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adhduck · 1 year

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Didn’t I, My Dear

What if Stede didn't tell Ed about Chauncey, even when his trauma keeps trying to catch up with him?

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“Why weren’t you there?”

It’s the question Stede’s been dreading for weeks. He had written and scrapped so many different speeches of how to answer it, finally deciding he would simply have to speak from the heart when the moment came. Well, now the moment’s here, and Ed is looking at him with stained kohl across wounded eyes, and every single useless word Stede's ever thought of is caught in his throat.

It was Chauncey, he thinks. He led me out to the woods and said all these things about how I was a plague to my family, to you, and I shouldn’t have believed him, but I did, and then he shot himself and I was just running, I was halfway to my old estate before I realized and then I didn’t stop, I’m so sorry, Ed, I’m so sorry....

It’s the truth, and suddenly Stede would rather have Ed run him through than have to say it aloud. The idea of seeing Ed’s reaction to how weak he was, how frightened and helpless and wrong, is unbearable. Anyway, it’s Stede’s fault for running off, not Chauncey’s, so he can just...not mention him. He won’t lie, because he doesn’t want to do that to Ed ever again, but he’ll just say the important bits. Not how heavy the air was as Chauncey led him into the woods, or how twigs cut at his soft, tender feet, or the moment after the gunshot where he thought he was dead, and the breathless heartbeat after where he almost wished he was —

No, Ed doesn’t need to know any of that, Stede decides. He’s been through enough.

It’s the fourth time Stede has asked if he can stay in the captain’s quarters – just on the settee, just to get some better sleep than he can manage amongst the crew – and the first time Ed has said yes. They’ve come far enough that they can talk, sometimes, and Ed looks at Stede with something closer to resignation than the heartbreak and anger of that first day, but they still don’t spend much time together. The longest they’ve been alone was when Stede apologized, and after that it’s only been brief moments, accidents and transitions.

So, understandably, Stede is feeling a little nervous.

He frets for ages about what to wear to bed in lieu of a proper nightgown before giving up and deciding not to change at all. The linen shirt and pants are soft enough, though the pants are a tad tight for sleeping, and Ed looked at him for a few long seconds when he first emerged above deck this morning, so it can’t be too bad.

Ed is already in bed when Stede slips inside, curtains open but body turned away. Uncertain, Stede knocks on the doorframe and says, “It’s me.”

The only response is a vague huff, which Stede optimistically interprets as “come in.” He closes the door behind him and makes his way to the settee, snuffing out the last few candles as he goes. A blanket is thrown over the back of it, one Stede hasn’t seen since returning to the ship; soft and yellow with white flowers embroidered throughout. He takes it in his hands, imagining he’s touching coarse fingers instead of cotton, and says, without really meaning to, “Have you ever had a sleepover?”

There’s a pause, long enough Stede assumes he’s going to be ignored, before Ed mumbles, “Course I have. Wasn’t always a captain, mate.”

“No, I mean like—" He was going to say like this , but he’s not sure what this is, or if it would end the moment he gave it a name, so he says, “Not with your crewmates, I mean. Or, ah, partners. Just sleeping in the same room with someone else, for fun.”

Stede can just make out Ed's form in the dark as he shifts to face him. “Don’t think so. Haven’t exactly lived in a lot of rooms.”

“Oh,” Stede says, feeling suddenly foolish. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought this up.

“And you?” Ed asks.

“Oh!” Stede repeats, brightening a little too much before he forces himself to be more casual. “Um, once. Another family was visiting our estate, and their son wouldn’t sleep in the room my father tried to put him in; said it was dirty and the trees outside made awful noises like a demon. So they put him with me.” He huffs, remembering the long, awkward night, how he was alight with excitement and nerves in equal measure. “I was so shy around him, wanted him to like me so badly, even though he hardly paid me any mind at all—which, to be fair, was better than any other young boy had treated me, so perhaps I was projecting.”

Ed makes a noise Stede doesn’t quite understand, a sort of growly huff, and Stede continues on, hesitant, “He slept at the very edge of the bed, and I on the very other, but I remember feeling like we were inches apart. I hardly slept a wink, imagining what would happen if our feet brushed on accident, or our arms.” He pauses, wondering if this is too far, but forges on. “I suppose I’ve always been oblivious, when it comes to what I want.”

There’s one beat, then two, and a sound like Ed is about to speak, and then Ed rolls onto his other side and says nothing at all.

Stede sighs. The rejection isn’t new, at least, and he’s glad he said it. Ed deserves to know he’s wanted.

He adjusts the pillows on the settee and stretches across it as comfortably as he can, pulling the blanket up to his neck. The seams of his clothes shift uncomfortably against him, none of them in place, but the settee is too creaky to try and fix them. Every breath he takes seems so loud and intrusive, and oh god, what if he snores? Mary never told him he snored, but he doubts she would’ve brought it up, and Ed sleeps so deeply he would never have noticed before, but Stede can hear him shifting around so much he might actually stay awake longer than Stede, and then he’ll kick Stede out for being obnoxious, and—

“Were they really all dicks to you?”

Stede is so startled to hear Ed’s voice it takes him an extra few moments to process what he said. “Um. The children, you mean?”

“Yeah, the kids.”

“I mean, some ignored me, like the one at the sleepover. And a couple were nice sometimes. But yes. Largely they were, as you say, dicks.”

Ed huffs. “Guess I’m not surprised, since you apparently grew up with the fucking Badmintons.”

A warning bell starts ringing in the back of Stede’s head. “Yes, they were usually the initiators of my, ah, childhood tortures.”

“Fucking dicks,” Ed says with feeling. “I hope they’re all dead.”

“Well, some of them are,” Stede says, aware he’s toeing a dangerous line. ”Nigel is, at least.”

“Good.” There’s a bit of silence, but Stede senses Ed’s not done, so he continues to listen dutifully until Ed continues, “I used to worry, before you came back, that something had happened to you that night at the dock.”

Stede stops breathing. “Oh?”

“I worried some other dick from your childhood was at the academy and grabbed you, or that the British had been planning to kill us after all but they could only find you, or—lots of things.”

It takes physical effort not to look over the settee at what Ed’s face looks like right now, but Stede knows being seen will scare Ed away, so he stays very, very still when he says, “Would that have been—comforting? To know I didn’t come because I couldn’t?”

“Nah,” Ed says, an undercurrent of something a little fragile in his voice. “That would mean I had been the dick who left you to get beat up or something, and it was easier to be mad at you than myself. And when I actually tried to imagine what happened to you, I—" He clears his throat. “It wasn’t satisfying. Just ended up pissed they laid their hands on you.”

“Oh,” Stede says, intelligibly.

Ed huffs, and there’s some more shifting, and then he says with a soft sort of finality, “Good night, Stede.”

“Nighty night, Ed,” Stede murmurs, curling his fingers tighter into his blanket. There's a heavy weight settling more comfortably on his shoulders, something like relief, and he allows it to drag him down into sleep.

It’s not even a gun that does it.

Stede is beside Ed at the helm, looking over the dark waves and trying to pinpoint where ocean becomes sky. Clouds have obscured most of the stars, warning of a storm to come, and everyone is busy tying things down to prepare. Except Stede, who can’t help but cling to Ed’s side as he describes the shape of the clouds and the helpful tilt of the wind, because he’s allowed. Can let their shoulders brush, even, and Ed leans into the touch rather than stiffening or pulling away.

“Will you be steering us?” Stede asks.

Ed grunts. “Probably. Could ask Izzy, but he gets pretty fuckin' nauseous during storms.”

“Buttons is a fairly dab hand at the wheel, I think.”

“Yeah, before he fuckin’ freezes to death,” Ed snorts. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t already, not wearing—”

BANG.

The scream is so visceral it takes a moment for Stede to realize he’s the one who did it. He gasps a shaking breath, reaching instinctively for his eye, even though he knows it’s not him who’s been shot; he can see the victim right in front of him, spotlighted in the sudden haze of his vision.

Chauncey Badminton. Face down, unmoving. The last of his rum mixing with blood and gore, blooming around his head like Mary’s spilled paints. His hand sprawled out in front of him, the gun that should’ve been Stede’s final reckoning still clutched loosely in his pale fingers. Dead.

Humid air and panic press down together on Stede’s throat, trapping his next cry in the back of his throat. His legs won’t move, his mind in shambles, but he knows with a visceral certainty that he can’t stay here, he has to go. He tries to take a step back, but trips on something – a root, maybe, same as Chauncey – and lands hard on his arse; instinctively, like an animal, he scrambles backwards on his elbows instead, unable to stop crying, fuck, vision blurred and painful, the whole world seeming to tilt beneath him—

Something grabs his arm.

A wild cry of panic tears through Stede’s chest as he twists away from the touch, squeezing his eyes shut against what he knows will be Chauncey’s decimated, disapproving face. I need to get away, he thinks again, helplessly, but the world won't stop swaying and his legs are trembling and weak.

“Stede,” a voice says. It’s not Chauncey. It’s low and familiar, panicked. “Stede, can you hear me?”

Ed. It’s Ed. Oh god, did he hear the gunshot? Does he know what Stede has done?

“Ed,” he whimpers. “Ed, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Ed breathes; then, “I need you to breathe, man, all right? Can I touch you?”

Some deep, twisting thing in Stede says he shouldn’t let Ed near him, he has to get away , but the rest of him is already crumbling with relief. “ Please.”

Arms envelop Stede, then, pressing him to a warm, broad chest. There’s the smooth slide of leathers against Stede’s cheek, which doesn’t quite make sense, and he can feel Ed’s quickening heartbeat, mixing with Stede’s own as it thuds painfully in his ears. “I’m here, Stede,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. It was just a cannon, someone fucked up while trying to tie shit down. That’s all it was. You’re safe.”

His words are close, pressed against Stede’s hair as Ed starts to rock them gently, but they could be coming from the bottom of the ocean for all Stede understands them. “But- but Chauncey....”

Ed hums against his ear. “That British fuck? He’s not here. Promise, it’s just us and the crew. We were just getting ready for the storm, yeah? Remember that?”

No, I don’t, Stede wants to say, but some part of his brain hooks onto it, and awareness starts trickling in, aided by his eyes shut tight and Ed’s arms holding him tighter. “I’m not...we’re just...we’re not with the British?”

“No,” Ed says decisively. “Fuckers are long gone. You’re safe.” He says the last part a little fiercely, curling a hand around the nape of Stede’s neck like his touch alone can protect Stede from everything. Stede’s not sure he’s wrong.

There’s a distant roll of thunder, a great crash of waves, and the world still tilting beneath them, none of which should be true if he’s at the academy. Warily, Stede pulls away enough to open his eyes and—yes, that’s right. They’re by the helm, on the ship. Weeks and weeks away from that awful moment in the woods. He’s with Ed.

Ed, who’s now stroking Stede’s cheek with love and worry in his eyes. “You okay?”

Stede forces himself to breathe deeply, though it’s hard; his body still believes it’s in danger, still wants him to run. But it’s easier, looking at Ed. Always has been.

“Yeah,” he says, shakily. “Sorry.”

“Nah, no sorry’s,” Ed says, pulling Stede back in for a more proper hug. Stede clings to the back of his jacket, presses his palm to the strength of Ed’s shoulder blade. “It’s okay, man. It’s all okay.”

You’re a plague, Chauncey had said, moments before dying from the sheer unluckiness of existing near Stede. You defile beautiful things.

He had been talking about Nigel, about Blackbeard, and he was wrong about those things, but—

“No, it’s not.”

But Stede remembers the way Ed looked, when Stede agreed to go to China. How he had given Stede his pillow so he could get some rest before they went, as if Ed wasn’t likely to do most of the rowing anyway. How he kissed Stede with nothing but softness and hope and gratitude and love .

Chauncey had been right, Stede realizes with a horrible certainty, about defiling beautiful things. He had just been early.

“It’s not okay,” Stede repeats, gasping—and, to his utter surprise, Ed sighs heavily and replies:

“No, yeah, course. Course it’s not okay.”

“What?” Stede had thought, selfishly, that Ed would reassure him. Does he know what Stede’s really thinking? Does he agree?

“I’ve gotten used to it,” Ed says, running a hand up and down Stede’s back, “all the...the danger and that shit. Forgot how scary it is, the first time you’re up against a firing squad.”

Oh.

“My first time, I was scared shitless of every loud noise for...god, maybe until the next firing squad, honestly. Kept thinking I was back in front of the rifles; even saw them, sometimes.”

The reminder of that other trauma, and the realization that Ed is comforting Stede for the wrong thing, because Stede lied to him, washes over Stede like nausea. He clutches Ed’s arm, making a weak moan of discomfort against his shoulder.

“Shit,” Ed says immediately, “sorry. Shouldn’t go into details. Do you...could we get you below decks, maybe? Get you into something warm. Don’t want you up here when the rain starts, anyway.”

Stede nods, wanting more than anything to be away from the heavy, humid air, but as Ed’s pulling him to his feet, the comment about the rain sparks his memory. “But the helm.”

“Buttons has it,” Ed replies dismissively. “And he’s even got clothes on. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay....” Stede says slowly, feeling somehow that he’s failed something. “You’re sure?”

“Course, mate,” Ed says. “I’d rather be with you, anyway. Especially if you’re not feeling good.”

He says it with a little smile, and Stede closes his eyes against an onslaught of thoughts that tell him, in so many words, that this is wrong. But he‘s still a coward, and so very tired, and anyway, he knows Ed would worry if he couldn’t make sure Stede was all right.

Fuck, Stede loves him so much , it feels like it’ll burst through his chest like some sort of lovesick parasite. He wants to love him well. He wants to do right by him. He never wants to hurt him again.

“All right,” he says, curling an arm around Ed’s waist for support. “Lead the way.”

It’s been nearly two months, and no one on the crew has let Stede’s secret slip.

Granted, most of them got a rather patchwork version of the story, anyway, blurred by overloaded trips in the dinghy and Stede’s voice catching in his throat when he tried to voice exactly what horrible things he had done. They know he left, and that Chauncey was there, but only Oluwande and Lucius know any of the things he said.

But still. He had asked them not to talk to Ed about it, and they’d all honored that, which is wonderful—except that it makes Stede careless.

Well. It’s probably a tad unfair to place all the blame on his crew when it’s Stede who can’t keep his mouth shut. Things have just been going so well —Ed lays with him in the bed at night now, smiling even when he’s practically falling out of the bed or when Stede (unintentionally!) steals all the blankets, and they haven’t caught sight of the English for weeks, and Stede even managed to tell Ed he loves him without choking up about it, which was rewarded with quite a lot of kissing and some other activities that got them a minor intervention from the crew.

In short, Stede has been feeling safe, which is unfortunately a slippery slope into not being careful.

They’re lounging on the sofa when it happens, Ed’s back pressed against Stede’s chest, brandies already finished and hands wandering with more curiosity than intent. There’s a little divot in Ed’s left forearm that Stede’s deeply fascinated with; he brings it up to his mouth, tastes the warm skin under his tongue, and smiles against Ed’s skin when he shivers.

“I’m too old for you to try to make me horny like this,” Ed complains, giggling when Stede rubs his stubble lightly over the spot.

“Just making up for lost time,” Stede replies. He continues kissing up Ed’s arm until the angle is too difficult to reach and he switches to Ed’s shoulder, nosing aside his dressing gown for better access.

“ Stede,” Ed sighs, somehow managing to sound whiny and content at the same time.

Stede opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a BOOM strong enough to shake the cabin. He flinches, hard, knocking his nose against Ed’s head. The pain makes him dizzy for a moment, but it also has the fortunate side effect of grounding him against the sudden onslaught of memories before they can overwhelm him. There are still a few moments of panic where he wants to search for Chauncey’s body, but Ed’s weight is too warm and close and present for the thread to properly take hold, and in the end he just has to breathe through the useless adrenaline for a minute or two until his mind and body settle.

“Better?” Ed asks, when Stede lifts his head from the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” Stede replies. “Not quite as bad, that time. I think I’m getting better at telling the sounds apart in the moment, knowing the difference between his gun and a cannon, or just plain old lightning.”

Ed freezes; just barely, but enough to be noticeable with how close they are. “His gun?”

Fuck. “Um—the rifles, I mean.”

“Don’t think that’s how words word, mate,” Ed says slowly. Stede can hear the gears turning in his mind and immediately feels the panic start to rise again. “And those rifles never actually went off, anyway, so why would your brain know exactly what they sounded like?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I guess I’m just, ah, stumbling over my words a bit?”

“Stede.”

Ed says it a little like encouragement and a little like warning. Stede feels suddenly, intimately aware of the fact he can’t just jump up and run, pressed down by Ed’s weight like this. “Must’ve had more brandy than I thought, maybe, or—”

“ Stede,” Ed repeats, sharper, pushing away from Stede’s embrace, and even though Stede was just feeling trapped, he feels the absence like a missing limb. It takes everything in him not to reach for Ed with desperate, pleading hands, to beg him to lie back down and forget all of it, to not leave him.

But Ed doesn’t go; not entirely. He goes just far enough to twist and face Stede, which is instantly more devastating, because now Stede can see the mix of worry and frustration and, god , anger painted across his face.

“Who the fuck,” Ed asks, slow and deadly, “is he?”

For a moment, Stede casts about desperately for some excuse, but when he meets Ed’s gaze, he knows he cannot lie to this man. Not again. “Chauncey.”

Ed blinks, visibly thrown. “The crazy bald one? I thought he was just ordering everyone around. Besides that whole bit where he was swinging his sword around like a drunk.”

Stede winces at the mention of Chauncey drunk . “He was.”

“Did he do something during the interrogation, then?” Ed asks, murderous, but immediately finds the holes in that theory. “No, we would’ve heard if he did that. Not to mention there’d be a fuckin’ hole in the captain’s quarters. I never would’ve heard the end of it if he’d done that.”

Stede huffs weakly at the attempt at levity, but his chest is too heavy to put his heart into it, choked by muck and seaweed like the bottom of the lake by his childhood estate. He used to swim there when he could get away for long enough, enjoying how the water buoyed him, but one of his classmates claimed there were creatures in the water that grabbed weak little boys by their ankles and dragged them into the mud. He flinched every time his foot brushed against something for weeks after that, and eventually gave up on swimming entirely.

Now, under the piercing gaze of the man he loves, Stede wonders if there are any similar monsters that could drag him through the floor into the yawning ocean below.

“So when....” Ed asks, sounding genuinely confused. “When would he have had a fucking gun near you?”

It’s the question Stede’s been avoiding for weeks. He hasn’t prepared at all, so focused on never getting to this point he never prepared a word, and now he has no idea how to say this in a way that doesn’t end in Ed storming out. Fuck, why did he lie in the first place? Why did he get careless? Why didn’t he just go to Ed that night, rather than running off to a family that didn’t even fucking want him?

“Stede,” Ed says, hand warm on Stede’s elbow, pulling him back above water, and Stede just—says it.

“He kidnapped me. The night we were going to leave.”

The reaction on Ed’s face is immediate, but Stede is worried if he stops talking now he will never have the courage again, so he barrels on. “He came and got me, instead of whoever the guard you chose was, and led me into the woods. He was drunk, and angry about his brother and the act of grace, and he wanted to kill me.” He remembers the wild look in Chauncey’s eyes that night, so real it’s an ache, and has to shut his eyes against the intrusion. “He tripped, though. Shot himself instead.”

Ed knows the rest, or the important bits anyway, so Stede allows himself to stop, taking in a shaky breath. What follows is a long moment of silence, long enough Stede has to open his eyes just to get any input from Ed at all, and what he sees knocks the breath right back out of his lungs.

Stede has seen Ed break a man’s arm with his boot, threaten to feed another his own tongue if he spoke a word. He has seen him at the height of the Kraken, dark-eyed and merciless, a true herald of death. But he has never, ever seen Ed this angry before. His body nearly shakes with it, eyes dark and burning a hole through the wall above Stede’s shoulder, hand fisted by the nonexistent gun at his hip. It makes Stede realize how someone could believe this man was made of fire and smoke and destruction.

“Ed,” he says, timidly, because while he’s mostly sure the anger isn’t directed at him, being this close to it makes his hands shake a little. “Ed?”

There’s another moment or two without response before Ed blinks – Stede realizes belatedly he hadn’t actually been blinking before this moment – and looks at Stede. His gaze softens, just a little. “Why the fuck did you never tell me this?”

Because I didn’t want to see you like this. “I—I don’t know,” Stede murmurs. “I was going to, and then when the moment came I just...panicked. Didn’t know if it would just make you angrier, or if you would—would think I was making excuses.”

“Excuses? ” Ed hisses. “Stede, you nearly fucking died! He nearly killed you while I was fuckin’– fuckin’ waiting on the dock without even checking —"

Something in Stede unfurls at those words; something that wants Ed to fuss, to say he would’ve found Stede if he knew, he would’ve protected him and held him in his arms and made everything okay again. Then guilt floods through him for his selfishness, cold and bitter, and he reaches for Ed’s hands. “Ed, no, that’s not—this isn’t your fault or something! And besides, it- I'm fine, right? Nothing happened.” Ed makes an angry huff at that, half a growl, and Stede amends, “I didn’t die.”

“But you could’ve,” Ed points out, clutching at Stede’s hands just this side of pain. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t,” Stede agrees. “And I- I am sorry, for that. I told myself it wasn’t a lie to just not mention it, but I was just fooling myself, as usual. Of course you would want to know.”

Ed nods, examining their hands like what he wants to say is hidden between their fingers. “So is that...is that why you didn’t come? Not what you told me?”

Stede’s heart had started to settle again, but at that it drops into his stomach with startling speed. “It...it gives some—context, I suppose. But no, it—I didn’t come to the dock because of me. Not because Chauncey held me for too long, or something.”

The confession makes him feel nearly more raw than the first time, watching a new sliver of hope die by his tongue. But Ed doesn’t look surprised, or even much more upset than he was before. “Okay,” he says, like it can be that easy. “Can I hug you?”

Stede blinks. “Um- yes? I mean—of course.”

Ed pulls him in immediately, hands firm across Stede’s lower back and head tucked against Stede’s neck. Stede loops his arms around Ed’s shoulders and settles into the tender warmth of him, trying not to cling too hard, trying not to cry. (He’s not doing great on either account, but it’s something, at least.)

“It wasn’t true,” Ed says after a few moments. “Whatever shit he said to you.”

Stede stiffens, but tries to play it off by shifting to lean his cheek against Ed’s head. “Why do you think he said anything to me?”

“Well, because he was an ugly little ballsack who liked fucking with you, for one,” Ed says, dry. “And because I know you. I know when someone’s gotten in your head.”

Once again, Stede curses his inability to hide any feeling he’s ever had, especially from Ed. Though he can’t deny there’s some deep tension unspooling in him from being held like this. Being known. “It was nothing about you,” he assures. “Or, nothing bad, I mean. It wasn’t like he convinced me you were a bad person or something.”

A heavy pause. “And you?”

“I—well. Like I said, he was drunk and angry. He was just going for whatever weak points he could find.”

“Wish I could’ve killed him myself,” Ed growls, burrowing closer. “Would’ve put my knife through his other eye for good measure.”

“Thank you,” Stede says, “though you never need to do anything like that on my account. And besides—”

He pulls the rest of that sentence back into his mouth as soon as he realizes his mistake, but Ed notices anyway. “Besides, what?”

Stede sighs, knowing Ed won’t let him wriggle out of this one. “Well, it’s just—obviously he was an awful man. And he was wrong about what he thought the act of grace meant, what I had done to you. But it’s not like...I mean, I—I hurt you. He wasn’t wrong about that.”

Ed’s arms tighten like a reflex, and then he pulls away, holding Stede’s shoulders and looking at him very, very seriously. “Stede. What the fuck.”

Stede averts his eyes, trying not to squirm. “I know we’re in a better place now, but you don’t have to pretend I didn’t ruin everything when I ran. You were so....” The image of Ed on the beach, by his cot, swells in Stede’s mind, and his eyes sting with tears. “Fuck, Ed, you were so happy , and I ruined that. I ruined you, because I believed some—some awful man’s words about how I was some plague, because I didn’t realize how happy you were, too caught up in—in everything we’d lost, and everything I thought you should want, which was exactly what everyone else was always doing, and I was supposed to be different, but I was just like all the rest—"

“ Stede,” Ed says, actually shaking him a little. “Stede, no. Mate, what the—what the fuck are you talking about? You were fucking traumatized! You had nearly died to a firing squad and then marched off to die for the king, and then your fuckin’ childhood bully tried to murder you. That’s not—you can’t blame yourself for not thinking straight right then.”

“But I hurt you.”

“You did,” Ed says simply. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t get fucking hurt, too, Stede, hell. I want—you gotta tell me this shit, okay? You can’t hide something like this from me.”

“I’m sorry,” Stede starts, but Ed shakes his head.

“No, don’t apologize, I’m not—fuck, sorry, I’m doing this wrong. I just—I love you. Okay? So I wanna know when you’re hurting. Even if I’m mad at you. I always wanna know.”

That brings a fresh wave of tears into Stede’s eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“But you can’t—” Ed cuts himself off, frustrated, and takes a breath. When he lets it out, his hands trail to Stede’s face, cupping his cheeks so gently Stede feels he might shatter. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself for me. Or- or hide that you’re hurting, ‘cause you’re worried it’ll hurt me, too. I’m gonna worry about you no matter what, it’s just—it’s part of the whole loving you thing. But I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Stede wants to say that Ed doesn’t need to help, but he knows what Ed would say, because it’s the same thing Stede would say to Ed: I want to help you. And if you didn’t let me, I would just sit here going crazy that you were hurting and I couldn’t do anything about it.

He swallows, leaning into Ed’s touch as he swipes away a tear. “Okay.”

Ed’s face, so recently dark and murderous, is softer than any silks Stede has ever touched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stede affirms, putting his hands over Ed’s and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Good,” Ed says. His eyebrows furrow. “And just so we’re clear, you did not fucking ruin me, and you’re not some disease or whatever the fuck he said. You—you fucking saved me, Stede. You’re my best fucking friend.”

Stede presses against Ed’s hand, shutting his eyes against the wave of love and gratitude crashing over him. “You’re my best friend, too. And you saved me, in so many ways. I wouldn’t—I don’t even want to imagine not having you with me. You’re it for me.”

“You’re it for me, too,” Ed whispers, a promise, and touches his forehead to Stede’s. They breathe in and out together for a moment, both a little shaky, and then Ed says, “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Stede laughs a little, breathless with it. “I love you, too. So much.”

Ed hums. “Not as much as I love you.”

“Actually, I think you’ll find that it’s me who loves you more.”

“Well, I love you most, and you can’t get any bigger than that. That’s science, mate.”

“I’ll just invent some new word, then, because I absolutely love you most...est?”

“Mostest?” Ed repeats, clearly trying not to laugh. “That’s all you got?”

Stede huffs, only half joking. “Well, I—just give me a moment! It’s hard to fit it into one word, you know.”

“Who says you have to do only one word?”

“Well, all right then. I love you...I love you more than the ocean, and all the stars, and every bit of sand on every beach, and all the people in the world, and marmalade —"

“Now you’re just saying impossible shit,” Ed says, smiling.

“It’s true. So I guess I love you...impossibly.”

Stede can hear Ed’s breath catch, that wonderful little huff of breath he’ll be chasing the rest of his life. “You are a fucking wonder, Stede Bonnet,” he says, and closes the last few inches of distance to kiss him.

It’s soft and unhurried, the last few tears swiped away or caught, salty and warm, between their mouths. Stede lets one hand stroke Ed’s wrist as the other finds the safety of his waist, feeling lighter than he’s felt in a long time . He hadn’t realized how much it was weighing on him, to hide all this from Ed, to not truly know if Ed would accept him if he knew.

“Thank you,” Stede whispers, when they part. “For loving me so much.”

Ed kisses the corner of his mouth, then the divot beside his eye, and in his gaze is something just as huge and impossible as the love inside Stede, something deep as the marrow of his bones. Something Stede understands, now, he could never have ruined.

“Thank you for letting me.”

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