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2022-05-19
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Promises of a Desperado

Chapter 7

Summary:

A rescue mission, with all the expected twists and turns of a Stede Bonnet fuckery.

Fair warning with this chapter, guys, we are switching POVs a LOT to try to encompass all the different facets of the plan. I tried to keep it as linear as I could, but there is a bit of overlap in some areas. Hopefully it's manageable to follow!

Izzy’s song is Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

IZZY

 

The coyotes are out. 

 

Izzy’s never been particularly fond of the animals. Back when he worked on the Dormer Ranch, he’d been in charge of patching the fences around the chickens. He’d left a gap, on accident, and that night coyotes had made off with their top-laying hens and the rooster. The beating he received after that slip up still makes him wince, all these decades later. 

 

He’d always thought of coyotes as crafty, foul creatures after that. He knows that the sound of them in the desert used to bring Ed some comfort on cold nights. Ed never liked the quiet, not like Izzy does. But the sound always set Izzy’s teeth on edge. 

 

Tonight, though, he thinks he gets it. Stretched out on the hard bunk of his jail cell, staring at the ceiling, watching the patches of moonlight move across the surface of it, the coyote calls provide an almost melodic backdrop. If he tries hard enough, he can weave them into an old melody. He’s not sure where he’s heard it before, or why he remembers it so vividly, but with almost no effort the words come to him. 

 

It makes no difference, so I’ve been told

Where the body lies when life grows cold

But grant, I pray, one wish to me

Oh bury me not on the lone prairie

Bury me not on the lone prairie.  

 

He probably shouldn't be surprised that it's Frenchie's voice singing in his mind, and not his own, even though he’s never heard Frenchie sing this particular song before. Maybe he can keep that, if he tries hard enough. When they hang him, maybe he can go out to the sound of Frenchie’s voice instead of the cheers and jeers of the crowd as the rope cuts into his neck. It’s more peaceful than he deserves, more than likely, but he’d like that. 

 

He didn’t have this last time, the waiting. When they came for him and Charles, it had been fast, and brutal, and violent. The rest of their men had spent time in a jail cell before facing their own deaths, but Izzy and Charles had been dragged straight from their hideout to the gallows, kicking and spitting. 

 

Well, Izzy had been kicking and spitting. Charles was nearly unconscious from a blow to the skull, head lolling so limply that they had to hold him by his hair to put the noose around his neck. Izzy’s not sure he even knew what was going on. He’s never been able to decide if that was better or worse, in the end. Selfishly, he thinks it was worse, because there were no last words for Charles, no last fuck you to the law and the horrible, unjust world they lived in, no last words of love for Izzy, nothing but a blank stare and a pained, confused groan before they dropped the floor from under him. 

 

He’d looked at Izzy, just once, but he hadn’t seen him. Not really, not with his face turning blue and blood vessels bursting in his eyes. That fact hadn’t stopped Izzy from screaming for him until he tasted blood in the back of his throat. 

 

He can still taste it, on bad days. The blood. He tastes it now.

 

They’d hauled him up after they cut Charles’s body down. It took three of them to get him to the noose, four to actually slip it around his neck. And that was meant to be it. You don’t escape from a hanging, not on your own, it’s just not done. But Izzy had done it. And it had all been spurred on by a familiar face in the crowd. 

 

Robert, the fucking mole who ratted them out. Robert was one of the first men Charles had ever recruited. Loyal as anything, Charles and Izzy had thought, loyal to the grave, and believing that had been Charles's final mistake. 

 

Robert made one final mistake as well, a fatal one. He’d been outfitted with a pardon, in exchange for the capture of Charles and Izzy.  He could have left, could have gone anywhere, but he’d stuck around to watch their execution. The hate in him burned so deeply that he couldn’t leave without seeing with his own eyes that they were gone from the world. 

 

It was his presence in the crowd that finally broke Izzy, that  granted him the soundness of mind to to ease the knife out of his shirt sleeve, a tiny thing that the officers had missed in the chaos of the arrest, to slip it under the noose choking him and saw at it, disguised as desperate clutching, until it finally snapped under his weight, sending him tumbling to the ground. It was Robert’s presence that made Izzy so desperate to live, just for one moment more, just to enact the vengeance that the law wouldn’t, that he was able to kick the feet out from under the officer that came for him, take his gun, and put a fucking bullet directly between Robert’s eyes. If he expected that to quench his bloodthirst, it didn’t. He’d turned his sights on the lawmen next. Then on the crowd. 

 

He doesn’t like to remember that bit. 

 

There will be none of that, this time. He won't give them the satisfaction of begging, or swearing, or fighting to escape, not when there’s no escape for him to take. Izzy’s a fighter, yes, but he’s also a realist. He knows there’s no way out of this. So he will go to his death with as much dignity as he can muster. He’ll spit on Hornigold’s boots, if he’s within spitting distance, before it’s all over. His final act. 

 

It seems a quiet end, in a strange way, since Izzy knows nothing about a hanging is quiet. Maybe not quiet, but… commonplace. It’s not the end he would have chosen, not one that he ever envisioned for himself as a young man, or even in more recent years. Just one more thing to add to the list of what the world has taken from him- his death. 

 

Dawn is just starting to tinge the sky when there’s a noise outside his cell. He’s heavily guarded, he’s sure of it, but he hasn’t seen a single guard all night. Hornigold must run a tight ship, just as he did with his crew. He expects to see either Hornigold himself or some starstruck newbie officer, just dying for a glimpse at the notorious Israel Hands, but it’s neither of them. 

 

A key rattles in the door, and Chauncey Badminton enters the cell. Izzy frowns. 

 

“Fuck do you want?” 

 

“On your feet.” 

 

Izzy returns his gaze to the ceiling. “No.” 

 

“I said on your feet, Hands.” 

 

“What fucking for? You moving me?”

 

“Not just yet.”

 

“Then I’m perfectly happy where I am.” 

 

He’s not really in a mood to take orders from this fucker. Badminton, though, isn’t inclined to take no for an answer. His hand closes around Izzy’s arm and he’s hauled to his feet. He shakes it off. 

 

“You’ve cost me something, Hands,” Badminton says. “Something I desperately want.” 

 

“What, Bonnet?” 

 

“Close. Justice. You cost me justice for my brother.” 

 

Izzy rolls his eyes. “It’s a fuckin’ unjust world. Get used to-”

 

Badminton’s fist makes contact with his chin. 

 

Izzy’s always been able to take a punch. He learned to do so at an early age, and even off guard, he can absorb a hit better than men twice his stature. His head snaps to the side, but the rest of him barely moves. He flexes his jaw. It’s tender, but not broken. 

 

“That the best you can do?” 

 

Something flickers in Chauncey’s eyes. It’s a barely noticeable change, but it's enough to tip Izzy off to the fact that Chauncey may be less than stable. 

 

The second hit is harder. The taste of blood in his mouth isn’t just imagined now. He spits out a glob of it on the floor, wiping at his split lip. It stings.

 

“I don’t give a fuck about Bonnet,” he spits out. “I didn’t do this for Bonnet, you fucking idiot. Why the fuck would I give myself up for some namby-pamby rancher?” 

 

Chauncey almost growls, and pulls his fist back again, but a hand closes around his arm. 

 

“Stop this at once.” 

 

There’s still a part of Izzy that wants to obey that voice, solid and authoritative as it is. Hornigold always was a leader, even if Izzy didn’t worship the man the way Ed did back then. Chauncey doesn't have that same response, given the way he struggles. 

 

“I said, stop this, Badminton.” 

 

When Badminton continues struggling, Hornigold just sighs, and hits him over the head with the butt of his pistol. He drops like a brick.

 

“Take him out,” he calls to two of his men. “Dump him somewhere. He’s outlived his usefulness.”

 

They obey without a word, hoisting Chauncey up and removing him from the cell. Hornigold shakes his head. 

 

“Some men allow personal vendettas to go to their heads,” he says. “It’s a shame. He could have risen quite far, he had the thirst for it.” 

 

He looks at Izzy then. “That’s one of the things I always admired about you, Israel. You never let your vendetta cloud your judgment.” 

 

“What, like you do?’ Izzy asks drily. His tongue probes at the cut on the inside of his cheek. 

 

“Do I seem particularly clouded to you?” Hornigold asks. “Would a man with clouded judgment take a lesser prize to avoid bloodshed?” 

 

Izzy has to concede that point. “You've spent a fuckload of time trying to catch Ed, all the same. A lot of resources.” 

 

“Edward is one of the country’s most wanted. The rewards of catching him outweigh a personal vendetta or a few resources,” Hornigold says dismissively. 

 

“Where are you taking me?” Izzy asks. 

 

“Does it matter?” 

 

“A man likes to know his final resting place.” 

 

The corner of Hornigold’s mouth twitches. “Hope’s Spring.” 

 

Izzy can’t quite hide the sneer that overtakes his face. Hope’s fucking Spring. God really is cruel. Hope’s Spring, or Prospector, back then, before the gold boom, was where Charles met his fate. It was a small town when Izzy had last been there, very small. Now, he’s heard, it's a sort of headquarters for law enforcement out west.

 

Hornigold catches the expression. 

 

“You know, Israel, this doesn’t have to happen.” 

 

Izzy raises an eyebrow. 

 

“You’re a talented man. A loyal one. And a hell of a shot. I really have always liked you. Admired you, your… tenacity. And you have a connection to Edward. That could prove invaluable at the next stage of my venture. You must know I won’t give up the hunt just because you’ve given yourself up.”

 

Izzy knows that. He never expected to stop the hunt, only to delay it long enough for Ed to get out. 

 

“What exactly are you saying, Benjamin?” 

 

“I’m offering you a way out. Just as I was offered one, five years ago. Join me, Israel, and you live. You can have a new life, a fresh start, on the right side of the law.”

 

The words hang between them in silence, until it’s broken by a harsh, bitter laugh that Izzy realizes is coming from his own throat. 

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he wheezes. “You think- that I’d ever-”

 

He nearly doubles over with it, laughing harder than he has in years, until his stomach hurts.

 

“You take me for some yellow-bellied fucking coward? You think I want to go back to licking your fucking boots? ” 

 

Hornigold watches him impassively until he regains his composure. 

 

“I take you for a survivor,” he says simply.

 

Izzy takes a deep breath. Once upon a time, yes, he was that. A survivor. But now he has something besides himself, besides his own life, to lose. And by his very survival, he would doom those people. Ed, Frenchie, Ivan, Fang. Even, despite his earlier protestations, Bonnet, because Ed’s fate is intrinsically linked with Bonnet’s now.

 

“You overestimate me,” he says. “My answer’s no.” 

 

Anger, real anger, flashes across Hornigold’s face, there and gone in an instant. 

 

“Very well,” he says. “That was the only chance you’ll have, Israel.”

 

He slams the cell door behind him, leaving Izzy with the taste of blood in his mouth and nothing but the sounds of the coyotes for company. 




EDWARD

 

“Boss!” 

 

Ivan comes jogging down the hillside, Roach hot on his heels. Ed looks up from where he’s sitting with Stede, hands clasped. They've been sitting in silence since dawn. They’ve gone over the plan a thousand times, everything is set in motion, all they're waiting for now is the alert that Izzy’s been moved. 

 

“Buttons says they’re moving ‘im,” Ivan says. “Just about at the train. Should we-” 

 

“Yeah, man, get the horses,” Ed says, leaping to his feet. He’s nearly vibrating with unspent energy, the way he always is before a venture like this, but these stakes are so much higher than just a raid. These stakes are Izzy’s life. 

 

“Want me to bring yours?” Ivan calls over his shoulder, already moving. 

 

“Roach can help with that, can’t you, Roach?” Stede says. 

 

“On it!” Roach says, following Ivan. 

 

Stede stands as well, Ed’s hand still clutched tightly in his. Ed looks at him, drinking him in, the way the early morning light shines on his face, reflects in his eyes and in his hair. Stede’s a bit of a sunrise all on his own.

 

“They’ll be expecting you,” Stede says quietly. “They’ll be ready for an attack.” 

 

“I know. That’s the point.” 

 

“Be careful, will you?” Stede asks. Ed manages a half a smile. 

 

“Do my best,” he says, leaning in, touching his forehead to Stede’s. “You better be fucking careful too.” 

 

“I will admit caution is not always my strong suit,” Stede says. “But I’ll try. We won’t be in the direct line of fire, as it is. That’s all you.” 

 

There’s a line between Stede’s eyes that hasn’t let up all night, and it sparks something deep in Ed’s gut to know that it’s there out of worry for him. He brings his hand up, smoothing the line with his thumb. 

 

“This is my job, mate,” he says. “I’m an expert. I’ll be fine.” 

 

Stede lets out a slow breath in response, nodding. “All the same. I don’t much like it.” 

 

Ed swallows around the lump in his throat. “Me neither. We’re both gonna be ok, yeah? Swear?” 

 

“I swear,” Stede says, and Ed really does believe it, because when Stede says something in that decisive tone, it nearly always comes true, as though his very voice speaks it into existence. 

 

He can hear Ivan and Roach approaching, and Stede must too, because he reaches up and brings Ed in for a searing kiss. It’s less gentle than he expects from Stede, all hunger and desperation and no small amount of fear. Ed grabs at him, pulling him close, before the hoofbeats get too loud to ignore. 

 

“Duty calls, then,” he says, pressing a final kiss to Stede’s forehead, and dropping him a wink. “Wanted to see me in action, didn’t you? Blackbeard in all his glory? Now's your chance.”

 

Stede lets out an amused huff, watching as Ed swings himself into Elizabeth’s saddle. 

 

“Move out!” he calls to Fang and Ivan, and Pete, who’s filling in for Izzy’s vacant position. Lucius is at Pete’s side, red-eyed and tense, and Pete leans down to kiss him, whispering something to him, before pulling a black bandana over the bottom half of his face. Lucius grips Pete’s leg, whispering something back, before letting go reluctantly and joining Stede. 

 

They’re off in a cloud of dust. Ed can’t resist one last look back at Stede, golden and glowing in the morning light. 

 

He will be careful. He has to come back to Stede. He will come back to Stede. 

 

Ed can see the plume of smoke from the train as they ride through the hills, somewhere behind them. 

 

“You all know the plan!” he calls to the others, over the din of the horses. “You know why we’re here! If one of us was taken, would Izzy fucking let them go down?” 

 

“No fucking way!” Ivan and Fang chorus, Pete a bit behind them. 

 

“Are we gonna let Izzy go down for us?” 

 

“No, boss!”

 

“Then let’s go fucking get him,” Ed finishes. The train is nearly on them now, all that’s left is to take the small trail down to the tracks that they’re coming up on. Elizabeth surges forward with a shrill whinny, turns, and in a matter of seconds he’s riding next to the train. He can see the engineer's face drain of blood through the window, and he tips his hat at him before firing a shot through the glass, shattering it. 

 

They’re not here to play it stealthy. They’re here to draw fire. And draw fire they do. 

 

The train is armed to the teeth, as expected, and all of these men can shoot. Bullets whizz past, one nearly taking his hat off his head. 

 

“Fucking dodge!” he hollers over his shoulder. “Spread out!” 

 

Fang and Pete break off, falling back towards the other cars, firing and shouting wildly. 

 

A bullet grazes Ivan’s shoulder, and he takes the hit with a pained grunt. Barely looking, Ed fires back at the culprit, one of Hornigold’s cronies, a young man with a hat too big for his head. His bullet hits true, and the man falls, toppling through the open window. His body hits the ground with a sickening crunch, left behind in a flash.

 

“You good?” 

 

“Fine, boss, let’s keep moving!” Ivan says. “Didn’t hit my right arm, not bleeding too bad!” 

 

He can still shoot, is what he’s saying, and right now, that’s what matters. 

 

“We’re coming up on the junction!” Pete yells from behind them. 

 

Good. The junction is where Stede’s insane genius really starts to come into play. 

 

“Fall back!” Ed orders. They’re gonna need a little space for this next bit.




 

OLUWANDE

 

“You think they’re ok?” Oluwande asks Jim in a hushed voice. 

 

“I bet they are,” Jim says.  “It’s a good plan.”

 

“Risky, though.” 

 

“This type of thing always is. Relax. They’ll be fine.” 

 

Jim presses their calf against his, and the pressure makes his skin tingle. He risks a glance at them, resplendent in the morning light astride their horse, hat pulled low over their face. They’re very studiously not looking at him, but there’s the slightest turn to their lips that makes him smile. Especially now that he knows what those lips feel like against his own. 

 

It only happened the night before, a mutual declaration of want spurred by the impending danger of the rescue mission, and given everything that happened this morning, they haven’t really had a chance to talk about it. He knows Jim will want to play this lowkey right now, though. As much as Oluwande might want a dramatic kiss before they ride off  into a gunfight, Jim isn’t that kind of person, and he’s ok with that. It’s too much to explain to Nicolás, who’s close behind them, conferring with his second in command, and Jim won’t want Jackie to know, on the off chance she’s still holding a grudge and will use the information against them. 

 

So he’ll make do with the press of their leg against his, and trust that they’ll have another chance. 

 

“How’re we looking?” Jackie asks, riding up next to them. They’re on a hill overlooking the tracks, and they can just see the tell-tale plume of smoke from the train some miles away. 

 

“Getting there,”  Jim answers. “Not quite.” 

 

“Wish they’d hurry up. My men are getting antsy. Not used to this much waiting around,” Jackie comments. 

 

Between Jim and Jackie, Oluwande’s feeling a bit underdressed. Jim always looks cool, of course, he’s used to that, but Jackie’s decked out to the nines in a dramatic pair of fringed chaps, extravagant boots, and a vest over a collared shirt in her signature deep red. It reminds him a bit of how his mother would dress up for church, except, you know, this is a raid, and his mother never wore fringed chaps to church. Though he guesses raids are the closest thing to religion that Jackie observes.

 

“It’ll be soon,” Jim says with a roll of their eyes. “Tell ‘em to be patient.” 

 

“You don’t give orders around here, Jim,” Jackie says. “Careful, or I might change my mind on getting my vengeance.” 

 

Jim snorts. “Sure, Jackie. Whatever you say.” 

 

“You’re so damn sure I won’t kill you, you little bastard. Who says I won’t?” 

 

“Can we maybe table the killing Jim topic until after we’re done with this?” Oluwande asks. 

 

“Sure, Olu. Only ‘cause I like you so much,” Jackie says, dropping a wink. Oluwande flushes in spite of himself. That earns him a kick in the shin from Jim. 

 

“Ow!” 

 

“Why are you letting her talk about killing me at all?” Jim complains. 

 

“Wha- Jim. Come on.” 

 

The moment of levity passes quickly as the train grows closer. They can hear gunshots now, faintly, echoing through the hills. 

 

Any minute now, Oluwuande thinks, Any minute now, they’ll get the signal. 

 

Any minute now. 



 

JOHN FEENEY

 

John has always had a gift for blowing things up. Even when he was just a lad, he would make off with his mother’s spectacles when she dozed off at her workbench, fingers pricked raw from her sewing needles, and create a strange concoction of spare bits of fabric, alcohol, spices, powdered dyes, and, the piece de resistance, a dash of gunpowder pilfered from the supply his father kept in his study, and light it by filtering sunshine through his mother’s glasses. It got him into quite a lot of trouble, but he kept doing it. There's just something about an explosion, something that makes a statement. 

 

Not that John ever really needed help making  a statement. He was a large child, and grew up to be an even larger man. His mere presence in a room is a statement without him needing to speak at all. And that's what people always want him for, his stature, his strength. When he came West, he had offers from more gangs than he could count, when he demonstrated a willingness to bend and/or break the law, and they all wanted him for the same thing- brute force. 

 

Sure, John could do that. He could toss some blokes around, crack some spines, etc, etc, but how boring is that? Why would anyone care about a cracked spine when they could blow something up instead? That takes skill, takes artistry.

 

Most of his bosses never really got it. They never had the vision. Stede, however, does.

 

Thus, why John is currently hunched on a hill near the branched tracks with a detonator in hand. In one direction lies the route west, winding towards more lawless lands, and in the other, Hope’s Spring, where they’ll be taking the little fecker Frenchie’s so keen on. John doesn’t get that one, really, but Frenchie’s a good friend. His best friend, actually. So if Izzy Hands makes Frenchie happy, John will do what he can to help get him back. 

 

And if he gets to set off this explosion, his pride and joy that he’s been designing on and off for months on the slim chance he might get the chance to use it, in the process- well, all the better. 

 

Swede comes panting down the hill, waving his arms. 

 

“They’re coming!” 

 

“Now?” 

 

“Wait, wait-” Swede says, craning his neck. John can hear the train, hear it getting closer, and his finger itches to detonate, but he waits for Swede’s signal. 

 

“Now!” 

 

The explosion that follows is glorious. John rises to his full height just to see it. Pieces of metal tracks flying in the air, melting iron, plumes of flame dancing on the ground. It’s so beautiful he could cry. 

 

There’s a screech of metal as the train brakes. They don’t stop, not fully. Any engineer worth his salt would know not to stop in this area, especially with something as suspicious as an explosion going on. 

 

But the goal was never to get them to stop. No, the goal was to divert them from the route to Hope’s Spring, to drive them further west-

 

Right into the arms of Spanish Jackie. 



 

CHAUNCEY BADMINTON

 

Some miles away, Chauncey Badminton has stolen a horse. He’s riding hard, towards the Lighthouse Ranch. If the law denies him his justice, he will take it by unlawful means. He’s only been on the side of the law when the law is on his side, after all. He’ll bend the rules, and break them if he must. All he knows is Stede Bonnet must pay. Stede Bonnet must die. 

 

He’s nearly there when an explosion sounds, ringing across the valley. It’s coming from the train tracks. He changes course immediately. 

 

He should have known Stede Bonnet would never leave a man behind, not even a man as spiteful and vile as Israel Hands. 



 

JIM

 

John’s explosion echoes across the hills with a resounding boom. It makes Jim shiver, the sound of it. They can catch bits of it, sparks and metal tracks flying in the air. 

 

Jackie whistles, long and low. “That’s a hell of a signal. If your dude is ever looking for work, send him my way.”

 

She wheels her horse around, shouting instructions to her men. Nicolás rides up next to Jim. 

 

“Ready, hermane?” 

 

“Almost .” 

 

With that, they reach across to Oluwande, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him in, pressing their lips to his. They’ll be damned if they let either of them walk into a firefight without one more kiss. 

 

Oluwande lets out a surprised mph and nearly falls off his horse. Probably would have if it weren't for Jim’s hold steadying him, and the thought makes them smile against his lips. He gets with the program quickly, though, reaching up to cup the side of their face. 

 

He’s dazed when they pull away, sending a surge of pride through Jim’s body. 

 

“Watch your back, ok?” they say firmly, still holding his shirt. “Don’t let anyone get the drop on you.” 

 

“You too, Jim,” Olu says. “Be careful.” 

 

They snort. “You know me.” 

 

“Yeah. That’s why I’m saying be careful.”

 

He strokes their cheekbone with his thumb, and they turn their head to press a kiss to his palm, then shove him back gently. “Get going. And come back.” 

 

“Always,” Oluwande says with a smile and a mock salute, then he turns and follows Jackie. 

 

“Ready,” Jim says  to Nicolás who just raises an eyebrow at them. 

 

“So-”

 

“Less talking, more riding, hermanito,” Jim says, ignoring the burning of their cheeks. 

 

“Ok, but we’re continuing this conversation when this is all done,” Nicolás says, digging his heels into his horse’s sides. 

 

They thunder down the hill, a veritable army of them, all of Jackie's men and the Siete Gallos, forming a human blockade on the tracks. They’re taking a risk that Hornigold won’t just run them over, but they chose this spot for a reason. The tracks curve here, and the sightline is mostly obscured by one of the hills, so by the time they’re in view, the engineer will have to act entirely on instinct. Their instinct should be to slam on the brakes. 

 

At least, Jim hopes so. Getting run over by a train is not on their list of top ten ways to die. Bit too damsel in distress, and that’s never been their vibe. 

 

They fall into formation with the Siete Gallos, which is not a situation they ever thought they would find themself in, but the last few weeks have been so goddamn weird that this is somehow the least weird development. 

 

The train is nearly on them now, about to come around the bend. Jim screws their face up, and glances back at Olu. He’s close to the edge of the tracks, so even if the train doesn’t stop, he’ll be able to dodge it. 

 

“Here we go,” Nicky mutters, and the engine comes into view. 

 

Sure enough, the engineer slams on the brakes with a deafening screech. Jim’s horse sidesteps nervously, and they sooth him with a few clucks of their tongue. 

 

The train squeals to a stop a few yards from them, and they let out a collective breath of relief. Jim pulls out their pistol, cocking it. 

 

There’s a moment of almost dead silence, before a whooping reaches them. The Black Skulls, led by Blackbeard himself, come charging into view. Ivan’s arm is bleeding and Pete is wincing with every motion his horse makes, but they’re still a sight. Jackie rides up to meet them, and together, she and Ed face the train. 

 

“Hornigold!” Jackie calls. “Get your puny ass out here.”

 

“You think you can take one of my men and get away with it?” Ed calls. “Face me your-fucking-self, you yellow-bellied piece of shit!” 

 

Jim waits with bated breath. This could go one of two ways. Hornigold surrenders (unlikely) or a fight will break out (far more likely).

 

“This the man you’re following?” Ed yells to the men at the windows of the train, rifles pointing out the windows. “Too fucking chicken-shit to face me himself?” 

 

That one gets a reaction. A door slides open, and what looks like a full battalion of lawmen files out. Hornigold is there, shielding himself behind two men, but managing to make it look natural somehow. How does the fucker do it? Anyone else would be called a coward for that move.

 

“Very well, Edward,” Hornigold calls. “Let’s talk.” 

 

Ed starts forward. Jackie looks back, directly at Jim, and in a strange moment of telepathy, Jim knows exactly what she’s suggesting. In one breath, one smooth, fluid, practiced motion, they aim, and they fire, at exactly the moment Jackie fires her own pistol. 

 

The two men in front of Hornigold drop like flies. 

 

There’s a beat.  Then the gunfire starts. 



 

STEDE

 

“I swear to god, if that man comes back with even a scratch on him-” Lucius mutters from where he’s riding next to Stede. They’ve been following the train ever since Ed and the Black Skulls (plus Pete) took off, just a bit behind. There's an awful lot of gunfire, and despite Stede’s best efforts, every new one feels like it’s hitting him in the chest, because every shot is a chance that Ed could fall. 

 

“Have a little faith, Lucius,” he says anyway, to put his friend’s mind at ease. “Pete is very talented.” 

 

“And very overconfident,” Lucius says. “Overconfidence gets you killed.” 

 

“There's no use worrying. All we can do is stick to the plan, and trust that they’ll be all right.” 

 

“Right. Cause I’m sure you're not worried about Ed at all,” Lucius says with a teasing lilt to his voice.

 

“That’s entirely beside the point,” Stede retorts. 

 

“I think it’s cute. The two of you,” Lucius says. Stede sighs. 

 

“Does everyone know?” 

 

“Stede, babe, if they didn't know already, you did just snog him in front of the whole crew. But I think we all knew before you did.” 

 

“I definitely knew,” Frenchie chimes in. 

 

“As did I,” Buttons says with a wise nod. 

 

“Was it a secret?” Roach asks. “If it was, you didn’t do a very good job keeping it. Sorry, boss.” 

 

Stede’s face burns. “Well, I suppose it's out in the open, at least. But really, my friends, we should be focusing-”

 

The frequency of shots ahead increases, and the train brakes squeal. 

 

“-and that’s our cue!” Stede says. He urges Halifax forward, his men following suit. So far, everything’s gone beautifully with the plan. John’s explosion was a true miracle of engineering, and the squeal of brakes means that the train will be stopping at Jackie’s blockade. 

 

The gunfire gets louder and louder as they approach. 

 

“Ed must’ve drawn Hornigold out,” Frenchie murmurs. 

 

“Or he’s trying to, anyway,” Roach says. 

 

“Well, either way, gents, the time is now. Roach, Frenchie-”

 

“On it, boss,” Frenchie says. He and Roach dismount  and sneak to the train car, now fully stopped. It doesn’t look occupied, aside from a single officer. Roach looks back at Frenchie with a raised eyebrow, and Frenchie nods. He’ll do. 

 

Roach slides the door open, and Stede’s grip on his pistol tightens. While Ed’s part of the plan is all noise and distraction, this part requires stealth. If the officer gets off a shout, or if there’s someone else in the train car, just out of their view, this whole thing goes up in flames. 

 

They get lucky. Through the windows, Stede sees Roach sneak up behind the man in a crouch, raising his pistol with a manic grin, and bringing it down at the base of the man’s skull. He drops, and Roach catches him under the arms. He sends a thumbs up, and Stede lets out a sigh of relief, gesturing to Frenchie. He opens the door for Roach, and the cook drops the officer unceremoniously onto the ground. Stede winces. 

 

“A little gentleness, perhaps?” he suggests. Roach shoots him a funny look, and he and Frenchie set to work stripping the man of outerwear, his badge, and his gun. Frenchie shrugs the coat on, slaps the hat on his head and the badge on his chest, fastens the holster and pistol around his hips, and even takes the man’s boots. 

 

He catches Stede’s look. 

 

“What? I need a new pair. He’s my size.” 

 

With the ensemble on, Frenchie does look official, like an officer. But that’s the whole point. 

 

“All right, my friend, we’ll be waiting here for you,” Stede says. “Go get him.” 

 

Frenchie gives a little mock-salute, and slips into the train. Stede catches glimpses of him through the windows, hands shoved into the pockets of his coats, walking with purpose. 

 

“So I can kill this dude now, right?” Roach asks, gesturing to the unconscious man on the ground. 

 

“I thought we agreed not to?” Stede says. 

 

“We agreed that if I slit his throat it would get blood on the clothes Frenchie needed,” Roach says, holding up a finger. “He doesn’t need the clothes anymore.” 

 

Stede’s well aware that there's a lot of killing going on at the front of the train, but the idea of slitting an unconscious man’s throat makes his stomach turn. 

 

“Ah, I think I’m going to veto that,” Stede says apologetically. Roach groans, head falling backwards in disappointment. 

 

“I never get to have any fun,” he grumbles. 

 

“Tie him up for now, please,” Stede says. Roach mutters under his breath the whole time, but does as he’s told. 

 

“Now, if you want to have a little fun, I’d like you and Buttons to scope out the situation up front,” Stede says. Roach visibly brightens. 

 

“Don’t show yourself, if you can avoid it, we don’t want to play our hand. But if you get a chance to take out a few enemies-”

 

“With pleasure,” Roach almost purrs. 

 

“And then report back.”

 

“Aye, sir,” Buttons says, and he and Roach slink off. It’ll take some time for them to get there and back, on foot, anyway. Horses are too loud, would attract too much attention in the approach, so Buttons has tethered them to a tree springing from the rocks on the hill. 

 

Stede and Lucius wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. 

 

“Do you think something’s gone wrong?” Lucius asks anxiously.

 

“No, no, I’m sure Frenchie has it under control,” Stede says, with a hell of a lot more assurance than he feels. The truth is that now it feels foolish to have sent Frenchie in alone, with no backup. Reckless. 

 

“Should we-” Lucius’s words cut off in a squeak. Stede turns, concerned, and freezes, the blood draining from  his face. 

 

Chauncey Badminton, red-faced, panting, with a bruise blooming on the side of his head, has a gun pressed to Lucius’s back. 

 

“Hello, Stede.” 



 

FRENCHIE 

 

Frenchie’s impersonated a few officers in his time. Mostly as a bit of a lark, a way to impose some authority on a situation when need be, but never with stakes this high. Mary was better at it than he was. She had a whole alias for it, the only one she ever crafted, Mark Read, and Mark Read radiated authority. Mary made a better man than most men Frenchie knows. 

 

He tries to tap into that now. It’s a way of walking, in part, firm, sure steps, like you expect everyone to move out of your way, to make themselves smaller to accommodate for your very existence. 

 

“You gotta look at people like they’re something disgusting on the bottom of your boot,” Mary had said once. “Like their lives are an inconvenience to you. Make them feel small, and you’ll be larger by comparison. Lawmen like to think they own the entire fucking world, and that’s what you need to think, too.” 

 

Frenchie does his best. Luckily, it seems that most of the officers are at the front of the train, engaging with the Black Skulls and Jackie’s gang and the Siete Gallos. 

 

He hopes everyone’s ok. But he can’t focus on that right now. He needs to focus on getting to Izzy. That’s his part of the plan, and if he fails at it, not only does Izzy die, but his friends have put themselves in danger for nothing, and that’s unacceptable. 

 

It’s a lot of pressure. On any other occasion, Frenchie would crack under the weight of it. But strangely, he doesn’t feel any strain at all. Maybe it's the familiar setting- Frenchie’s spent a lot of time on trains- or maybe it’s the feeling, like a rope tugging at his gut, that Izzy is very close now, but he moves with purpose through the cars. 

 

He encounters a bit of an obstacle in the form of two officers, cowering in the seats of one of the abandoned cars. They’re shaking, and they look young, probably early enough in their careers that they've never lived through a raid before, especially not a raid by three of the most feared names in the west. 

 

Whatever air of authority Frenchie is managing to project, it seems to work on these two, because they look up at him with wide eyes. 

 

“Sir! We were just-”

 

“We were holding out here-” 

 

They stumble over each other. Frenchie raises a single eyebrow disdainfully. 

 

“Does it look like I care what you’re doing?” he snaps. “That I have the time for your ramblings?” 

 

“No, sir-” 

 

“Sorry sir, sorry-”

 

Frenchie lets out an exasperated sigh and bends down, grabbing one of the boys by the collar and hauling him up. He lets out a squeak. 

 

“If you’re going to talk, tell me something useful. Where’s Hands?” 

 

“H-Hands, sir?” 

 

“The fucking prisoner, boy, quickly!” He gives him a little shake for flair. 

 

“Oh, uh, uh, four cars up, sir!” the other one, still huddled on the ground, says, looking bright and eager to have something of use to share. 

 

“And does he have an adequate guard? He’s a slippery bastard, you know, can’t be too careful.” 

 

“Yes, sir, of course, sir, I think some of them left to help in the fighting, but he’s got at least four on him at all times-” the boy he’s holding babbles. 

 

Frenchie smiles at him, and pats the side of his face. He releases his shirt collar, smoothing it out for him. 

 

“Good work, officers. Carry on.” 

 

They snap to attention, saluting, as Frenchie exits the car. 

 

Power’s a little fun, he thinks. 

 

He comes upon the car they mentioned quickly enough, no further obstacles standing in his way. He can see them through the window as he hops over the coupling between the final cars, and he swings to the side of the door, taking stock. 

 

There’s four of them, like the kid said, all armed. Two are standing by the window, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the fight happening outside- the sound of gunfire is growing steadily louder as he gets closer to the front. The other two stand with their hands resting on the guns at their hips, flanking-

 

Izzy. 

 

All the breath leaves his body like he’s been hit at the sight of him, mere yards away now, standing with his hands cuffed behind his back and his spine rod-straight, a familiar scowl on his face. There’s a bruise on his jaw and his lip is split and something roars in Frenchie’s chest, something furious and protective. 

 

Someone laid a hand on him. They won’t get a chance to do it again. 

 

Frenchie makes himself breath, straightens his shoulders, and mentally flips through his aliases. None of them are quite right, most of them are outlaws, but there’s one, less an alias and more of a stolen identity, that just might work. 

 

He steels himself, and slides the door open. 





IZZY

 

Izzy is trying very very hard not to get his hopes up. He’d specifically instructed Bonnet not to let Ed do anything stupid, not for him. Those were his parting words to the man. But this- an explosion, a train stopped in an area where trains never stop- it has Ed written all over it. 

 

But no. No, something else has to be going on. They wouldn’t stage something like this. Not for him. They would for Ed, but not for him. No one is coming for him, he reminds himself. He is alone, and there is no escape, and hoping otherwise will only lead to pain. He’s made his peace with it. 

 

And of course, his guards won’t tell him anything. They’re standing in nearly dead silence aside from the mutters of the two at the windows. Izzy strains his ears, but he can’t make out anything aside from an occasional swear over the gunfire that’s getting progressively more rapid. 

 

The door at the back of the car slides open, letting in a nearly deafening echo of gunshots, and then slides closed again, quieting the noise.  His guards stand at attention at once, one of them placing a hand on Izzy’s shoulder so he can’t turn to see the newcomer, keeping him firmly in place. 

 

“State your business,” one of them says. 

 

“Prisoner transport. The situation’s getting volatile, Hornigold wants him out.”

 

The voice is gravely and slightly accented. Izzy’s certain he’s never heard it before, but there’s something there that tugs at him. 

 

“I haven't heard anything about prisoner transport,” the head guard says skeptically. 

 

“Course you fucking haven’t. ‘Cause I’m telling you now,” the new voice says, whip-sharp and cutting. 

 

“You’ll understand we have to play it safe.” 

 

The man sighs, and Izzy hears the sound of a tapping foot. “We don’t have the time for this. Hornigold wants all of you up front. We’ve got outlaws, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

 

“Hornigold has ordered four guards on Hands at all times-” the guard starts.

 

“Listen, it’s becoming very clear that you don’t know who I am, so allow me to enlighten you. My name is Billy Colt. I assume you’ve heard of me?” 

 

There’s a beat of silence, and Izzy frowns. He tries to turn his head, but he can only see the vague outline of the man in his peripheral. He knows the name Billy Colt. Colt is an infamous bounty hunter, with one of the highest capture rates in the country. 

 

Colt is also dead. Not a lot of people know that, they think he vanished or retired, but Izzy knows it for a fact. He put Colt in the ground himself three years ago. 

 

Something sparks in his chest, try as he might to stomp it out. It’s hope. 

 

The guards know the name, clearly, from the shocked silence. 

 

“Are you telling me I can’t handle one outlaw? One prisoner in cuffs?” the man says, archly. “I’ve captured more outlaws than you’ve ever seen in your life, boy. If you’ve got a problem with that, take it up with Hornigold. You might have a hard time getting to him, though, considering, again, the fight happening out front. They need every man they can get out there. So are you going to follow orders, or are we going to shoot the shit some more while our men die?”

 

Familiar. The voice is familiar, and not because it belongs to Billy Colt. Izzy’s heart starts beating faster, fluttering against his ribs. 

 

It takes a moment, but with a grumble, the guard tosses the keys to the man behind Izzy. With a sharp order, the four men march off, leaving Izzy alone with the alleged bounty hunter. 

 

A hand lands on Izzy’s upper arm, and he flinches- but then the man is unlocking his cuffs with quick fingers, clever fingers-

 

“Chill out, Quickshot. Just me.” 

 

All the breath leaves his body in a rush, in a whispered name, reverent like a prayer, probably the only prayer Izzy’s spoken in years and years and years. 

 

Frenchie.

 

“Course it's me. You expecting someone else?” 

 

It takes a moment for Izzy to force himself to move, but he spins, and sure enough, there he is, like some sort of apparition, in a long coat, hair and beard neater than Izzy’s ever seen them, with a shiny lawman’s badge on his chest. 

 

“I know, I look incredibly sexy in this outfit, but you’ll have to keep it in your pants for now,” Frenchie says. “That’s our boys out there, making a ruckus to get you outta here, so we gotta be fast.” 

 

Izzy exhales. Then he snorts. Then laughter is bursting out of him, and if it's mixed with a tear or two he’ll never confess to it, because Frenchie’s here, he came for him, they all came for him, he doesn't have to die like a dog at the hands of the law, if he dies now it’ll be on his feet- or maybe he doesn’t have to die at all. 

 

His head drops onto Frenchie’s shoulder, just for a moment, but it’s long enough for Frenchie to grab back at him, to hold him there just a second longer, to make certain that he’s real. He tips Izzy’s head up, fingers probing at the bruise on his jaw. The spot is tender, and it stings, despite Frenchie’s gentleness, but Izzy welcomes it. 

 

“Was it one of them?” Frenchie asks, jerking his head towards the door the guards exited through. “I can still catch ‘em and shoot ‘em.” 

 

Izzy’s not sure why that’s what breaks the dam. Maybe it's the relief coursing through his body, maybe it's the fact that with everything else happening, Frenchie’s concerned about something as nonsensical as a bruise on his jaw, maybe it’s the fact that he’s so serious about his threat against the perpetrator, maybe it’s the fact that he can see a flash of silver around Frenchie’s neck, his ring dangling on his chest, or maybe it’s just that he’s here when Izzy never expected to see him again. 

 

Whatever the reason, Izzy reaches up, cups Frenchie’s jaw, pulls him down, and kisses him. 

 

Frenchie responds at once, like he’s been waiting for Izzy to do this, expecting it, even though Izzy didn't even know he’d do it himself. His hands tangle in Izzy’s hair, tugging gently, moving close. 

 

It’s nothing like what the kiss in the barn would have been. That would have been slow, Izzy thinks, tentative, a test of the waters, the first foray into something beyond the friendship the two men had been building. No, this kiss isn’t a test, it's a confirmation, finally acting on the feelings that they’ve both acknowledged, Frenchie that night in the barn and Izzy the previous morning when he gave himself up. 

 

It’s not harsh, even when Izzy’s split lip cracks and the coppery tang of blood makes its way into the kiss. It’s sure and firm and still careful, in all honesty, because this is still something new. Izzy hasn’t kissed anyone in thirteen years. He’s out of practice, but Frenchie guides him through it, the world falling away around him, narrowing and pulling in until the only real thing is Frenchie, the press of his lips, the flutter of his pulse beneath Izzy’s fingers, the tugging of his hands in Izzy’s hair, the scrape of stubble, the electric shock that pulses through him when Frenchie’s tongue darts out to taste Izzy's split lip. 

 

They’re both shaking when they break away, too quickly in Izzy’s opinion, but Frenchie’s heard the gunshots getting closer when Izzy’d been too wrapped up in him to hear the sound. 

 

“I knew you liked me,” Frenchie says, nose scrunching as he smiles. 

 

Izzy should say something heartfelt, probably, a thank you at the very least, but his brain is short-circuiting somewhat, and he is still, at heart, a cantankerous bastard, so instead, he says-

 

“Don’t let it go to your head.” 

 

Frenchie doesn’t seem to mind, though. He laughs, in fact, and something deep in Izzy’s chest settles at the sound. 

 

“Ok, really, we do have to go though,” Frenchie says, and he’s right, the shots are getting louder and closer. 

 

“I’ll follow your lead,” Izzy says, and Frenchie grins at him, bright and blinding. He tosses him a pistol and some ammunition. 

 

“Figured you might need this. Gotta live up to the name, eh, Quickshot?”

 

They race through the train cars, away from the fight happening at the front, and Frenchie fills him in as they do. 

 

“John blew the track up, and Ed and Jackie and the Gallos are out front causing a distraction,” he says, talking almost too quickly for Izzy to understand. Two very young lawmen look at them with wide eyes as they run through one of the cars, and Frenchie sends them a quick salute, which they return, slowly and highly confused.

 

“And Stede’s waiting for us here-”

 

Frenchie throws the door open- and there’s no one there. He stops dead in his tracks, head whipping back and forth. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“Well, er, Stede was meant to be here,” Frenchie says, body blocking Izzy’s view. “But, well-”

 

Izzy cranes his neck, and he sees six horses tethered to a tree- but no sign of Bonnet, or anyone else, for that matter. 

 

“Fuck.” 



 

STEDE

 

“Keep walking,” Chauncey snaps. 

 

“We’re walking,” Stede says, in the most measured tone he possibly can. Chauncey had marched them up the path, away from the train, and now he’s walking them through the hills, gun still pressed into Lucius’s back. Stede can’t figure out where he’s taking them, why he didn’t just shoot him then and there. He doesn’t like it. 

 

“If you could just maybe move the gun up a bit, that would be fantastic, I've got this whole thing with my lower back-” Lucius says. Chauncey shoves him forward in response, and Lucius lets out a yelp. 

 

“Or not, that’s fine too-” 

 

“Calm down, Mr. Wavy Gun,” Stede snaps. 

 

“Stede, if we could not insult the gentleman who holds my life in his hands like a fragile little bird, that would be lovely,” Lucius snaps. 

 

“I’m no gentleman,” Chauncey scoffs. 

 

“Well, by birth you are,” Stede says. 

 

“Perhaps. My baby brother was more a gentleman than I ever was. I left that life behind me, in pursuit of my revenge.” 

 

The idea of Nigel as a gentleman is a nearly laughable one, but then, Stede supposes, Nigel always fit into polite society better than he himself ever did. 

 

“Speaking of your revenge, might I ask when you might be enacting that?” Stede asks. “I’m just curious how much further we may have to walk.” 

 

“I’d think you’d want this walk to last as long as possible,” Chauncey says, “given that your lives will end when it's finished.”

 

Lucius whimpers, and Stede grinds his jaw. 

 

“There’s no reason for both me and my man here to die,” Stede says. “Your quarrel is with me. Let him go.” 

 

“Oh no, I don’t think so. You’re all very self-sacrificing, in your little group, you know,” Chauncey says. “Very willing to lay down your lives for one another. So, no, I think I’ll keep your man right here as collateral. And I’ll kill him first. Then maybe you’ll know what it feels like, Bonnet, to lose someone you care for, in your last moments.” 

 

At those words, all the fear that Stede’s been feeling flees his body at once. It’s an eerie sensation, one of complete quiet, complete surety. It’s one he’s felt before. 

 

He looks around, taking stock of where they are. They’re close enough that they can still hear the shooting happening back at the train, and they’re nearing the top of a hill, though they're not quite there. There’s an outcropping of rocky terrain behind him, rising up like a wall, and a steep drop on the other side of Chauncey and Lucius. But he thinks he sees a path, on the far side of it. 

 

He can make it work. 

 

I’m about to do something a bit foolish, Ed, he thinks. I hope you can forgive me, darling, if it backfires. 

 

He fixes his eyes on Chauncey. 

 

“Do you want to know why I killed your brother?” 

 

The words hang in the air for a moment, before Chauncey’s head snaps around, eyes filled with shock and anger. 

 

“You admit-”

 

“Oh yes, I admit it. I killed him,” Stede says, the way one might comment on the weather. “Stabbed him through the eye. You see, Nigel made a very crucial mistake, Chauncey. Do you want to know what it was?” 

 

Lucius’s eyes are wide, and he’s shaking his head slightly, but Stede keeps a steady gaze on Chauncey’s face. 

 

“No? I’ll tell you anyway. Nigel came to my home, you know, that night. He came to my home, sat in my living room, and do you know what he did?” 

 

Chauncey’s nostrils flare. Something feral is rising in his face. 

 

“He threatened my family. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve just made the very same error.” 



 

ROACH

 

Roach is a dangerous man. At least, that’s what he’s been told all his life, even as a kid.  It's an odd thing, to be told you’re dangerous as a child, especially by other children when you’re just trying to make friends. He first heard it from a little girl who lived on the big ranch in the town he grew up in. His parents worked on that ranch, and two of his older brothers, and Roach was meant to work there when he got old enough. 

 

“I can’t play with you,” the little girl had said. He still remembers her pigtails, blonde and braided. “Papa says you’re dangerous. Your whole family is.” 

 

She’d skipped away, as though those words wouldn't define Roach for the rest of his days. He couldn’t for the life of him figure it out. His parents were kind people, good people. His brothers were hard workers. He himself was only six. What made them dangerous?

 

It wasn't until later in life (though not much later, really, the realities of the world found Roach at a young age) that he realized it was the color of his skin and his accent and the clothes he and his family wore that made them dangerous to people like the big family they worked for. It’s those same characteristics, his heritage, his culture, his ancestry, that would paint him as dangerous in the years before he actually became what they called him. It’s these characteristics that would cause lawmen like the ones he’s shooting at now to see him as a criminal, even when he was trying his best to eke out an honest living. That’s how he landed in jail the first time, accused of a crime he very much did not commit. After his escape, with a brand-new bullseye painted on his back, he’d figured he might as well lean into it.

 

Roach probably is a dangerous man now, though it's more due to his past as an outlaw and the skills he’s accumulated to keep himself alive than an inherent predisposition to crime or violence. He does like a bit of danger, and it shows. He can disembowel a cow with three precise swipes of a knife and a firm tug, and could probably do that to a person if he put his mind to it. Frenchie once described his laugh as “manic”.  So the air of danger is more accurate now than it was when he was a boy, at the very least. 

 

He still prefers to call himself a survivor, though. Every lesson he learned, every skill he’s accumulated, has all been transformed into something he can use to survive. Even his role on Stede’s ranch, his cooking and what Stede calls his “medical expertise”, all of that is a conglomeration of different skills, of different lives that Roach has led, from his time as a butcher to his time in service to standing at his mother’s side and stealing tastes from a pot on the stove to learning exactly where to shoot a man to ensure he bleeds out in the most efficient manner possible- 

 

It’s all been in the name of survival, of getting himself to a place where he can just live. So being a survivor rings more true in his soul than being dangerous. 

 

It’s why he calls himself Roach now, rather than his given name. In the orphanage he’d been shoved into after the loss of his parents, separated from his brothers and his sisters, he’d found that the roaches that infested the building were near-impossible to kill. You can stomp on them, you can try to poison them, you can try any number of things, but the roaches always come back.  The other children were frightened of them, but Roach was fascinated by the creatures. What made them so hard to kill? What drove them to keep living?

 

He never figured that out, no matter how hard he puzzled about it, but when he grew up and was given the opportunity to choose who he would be in this life, he’d introduced himself as Roach. And Roach he has been ever since. 

 

And he’s proving to be just as difficult for these lawmen to kill as a cockroach would be. He lets out a cackle as his bullet finds a new home in an officer’s chest, and ducks back behind the traincar.

 

“Oooh, good shot!” Swede’s voice sounds next to him. He and John had found Roach and Buttons halfway through their trek to investigate how Ed’s part of the plan was moving along. Swede’s not a great shot, so he and John are working as a team, lighting and tossing small explosives into the crowd, mostly on the outskirts so as to avoid hitting their own men. 

 

“Was this no meant to be a simple reconnaissance?” Buttons calls, but he’s got a similar gleam in his eyes. Roach has heard that Buttons once ripped a man’s throat out with his teeth. He’s wondering if they might see a repeat of that today.

 

“Sure, but Stede said we could have a little fun!” Roach calls back, ducking behind the train again. With so many bullets flying about, their presence has gone mostly unnoticed, though the explosions are beginning to draw a bit more attention than Roach is comfortable with. 

 

In truth, they should have gone back to Stede by now, but the situation is more dire than any of them had thought. Ivan and Pete are visibly injured, though they’re holding their own with Fang’s help. One of the Siete Gallos has fallen, dragged off to the side by his brothers, and Nicolás is shouting instruction onto seemingly deaf ears. Jim and Jackie are fighting side by side, each shot ringing true, but they’re tiring. And Ed and Hornigold are engaged in some kind of elaborate dance, Hornigold calling man after man to his side. Ed takes them out with shots to the knees, shots to the shoulders, to the arms, but for every man that falls Hornigold brings another two out, and Ed is getting frustrated. Frustration is deadly in a game like this. 

 

So they’d stuck around a moment, trying to thin the opposition however they could. 

 

But Buttons is right, so with a call, they begin the trek back to where Stede and the others, and, hopefully, Frenchie and Izzy will be waiting for them. If Izzy’s out, they can retreat back to one of Spanish Jackie’s hideouts, leaving the lawmen to lick their wounds. They have the advantage of the horses, while the lawmen are confined to the train for their transport, so they’ll be gone before they have a chance to tail them. 

 

He spots Frenchie and Izzy as they approach, and he grins. 

 

“Hey, you got the little bastard!” he calls. It takes him a moment to realize that Stede and Lucius are nowhere to be seen. 

 

“Where’s the boss?” John asks. 

 

“Dunno, mate,” Frenchie says. “Was just wondering the same. He’s not with you?” 

 

“Well, I don’t think so,” Swede says, sincerely looking around, like Stede might have been hiding behind him this whole time, just out of sight. 

 

“Fuck,” Izzy swears. “Of course fucking Bonnet-”

 

“Hey, hey,” Roach says, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t be saying shit about Stede. It was his idea to come and get your scrawny little ass.” 

 

That takes Izzy aback. He looks to Frenchie for confirmation. 

 

“Yeah, mate, this was Stede’s plan. I mean, I had input, so did Ed and Jackie, but the concept was his.” 

 

“Well, what now?” Roach asks. 

 

“I mean, the plan was to get you out of here,” Frenchie says, gesturing to Izzy. “Signal the others, have them fall back. Should we stick to that?” 

 

“Without the boss?” Buttons says. “I dunno, laddie. We’ve no leadership without him.” 

 

“Could help the others,” John suggests. 

 

“Yeah, I wouldn't mind taking some more shots at those fuckers up there,” Roach says with a shrug. “It’s not going so well for them.” 

 

“And then Stede would know where to find us,” Swede says earnestly. 

 

Frenchie frowns, lines creasing his forehead. “What d’you think, Iz?” 

 

Izzy sighs. “Ed’s up there, isn’t he? Doing something stupid?” 

 

“Sure is,” Roach confirms. “Trying to face down the big man, Hornigold, on his own.”

 

“Duty calls, then. Most of my job is stopping Ed from doing stupid things,” Izzy says, resigned.

 

Roach grins. “Then what are we waiting for?” 

 

They unhitch the horses, and Roach swings into the saddle. Izzy pauses at the sight of his horse. 

 

“You brought Shadow?” he asks to Frenchie in a low voice. 

 

“Yeah, figured you’d need him when we got you out,” Frenchie says, bumping him with his hip. Izzy smiles, small and private, and Roach looks away. 

 

“Yah!” he calls, urging his horse into a gallop. He lets out a holler as they crash into the fray, Swede yodeling along with him, and Roach relishes the look of fear on the faces of the lawmen. 

 

He doesn't mind being seen as dangerous, it turns out, as long as it’s these men that he’s a danger to. 



 

EDWARD

 

There’s something rising in Ed, something furious, something hungry, the longer Hornigold evades his grasp. He’s lost count of how many men he’s incapacitated, how many men Hornigold has sacrificed now to keep Ed from ending this fucking thing. Every time he gets close, every time Hornigold is nearly cornered, something else drags Ed away- a shout from Ivan, a pained groan from Pete, an order from Jackie, another man stepping in his way that Hornigold didn't summon. 

 

The fighting is thick, bullets whizzing in the air. Normally Ed would thrive here, or Blackbeard would, anyway, but fighting without Izzy by his side is like fighting without a limb. He feels half blind, half deaf, and not entirely clear-headed. 

 

Jim is by his side for a moment, cursing in Spanish as they reload, nearly dropping their pistol to sink a knife into the chest of an attacker, before dancing away, to Oluwande’s side. Oluwande’s skill isn’t quite up to Jim’s- very few are- but they fight with the practice and ease of two people who know each other so intimately they don't even need to speak to anticipate the other’s movements. 

 

Jackie takes out a man trying to get the drop on Ed with a hollered-

 

 “That’s another thing you owe me, Teach! I’ll be cashin’ in when this is all done!” 

 

Then she wheels around, letting out a war-cry, accompanied by a shriek from her pinto, who rears and brings its hooves down on one of the officer’s heads with a sickening crunch. 

 

One of the Siete Gallos takes a bullet to the shoulder and drops a few yards from him. Ed starts forward, but Nicolás is there like a shot, hauling the man up behind him on his horse. He’s a good leader, that kid, despite his age, looks out for his men-

 

His men. Where are Ed’s men? He’s been so focused on his advance towards Hornigold that they’ve been lost in the crowd. He tears his eyes from Hornigold’s smug expression and locates them- and his stomach drops. Ivan and Pete are nearly cornered, Fang fighting like a demon in front of them, Ivan and Pete getting off shots where they can, but they’re both injured, and Ivan’s torn between keeping Pete on his horse when his leg is threatening to give out and helping Fang fight. 

 

Ed hesitates. He looks back to Hornigold, who’s watching him impassively. He’s gathered more men to his side, forming a barrier around himself. 

 

Which will it be, Edward? His face says. Your revenge, or your men?

 

They stare at each other for one long moment, and Ed snarls, turning back to his cornered men. 

 

It’s them. If Ed has to make a choice, he chooses them. 

 

But just as he lifts his heels to urge Elizabeth forward, there’s a commotion back by the train. A loud holler and some sort of yodeling cuts through the air, and a group of officers leap to one side as six horses come crashing through their ranks. Headed by Roach and Swede, followed by Buttons and John, and finally, Frenchie and-

 

Izzy. 

 

Izzy finds him in the crowd at once, and jabs a finger at him before cottoning on to Ivan and Fang’s predicament. Ed can hear his voice over the din, whip-sharp and commanding. He dispatches the men cornering them with Roach and Frenchie’s help, firing three quick shots, like his namesake, and landing each of them. Ed finally regains his bearings, and with a snap of the reins he’s moving towards them. He stops some feet away, standing guard while Izzy barks orders. 

 

“Get these two the fuck out of here!” Ed hears Izzy call to Roach, who swings out of his saddle, leaping up behind Pete instead, since Pete can’t ride on his own with that leg. 

 

“I’m good, Iz, I’m fine,” Ivan insists, “I can stay-”

 

Izzy leans over, grabbing Ivan's uninjured arm. “Ivan. Get out of here. You’ve done well, no point getting yourself killed by being fucking stubborn.” 

 

Ivan opens his mouth as if to protest more, but one look from Izzy silences him. 

 

“I’m glad you’re ok, Iz,” he says instead, with a grin. “Dunno what we’d do without you here to insult us.” 

 

“Someone has to do it,” Izzy says, corner of his mouth quirking up. “Now go.” 

 

Roach taps the rump of Pete’s horse, and rides off, a litany of “ow, ow, ow, ow, ow” coming from Pete as they ride. 

 

“Stop being such a baby, it’s just a little gunshot,” Roach says. 

 

“It really hurts!” 

 

Izzy looks at Frenchie, a pleading sort of expression on his face. “I don’t suppose you’ll go with them?” 

 

Frenchie snorts. “No chance. Tell me what you need.” 

 

“Ed,” Izzy calls, and  Ed trots over. 

 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Iz?” he demands. “You were supposed to leave with Stede, that was the whole plan.” 

 

“We don’t know where Bonnet is,” Izzy says. “He wasn’t at the meeting point. And I wasn’t about to let you do something this stupid on your own, Ed.” 

 

He jerks his head towards Hornigold, who still stands behind his human shield. They’re starting to move backwards, away from the fray, and Ed knows they have to move quickly if they have a chance of ending this once and for all. 

 

But-

 

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know where Stede is?” he asks. 

 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Frenchie chimes in. “Shit happens on raids. But it’s Stede. Dude’s the luckiest guy I’ve ever met. I think he has blackmail material on a witch. It’ll backfire one day, but for now he’s good.” 

 

Ed’s heart is beating way too fast, and he’s looking around like Stede might pop up out of nowhere, looking for that golden head and that ringing voice-

 

“Ed,” Izzy says, forcing him to look at him. “What do you want to do? Do you want to look for Bonnet, or get to Hornigold?” 

 

To Ed’s surprise, there's no judgment in Izzy’s eyes at either of those options, and that alone is enough to calm him, at least somewhat.

 

He’ll have to trust Stede, trust that he’s capable enough and smart enough to stay out of trouble.  If he goes on a wild goose chase now, they lose Hornigold, and this starts all over again. The sooner they end this, the sooner he finds Stede, and the more likely it will be that Stede will be safe.

 

He holds a hand out to Izzy. 

 

“Together?” 

 

Izzy grins. He grasps Ed’s hand, forearms pressing together, elbows bumping. 

 

“Together.” 

 

Ed looks around, taking stock of the situation. 

 

“Coal dust?” he asks. 

 

To anyone else, it's a nonsensical phrase, but Izzy will know instantly what he’s talking about. It’s one of their more daring fuckeries, one they’d used to cover their tracks in an old mining community once. It’s a bitch to pull off, but the way Ed sees it, they don’t have all that many options. 

 

“We got enough explosives?” Izzy asks. 

 

“Feeney! How many explosives you have on you?” Ed asks. 

 

“Well, let’s see here,” John says, patting at his clothes and his saddlebags. He begins to pull out an absolutely comical amount of explosives- small handheld ones, sticks of dynamite, some that Ed has never seen before in his life. “I’d say enough to take that train down, if I use ‘em right.” 

 

“I want you setting charges, there, there, and there-” Izzy says, pointing out various locations on the hill. “Can you detonate all at once?” 

 

“If I've got Swede and Buttons we can coordinate,” John says. 

 

“Good. Frenchie, can you get to Jackie? Tell her to pull her men back behind the train, quick as she can. Tell her to fire a shot into the glass of the engine car when they’re there. That’ll be your cue to detonate, Feeney.” 

 

“Sure thing, Iz,” Frenchie says with a nod. “What should I tell her we’re doing?”

 

“We’re causing a landslide,” Ed says. “Or you are, anyway. Izzy and I have some unfinished business.”

 

“This next bit’s important,” Izzy says, drawing Frenchie’s attention back. “When the explosives go off, you need to be behind the train. Whatever men don’t get fucked by the landslide, Jackie and the Gallos need to chase into the hills. We need them dispersed so we have time to get out of here.” 

 

“Got it.” 

 

John, the Swede, and Buttons set out. Frenchie lingers a moment, grabbing Izzy’s wrist. 

 

“Be careful, Izzy.” 

 

“You too,” Izzy murmurs, squeezing Frenchie’s wrist in return. They share a long look before Frenchie gallops off in Jackie’s direction. 

 

“So that’s all settled, then?” Ed asks. 

 

“Don’t fucking start with me, Edward,” Izzy says, but there’s no real bite to it. “Let’s kill that old bastard.” 

 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Ed says. He reloads, spinning the cylinder before snapping it back into place. “Good to have you back, Iz.” 

 

“Good to be back, boss.” 



 

STEDE

 

“Your family?” Chauncey barks out, a hint of bitter laughter mixed with the words. “What does someone like you know about family?” 

 

“More than you do, I’m quite certain,” Lucius snaps. Chauncey glares at him, and Lucius shrinks back. 

 

“Perhaps my notion of a family doesn’t fit with yours, no,” Stede says quickly, drawing Chauncey’s attention back to him. “But these people are my family. This man in front of you is my family. If I would kill your brother to protect my family back then, what do you think I’ll do to you now?” 

 

“You don’t know the meaning of the word family, Stede Bonnet.  How could you? Someone like you, who brings the people around you to ruin. You ruined your family  back home. Your wife lives in sin with a painter,” Chauncey spits out. “Blackbeard tried to sacrifice himself for you. The most feared outlaw in the west, and you made him into a sniveling coward.  And now your family, the one you’re so keen to protect,  is being picked off, one by one, in an attempt to save Israel Hands. You ruin everything you touch, Bonnet. You spoil people.” 

 

Stede’s breathing picks up, and he can feel unwilling tears pricking at his eyes. There’s a ring of truth to it, to what he says, and for a moment, Stede believes it-

 

Then he sees Lucius, by Chauncey’s side, hands still raised in surrender, sees him shake his head, ever so slightly, lips upturned-

 

And he thinks of Mary and Doug, of the happiness that suffuses her face when she looks at him, thinks of the way Doug dotes on Alma and Louis like they’re his own. He thinks of his new family, of Lucius and Pete living in peace, happy and together, thinks of Roach and John and Frenchie laughing in the kitchen on early mornings over cups of coffee, thinks of Swede and Buttons conversing in a language he doesn’t understand while grooming the horses, thinks of Jim and Oluwande stealing glances and Oluwande’s companionship and how even standoffish Jim grew more and more comfortable over the months they spent at the Lighthouse Ranch. He thinks of Israel and Frenchie, of the unexpected connection they formed and the way Israel’s eyes linger on Frenchie when he’s not looking, and the way Frenchie’s teasing is tinged with gentleness. 

 

And he thinks of Ed, of the man Chauncey claims Stede has transformed into a sniveling coward. He thinks of Ed’s attempted sacrifice and the bravery that took. He thinks of how gently Ed kissed him that first time, thinks of the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, of his silhouette in the moonlight, of his hands on Stede’s hips, of the clutch of his fingers around Stede’s own, of the way he curled on Stede’s chest that night, the beating of his heart and quiet confessions and the sound of his laugh and the way Stede fits with Ed, like he’s never fit anywhere before. 

 

If that’s ruin, he’ll choose ruin every single time, and damn the consequences. 

 

He smiles. 

 

“You’re wrong, Chauncey,” he says, quiet but firm. “I don’t think you’ll ever know just how wrong you are.” 

 

Chauncey’s face contorts, furious, baffled, unhinged, and he raises his gun. 

 

“Tell that to your maker, Bonnet. You’ll be seeing him soon enough.” 

 

He cocks his pistol. Stede takes a deep breath, and as his trigger finger begins to flex, Stede moves, ducking, grabbing Lucius and flinging them both to the side, over the rock outcropping. 

 

“Oh my GOD!” Lucius shrieks as they fall, but Stede has aimed well, and they roll down a smooth incline, instead of off the steep drop just to their left. 

 

Stede hears the gun go off, and then a pained yell from Chauncey. He and Lucius roll to a stop, Lucius still repeating oh my god oh my god oh my god in a sort of whisper-scream, and Stede quickly gets to his feet, crouching over Lucius, who is likely incapable of moving at the moment. 

 

Chauncey appears over the crest of the hill, teetering, clutching his side. The bullet must have ricocheted, Stede realizes, off of the rock wall that had been behind him when Chauncey fired. It had hit Chauncey instead of him. 

 

He’s still staggering towards them, still swearing even as blood seeps through his clothes. 

 

“You won’t- I’ll have my revenge!” he shrieks, shrill as a whistle.  “I’ll have my revenge, Bonnet, mark my words! I’ll kill you, you bastard, you monster, you abomination-” 

 

Stede looks around desperately for a weapon, settling on a rock- he’s never bashed a man’s head in, but there’s a first time for everything-

 

But he doesn’t need it. Chauncey, off balance and bleeding, is so fixated on Stede that he barely seems to see the steep drop of the cliff. The only path to Stede and Lucius is the one that Stede took, and it’s narrow, only about two meters across. When Chauncey steps forward, he misses it, and he steps into thin air. 

 

He seems to hover there for a moment, though that’s likely Stede's imagination, confused- and then he plummets to the ground. He doesn’t even scream. The sound of his body cracking against the rocks below echoes like a shot, and the silence that follows is so heavy Stede can barely breathe under the weight of it. 

 

It’s Lucius that breaks it. 

 

“Is it- is it over? Is he dead?” he stutters out, face white as a ghost. 

 

“Well, I- it’s quite a fall. I would think-” 

 

Stede crawls to the edge of the cliff, and looks down. Given the puddle of blood surrounding Chauncey now, and the position of his limbs…

 

“Yes, I would say he’s quite dead,” Stede finishes.  

 

Lucius looks a bit ill, but manages not to vomit. 

 

“I am never, ever, leaving the ranch again. I hope you know that,” Lucius says. Stede’s shoulders shake, and he’s not sure if he’s laughing or crying. He’s not sure if it matters. 

 

“Well, it’s not over quite yet, my friend,” he says, getting to his feet shakily. “Our men are still out there.” 

 

The mention of Pete is enough to get Lucius to his feet as well. He raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Our men?” he asks archly.

 

“Oh, don’t start,” Stede says. “I imagine they’ve gotten Israel out now. I hope our absence hasn’t thrown off the plan too horribly.” 

 

The two of them walk as quickly as they can, towards the gunshots. 

 

“He was wrong, you know,” Lucius says, partway through the walk. “About you ruining things.” 

 

Stede stiffens slightly, and forces himself to relax. “That’s kind of you to say.” 

 

“Ok, but I’m not just saying it, though,” Lucius says with a roll of his eyes. “I mean it. My life is like, a thousand times better than it was before I met you. We’d all say that.” 

 

Stede swallows around a lump in his throat. “Even now, do you think?” 

 

“Even now,” Lucius confirms. “You gave us a home. You gave us a family. Most of us didn't have that before we found you. I know I didn’t. And now I have- oh my god. Pete.” 

 

Stede frowns. “Why did you say it like-”

 

But Lucius has taken off in a sprint, faster than Stede has ever seen the man move before, and it's only then that he sees the three figures appearing at the top of a hill. He takes off after Lucius immediately. 

 

“Hey, there you two are!” Roach calls. “What the fuck you doing up here?” 

 

He’s holding Pete up from behind, while Ivan rides alongside them. 

 

“Pete! I swear to god- !” Lucius calls, stumbling, still moving even as he pulls himself up. He skids to a stop next to the horse. His face pales at the sight of the blood matting Pete’s pant leg. Lucius has never been good with blood, but he pushes through it. 

 

“Hi babe,” Pete says, sheepishly. 

 

“What did I say? I said not a scratch!” 

 

“I tried, love, really, but bullets are kind of fast.” 

 

“I-you-” Lucius stammers, then looks to Roach. “Is he ok?” 

 

“It’s just a little bullet wound, man, I don’t know why everyone’s being such babies about it.” 

 

“Yes or no,” Lucius hisses. 

 

“Yeah, he’ll be fine, he’ll just need some stitches. It didn’t even hit anything important.”

 

Lucius claps a hand to his chest with a sigh, his other hand still resting on Pete’s calf. “Ok, switch with me.” 

 

“Can you hold him up, with those little arms?” Roach teases. 

 

“I can hold him up perfectly fine, thank you,” Lucius bites back. Roach dismounts, Pete steadying himself on the horse's neck, and Lucius clambers up in Roach’s stead, wrapping his arms around Pete’s middle. He kisses him once, twice, three times. 

 

“The second I am done nursing you back to health, I’m going to kill you,” he mutters. 

 

“Ok, babe, sure thing. The nursing part sounds nice. Kind of hot.” 

 

“Oh, shut up,” Lucius says, but he’s smiling in relief. 

 

“Roach, Ivan, what’s going on down there?” Stede asks. 

 

“Eh, you might wanna get down there, boss. It's not great,” Roach says, swinging himself up behind Ivan with an astounding amount of grace. “Ed and Izzy told me to get these two out, patch them up. We’re heading to Jackie’s hideout. They’re going after Hornigold, I think.” 

 

“Izzy’s out? Why aren’t the others falling back?” Stede demands. “That was the plan!” 

 

“Change of plan,” Ivan says, wincing as Roach bumps his arm. “It’s got a bit messy down there. If we fall back now they’ll chase us, it’ll be a whole thing. Iz has a plan, I’m sure, he always does.” 

 

“Here,” Roach says, unhitching Halifax from where Ivan’s been leading him. “Get down there. They’re gonna need a bit of genius before this is all done, I think. What the hell are you guys doing up here, anyway?” 

 

Stede nods in appreciation, taking Halifax’s reins and the pistol Ivan offers him, and swings himself into the saddle. 

 

“Oh, we got kidnapped by Stede’s psychotic arch-enemy. He’s dead now,” Lucius says distractedly. 

 

“You got kidnapped?” Pete demands, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. 

 

“Out of the two of us, which has the gunshot wound?” Lucius says pointedly. “Priorities, babe.” 

 

They’re still bickering when Stede kicks Halifax into a trot, then a gallop. Now that his part in the plan is complete, and the plan seems to have gone off the rails entirely, the only thing that matters is getting to Ed before something awful happens. 

 

We’re both going to be all right, he tells himself firmly, echoing Ed’s words from earlier that morning. Both of us. We haven't come this far for our time to be cut short now. 




 

FRENCHIE

 

Frenchie hates this plan. He hates it so much. He’s been in his fair share of shoot-outs, but really, he’s much more in his element with subterfuge and espionage and the like, not in the middle of what feels like an all out war. He’s not the best shot, never really got the hang of guns beyond a rudimentary grasp, and every single bang makes him startle. But he has to get to Jackie. 

 

He finds her, as expected, in the center of the action, Nicolás at her side, wielding two pistols with equal skill and shouting instructions to her men at the same time. Her hat’s been shot off her head, and her hair is wild, face smudged with dirt. 

 

“Jackie!” he hollers. He has to try a couple times to get her attention, and he nearly gets shot for the effort. 

 

“Who the fuck are you?” she calls back. 

 

“Come on, man, I’m Frenchie! I’m one of Stede’s blokes!”

 

Jackie motions him into the circle that’s been created by her and Nicolás’s combined efforts. 

 

“What?” 

 

“You need to get your men behind the train. We’re blowing up the hill.” 

 

Nicolás lets out a startled laugh. “You’re what?” 

 

“Yeah, my buddy John’s a whiz with explosives, he’s gonna blow up the hill and cause a landslide and then we need to disperse these fuckers after that, but you need to get behind the train to keep your guys safe,” Frenchie explains, quick as he can. 

 

“You people are fucking insane,” Jackie says. “I love it. All right, we’ll get ‘em, just might take a second.” 

 

“I’ll spread the news too,” Frenchie says. Jackie and Nicolás turn, wading deeper into the fight, when Frenchie nearly smacks his forehead at his forgetfulness. 

 

“When you get all your guys there, shoot the glass out of the engine car! That’s John’s signal!” 

 

“Got it!” Jackie says. 

 

Frenchie continues his mission, dodging bullets, taking out a few guys, and finally happens upon Jim, blood smeared on their clothes, noticeably missing a horse. 

 

“Fucker threw me and bolted!” they call. Frenchie grins and extends a hand. They take it, swinging up behind him and positioning themselves backwards, so they can continue shooting. Frenchie explains the plan, earning himself a thump on the back courtesy of Jim’s enthusiasm about it. They continue on until they find Oluwande, and then they fall back. Frenchie just hopes there’s no more of their people in the fray. He doesn't think so, but he does a mental tally anyway. 

 

Fang’s with Jackie, he can see him, Ivan and Pete are off with Roach for medical care, Buttons and Swede and John are on ‘explode the hill’ duty, Stede and Lucius are missing in action already, and Ed and Izzy are facing off with Hornigold, but they’ll be out of the way of the landslide. That’s everyone accounted for, so they head back towards the engine car, ducking behind it with the others. It’s taking  a while, as expected, to round everyone up, given that everyone is engaged in various stages of shoot-outs. Jim tracks Nicolás’s movement through the crowd anxiously, and only Olu’s hand on their arm can calm them enough to not charge in after him. 

 

Frenchie seeks Izzy out, and he finds him at once. He’s never seen Izzy in action before, but fuck if he isn’t a sight. He and Ed fight like bats out of hell, perfectly in sync, like the pistols are extensions of their own bodies, Izzy especially. Frenchie doesn't see him miss a single shot, keeping Ed covered while he reloads. Gunsmoke filters through the air around him, eyes flashing like the sun off of newly polished metal. 

 

He’s fucking breathtaking. 

 

Frenchie nearly cheers when he takes out two men with a single shot, but he thinks maybe he should keep it a bit more lowkey than that. But his rapt attention does alert him to the man sneaking up behind Izzy, in one of his blindspots. 

 

“Oh, shit,” he mutters. He flips out the cylinder of his own pistol, checking how many shots he has left- he really doesn't have the attention span to count bullets as he shoots them, not the way Izzy does-and finds he has two. 

 

Jim catches on to the predicament. 

 

Frenchie, hermanito , you’re a shit shot, let me-” 

 

But Frenchie’s already firing, and by some stroke of luck or act of god, his bullet flies true, burying itself in the back of the man trying to sneak up on Izzy. The man shouts, catching Izzy’s attention, and he whirls, finishing him off. His eyes find Frenchie across the crowd, and his mouth drops open a bit in surprise. Frenchie winks. 

 

“What’s that you were saying, Jim?” Frenchie asks, turning back to them with a grin. “Who can’t shoot? Who’s a shit shot?” 

 

Jim shakes their head fondly, then their eyes snap to something behind him. The blood drains from their face, and they raise their hands like they’re about to shove him. 

 

Something white-hot and searing slams into his left shoulder. It knocks him off balance, dropping him to his knees. 

 

“Frenchie!” Jim shouts. 

 

He raises a shaking hand, only to see it covered in blood, running from the wound and down his arm like water through the cracks in a bad bucket. 

 

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh, that’s a lot of blood.” 

 

Jim is kneeling in front of him, shouting something frantic to Oluwande, ripping their coat off to try to staunch the bleeding. He can’t make out what they’re saying, over the ringing in his ears. 

 

He slumps forward, and Jim just manages to catch him. 

 

“Stay with me, come on, stay with me,” Jim orders, face pale and frightened. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Jim scared before. 

 

He doesn't like what that implies. 


His vision is fading somewhat and his mind is getting fuzzy with the pain and the bloodloss, but something in the back of his brain tells him that Izzy is close. He wants to turn, to try to see him, but he can't move his head. 

 

He can only hope that Izzy comes to him instead. Just for one more look. 

 

IZZY

 

Izzy huffs in frustration, reloading again. Hornigold’s a slippery bastard, he’s always known that much, but for fuck’s sake, can the man stand his ground for one second so Izzy can sink a bullet in his skull? Can he not hide behind other men like a fucking coward for one second? Can he do him that favor after all the fucking trouble he’s caused the past five years? Can’t one thing be fucking easy?

 

“Fucking guy,” Ed exclaims in exasperation. 

 

“Where does he find these fuckers?” Izzy demands. “How fucking many of them are there?” 

 

“Fuck knows!” Ed shouts back. “He’s been doing this the whole fucking time!” 

 

“Should we split up? Divide and conquer?” Izzy asks. He knows they’ve got people watching their back now from the train, Jim and Frenchie (he didn’t think Frenchie could shoot, actually, that’s what everyone said, but that had been a hell of a shot he made a second ago), so he’s less concerned about leaving Ed’s side than he usually would be. 

 

“Maybe-” Ed says, but he’s interrupted by another round of shots. They’re so close that Izzy’s ears ring as he ducks, drowning out all other sound. 

 

“Izzy! Get your fucking ass over here, Hands!” 

 

Izzy fires off another shot before he starts to turn, barely registering the alarm on Ed’s face. It’s Oluwande yelling for him, and he frowns. 

 

“What the fuck is it?” he hollers back. There's something wrong with the picture in front of him, but he can’t figure it out.

 

“Izzy, go, go now!” Ed orders, slapping Shadow’s rump, sending him reeling forward. 

 

Then his eyes land on the figure on his knees, and the blood surrounding him, and Izzy’s entire world crumbles. Shadow tramples an officer lying on the ground with a broken leg and he can’t bring himself to fucking care. His foot catches in his stirrup  as he dismounts, and he nearly face-plants, would have if it weren't for Oluwande catching him, shoving him towards Frenchie-

 

Frenchie, who's swaying on his knees, Frenchie, who has what looks like a fountain of blood pouring from a chest wound, Frenchie, whose usually alert, bright eyes are dull and glazed and disconnected. Izzy stumbles, falling to his knees beside him, reaching for him with shaking hands, steadying him on his other shoulder, cupping his face. 

 

“Frenchie. Frenchie, look- look at me,” he says, and Frenchie sort of does, a small hint of recognition flashing across those glazed eyes. It hits Izzy like he’s the one that’s been shot, those dim eyes, far, far too close to how Charles’s eyes had looked in the brief moment he and Izzy had made eye contact before his neck snapped.

 

“Hey, Quick- Iz-” he mumbles. 

 

“Fuck. Fuck ,” Izzy says under his breath. He’s frozen. He’s fucking frozen, like some kind of kid who’s never seen combat before, not a seasoned outlaw with more kills than he can count under his belt. He’s barely aware of Jimenez beside him, shouting something at him.

 

There’s nothing he can do. If he could slit his own throat and pour his blood into Frenchie’s body to replace what he’s lost he’d do it in a heartbeat, and he’d thank whatever god is out there for the opportunity to do so. If he could go back in time and make Hornigold shoot him at the very moment he gave himself up ,he would do it, he would move mountains, rearrange the heavens if he could, anything to keep Frenchie from arriving at  this place at this moment- but as it is, he’s helpless, just like he was thirteen years ago.

 

No. No, not again. Not again, he won’t do this again, he won’t sit back and watch as Frenchie dies, he won’t-

 

Strong hands haul him to his feet, and he’s faced with Spanish Jackie, who slaps him across the face. 

 

“Fuck are you doing?” she demands. “Get him the hell out of here!” 

 

“Where- Roach, where-” Izzy stammers out. 

 

“Hideout,” Jim supplies. “Jackie-” 

 

“Listen to me, Hands, your doctor went to one of my hideouts. You take that trail and you follow it for two miles, then you turn-” 

 

Izzy listens intently, committing the directions to memory, because Frenchie’s life depends on it, and if Frenchie’s life depends on it he can put aside the gaping pain that's blossoming in his own chest, borne of terror and old and new loss mixed together, he can push that aside long enough to get Frenchie to someone who can actually help, who might have a shot at saving him. Jim’s fashioned some kind of sling-bandage thing around the wound, and they and Oluwande lift Frenchie onto Shadow in front of Izzy when he mounts again, instructing him to keep pressure on the wound as they ride. 

 

“We’ll cover you, don’t worry about the lawmen, just get him out of here,” Jim says. Izzy couldn’t worry about the lawmen if he fucking tried, but he nods anyway, and urges Shadow forward. 

 

Izzy and Shadow have been riding together for a long time now, and Shadow barely needs any instruction from him as he gallops forward, leaving Izzy free to focus on keeping as much blood in Frenchie’s body as he possibly can, only directing the horse at turns. Frenchie’s barely conscious, but Izzy talks to him anyway, trying to elicit any sort of response. He gets none. 

 

“I asked you to leave,” Izzy says desperately when all else fails, blinking tears out of his eyes. “I asked you to fucking go with the others, why didn’t you listen-” 

 

A sob wracks through his chest, and strangely enough, it's this that gets a response- a tiny one, insignificant to anyone who isn’t desperately trying to keep a loved one alive. Frenchie’s fingers flex around Izzy’s, where he has their hands pinned against the wound. Little more than a twitch, but it's enough, and Izzy urges Shadow into a full out sprint, nearly colliding into the hideout that Jackie described. Roach comes rushing out, face blanching when he sees Frenchie. 

 

“Holy shit-” 

 

“Help him,” Izzy begs. “Help him, please-” 

 

Roach shouts, and Spriggs comes out, looking a little green at the sight of so much blood, but he grabs Frenchie’s legs and helps Roach carry him inside. Izzy stays, frozen, on Shadow’s back, until Ivan comes out, a sling around his arm. 

 

“Come on, Iz,” he says gently, tugging on Izzy’s arm until he dismounts. He starts to guide him inside, but Izzy balks. 

 

“I can’t-” he says in a harsh whisper. “I can’t- not again- if he- Ivan, if he-” 

 

He’s breathing way too fast and his hands are covered in Frenchie’s blood and he can’t stop staring at the door Frenchie has vanished through. Ivan lays a hand on his chest, eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

 

“I can’t watch him die,'' Izzy gasps out. “I can’t watch him die-” 

 

“Would you rather wait out here?” Ivan asks. It's not a judgemental question, he seems sincere, but the thought of that is horrible too, waiting outside in some kind of limbo to learn whether or not Frenchie is going to live. It’s Frenchie who’s in danger, not Izzy, Izzy’s fine, so why does it feel like he’s the one dying instead? He should be able to do this, should be able to be strong when Frenchie can’t be, but he’s weak, horribly, pathetically weak in the face of this.

 

Izzy shakes his head rapidly, but he can’t quite bring himself to take those few steps into the hideout. Lucius appears, mouth pursed sympathetically, and says-

 

“You will hate yourself forever if you aren’t with him.” 

 

“Is he-” Izzy can't bring himself to finish the question. 

 

“Roach is damn good at what he does. I’m choosing to be optimistic. But either way, you’re going to want to be there. If- when he wakes up, he’s going to want you there.”

 

And if not, you’ll have to say goodbye. 

 

Lucius’s eyes glitter for a moment before he brushes the unshed tears away. “Come on.” 

 

He holds out a hand, and after a moment, Izzy takes it, clutching at it like a lifeline. 

 

We all love Frenchie, Lucius had said. Izzy is not the only one who would mourn Frenchie, not the only one waiting on pins and needles to learn his fate. For a moment, that sparks something jealous in him, something possessive, but it fades quickly, because Frenchie deserves to be surrounded by as much love as he can get, more love than Izzy alone can give him, especially now. 

 

And other people loving Frenchie means Izzy’s not alone in this, he doesn't have to carry this by himself this time, not like Charles- whatever the outcome. 

 

He sends up a prayer, a sincere one, a desperate one, and hopes that it finds a more loving god than the one Izzy has known all his life. 

 

Please don’t take him from me. 

 

And he lets Lucius tug him in, Ivan at his side, to stand vigil as Frenchie fights for his life. 




 

EDWARD

 

Boom. 

 

The hill breaks like something is hatching from it, dirt and rocks raining down on their heads, cracks forming in the sunbaked ground before sliding off like snow from a roof. If Ed was superstitious, if Ed didn’t know the cause of the explosion was John Feeney, and not the hand of God, or the Devil reaching up from hell to drag them all down- well, he thinks he’d be sending up prayers too, like many of the men seem to be. 

 

They scatter like ants. 

 

“Come back here, you cowards!” Hornigold screams at the backs of his retreating men. His human shield is gone. 

 

It’s just the two of them now. Just Ed and Hornigold. Izzy has fled with Frenchie in his arms, Stede is still missing in action, and Ed is alone. But maybe that’s how it was meant to be, how it should have been all along. This is Ed’s battle, after all. No one else’s. 

 

Hornigold turns to him, slowly, his hand falling on his pistol. There’s a long moment where they just stare at one another, maybe really seeing each other now, for the first time in five years, without the shadows of the past casting strange lights on one another. 

 

Hornigold looks older. He looks like he’s aged 20 years in a matter of seconds, his illusion of power stripped away. Ed wonders what Hornigold sees in him. Does he still see that 15 year old boy he snatched up out of the street all those years ago? Does he see Ed in his prime, at 25, bright eyed and vicious as a dog? Or does he see him as he is now, tired and angry and fundamentally changed?

 

He supposes it doesn't matter. 

 

“Let’s finish this,” he calls over the din. “You and me.” 

 

“Was there ever another option, Edward?” Hornigold calls back. A ghost of a smile touches Ed’s face. 

 

No, he thinks. There never really was. 

 

They move at the same time, hands flying to their guns, and they pull the trigger almost in the same instant. 

 

Ed’s shot goes wide, grazing Hornigold’s shoulder instead of hitting his chest. Hornigold’s shot goes wide as well, but Elizabeth, such an advantage in the fight previously, proves to be a tremendous liability. Not her fault, she’s a good old girl, but the bullet whizzes too close to her ear and she spooks, throwing Ed and running. Ed hits the ground so hard the world goes white, head cracking against the dirt. 

 

When his vision clears, Hornigold comes into focus above him, pistol pointed directly at his head. Ed scrambles backwards, the best he can, but he still can’t breathe properly and he thinks he has a couple broken ribs, and he’s shaky from the pain, so it’s less of a retreat and more of a delay of the inevitable. Hornigold has only to take a couple steps forward, and that’ll be it. No Izzy to save him, no Stede to swoop in, no Ivan, no Fang, no Blackbeard, just Edward Teach and the man who made him.

 

So when he hears a voice call his name, he almost doesn’t believe it. 

 

“Edward!” 

 

But that’s Stede’s voice, he realizes, Stede, who has appeared out of thin air astride Halifax, eyes wide and frightened, galloping towards them like a man possessed. 

 

Hornigold turns, and his eyes burn, gleeful and cruel. He removes the pistol from Ed’s forehead, aiming it at Stede as he bears down on them. 

 

“No!” Ed shouts, reaching up, hand closing around Hornigold’s wrist just as he fires. He’s thrown off Hornigold’s aim, he’s sure of it-

 

But Stede falls. He slides out of the saddle, dropping to the ground. Halifax veers away, leaving Stede’s body in the dust. 

 

The scream that leaves Ed’s throat is raw, ripping at his vocal cords. He can’t comprehend what he’s seeing, can’t fathom Stede’s body on the ground, Stede’s laugh gone from the world, those whiskey brown eyes closed forever-

 

He reaches for him futilely, vision blurring with tears. He barely notices Hornigold’s gun pressed to his temple again, metal still warm from the gunshot that took Stede’s life-

 

If he barely noticed that, he can’t really be blamed for not noticing the lack of blood surrounding Stede’s body. 

 

When Stede moves, he thinks it's an apparition, or maybe Stede’s ghost coming to haunt him for failing to save his life. Or maybe he’s coming to escort him to the afterlife by his side. After all, Ed doubts he’ll be around long enough to haunt. 

 

But Stede’s ghost is raising a gun, and there’s a fury on his face. There’s a sharp blast, and Hornigold hollers, dropping his pistol into Ed’s lap, clutching at his hand, which now sports a bleeding, gaping hole in its palm. 

 

Ed acts on instinct. He kicks Hornigold’s feet out from under him, knocking him to the ground, and rises, spinning Hornigold’s pistol in his fingers before holding it to the man’s forehead. He’s panting, and his hat has fallen off, and he’s more disheveled than Ed has ever seen him.

 

But Hornigold doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is Stede, getting to his feet, shaking the dust from his hair, walking to Ed’s side. Ed scans him desperately. There’s a patch of blood on the side of his shirt, but it’s nowhere near enough blood to signal danger, to signal death. He must have been just grazed, must have played it up to catch Hornigold off guard, because of course Stede would be able to think on his feet in the split second between a gun being fired and having to react to a wound. 

 

Stede smiles at him, bright and blinding and beautiful and alive, and Ed could fucking cry. 

 

He doesn’t, but it's a close call. 

 

“Nice shot,” he says instead. 

 

“Thank you!” Stede says cheerfully. “I learned from the best.” 

 

His smile fades as he looks to Hornigold, still swearing on the ground, clutching at his hand. 

 

“Is it quite awful to say I hope that hurts something terrible?” 

 

Ed snorts. 

 

“Nah, I hope so too.”

 

He turns to Hornigold. “Does it hurt, you fucker?” 

 

“Fuck you,” Hornigold spits out. “Fuck the both of you. What- how did-” 

 

He’s staring around, outraged, at the chaos surrounding them, Jackie’s men chasing the remaining officers into the hills with wild cheers, the half-exploded hill, the landslide that buried the tracks and half of Hornigold’s men along with it, the stopped train and the demolished tracks a few miles back, and he laughs, looking insane with it. Hornigold was always so unflappable, unbreakable, and here he is, cracking under the strain, under the sheer absurdity that can only come from someone like Stede Bonnet or Edward Teach. It’s so different from the man that Ed knows, the man that Ed worshiped, that Ed can’t believe he’s looking at the same person. 


“Who the fuck thinks of this?” Hornigold cackles breathlessly. 

 

“Well, the bit at the beginning was my idea, but I can’t take credit for the rest,” Stede says modestly. “That landslide was a bit of genius. Who thought of that?” 

 

“That was me. With some help from John,” Ed supplies. 

 

“Ah. I’m going to have to give John a raise, I think.” 

 

“He deserves it, man, he’s a fucking artist-” 

 

“Will you kindly shut up!” Hornigold snaps. “If you’re going to kill me, Edward, just do it.” 

 

“Oh, I am,” Ed says, pulling back the hammer of the pistol. “But first you’re going to tell me why.” 

 

Hornigold scoffs, incredulous. “Why what?” 

 

“Why'd you do it? Turn, all those years ago? Why hunt me?” 

 

He sounds like a fucking child, and he hates it, but in a way, he supposes he is. He is a child asking his father why he hit his mother, why he hit him , and receiving no answer. He is a child asking why they can’t have nice things, and receiving no answer. He is a child screaming at the world, demanding to know why it takes and takes and takes from him, and gives and gives and gives to everyone else- and receiving no answer. 

 

He wants an answer now. He deserves an answer now.

 

“Oh, Edward,” Hornigold says, curling his lip in disgust. “Have you been wondering all this time?” 

 

Ed doesn’t answer, standing stock still. 

 

“You have, haven’t you? All these years, and you never knew why.” Hornigold shakes his head. “I suppose, the least I could do, is to tell you-” 

 

He stops, and Ed, in spite of himself, leans in. 

 

“-is to tell you that you will never know. You will wonder for the rest of your life, Edward, and I hope it haunts you into your fucking grave.” 

 

Ed presses the barrel of the pistol harder against his forehead, and Hornigold leans into it, something cruel and awful glittering in his eyes, the same thing he saw in his father’s eyes before he raised a hand to himself or his mother. 

 

Edward Teach knew his father was a bad, bad man. He didn’t want Hornigold to be a bad, bad man, too. He’d thought he’d escaped, that he could leave the ghost of his father in the past. Leave it to him to find the same man again, to attach himself to him, just in another form. 

 

Ed’s chest heaves, and his hands shake, and that awful thing is rising up in his chest again, that horrible feeling of helplessness that he felt just before he killed his father in a desperate attempt to get some kind of answer from the world, some kind of justice for the injustice that his life has been from the moment of his birth-

 

And then Stede’s hand touches his back. He says nothing, but his eyes bore into Ed’s, his hand steady and sure, anchoring them together. Ed looks back, pleading, desperate. 

 

Will you still be here, if I do this awful thing? his eyes ask. Will you stay? Will you love me all the same?

 

And the answer, for the first time in Ed’s life, written in Stede’s eyes as clearly as if he’d spoken the words aloud, is a resounding yes. 

 

Ed doesn't look at Hornigold when he pulls the trigger. He doesn't look as his body thumps to the earth, doesn’t watch as he twitches, doesn’t watch as the life leaves his eyes for good. No, all Ed sees is Stede.

 

There are some things in this world that he will never have an answer for. The child in him rages at it, at his father for abusing him, at his mother for staying, at the world for handing him a life of hardship, at Hornigold for turning on a dime and ripping out the only stability Ed has ever known from under his feet. 

 

But now, he thinks the reason the world didn’t answer him, the reason that no god has ever answered his prayers or his questions, is because he was being led here, to the only answer that really matters. 

 

He was being led to Stede. 

 

Benjamin Hornigold dies, and Ed drops his pistol and he draws Stede Bonnet close, resting his forehead against Stede’s temple, and he lets the chaos around them fade to nothing. 





Notes:

I swear on my life this has a happy ending!! I swear it!! Please don’t hate me!

I went into this chapter with a hope and a prayer and a desire to let Wee John blow some shit up, and I am actually thrilled with how it turned out lol it was a blast to write the entire way through, thrilling to have some of these storylines wrapped up, and very satisfying to have Chauncey and Hornigold finally get what’s coming to them. I am a bit out of practice with writing action scenes, so if anything is off… no it isn’t. Unless there’s a gaping plot hole, and then please let me know so I can fix it lol

Chapter 8 is the conclusion of this story (insane!), but there may or may not be an epilogue coming as well, depending on how I feel after writing the ending. There’s some stuff I want to play around with so I have to see what I can include in the next bit. I’ll check in with you guys to see how we’re all feeling after the next chapter and see if that’s something you guys would be interested in!

Up next: The aftermath. Frenchie recovers, and he and Izzy finally get a moment of peace. Ed and Stede help each other through the fallout of Hornigold and Chauncey’s deaths. Spanish Jackie has a business proposal. Stede writes a letter. The future of the Lighthouse Ranch is decided.

See y’all next time!