, mocking voice as he speaks. "And then they'll get eaten by the dragon for being dicks. But, why would the dragon live there?"
Stede starts twisting a pine needle 'round and 'round between his fingers and says with a little grin, like, aha , "The dragon is the princess. She's just protecting her home, obviously." He shrugs a little. "People will always just see monsters. Even if they aren't there."
When he says this, Blackbeard stares at him, lips parted, for long enough that Stede starts to feel itchy again, like he said the wrong thing. The sun is pressing against the back of his neck. Stede opens his mouth to say something else like, that's stupid, I know, sorry , but it singes to smoke when a damp, sand-covered hand is held out to him.
"My name's Ed," he says. When he smiles, something glitters in his eyes, kind of like a painting. Does he know can do that?
Stede wipes his hands on his knees and takes the one Ed holds out. "Stede," he tells him, hoping his hand isn't sweaty, for some reason. "I think I'm in a bit of a situation here, Ed."
Ed snorts. "Nah, mate," he says and stands with the kind of grunt an old man would make. His knife slides back into his belt with a soft click-slide of metal. "C'mon, I've got a boat. We'll be outta here by sunset."