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WR, FicsforKrusti, OFMD Non-Pirate AUs (Stede/Ed only), Fics for Lady Reinacorn
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2022-05-19
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2022-07-10
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9/9
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Promises of a Desperado

Summary:

Edward, Stede thinks, examining the man laying on the bed. He looks for all the world like a fearsome outlaw, which makes the failed robbery all the more confusing to Stede, but there’s a vulnerability in his sleeping face that tugs on his heartstrings. Stede’s always been a bit of a sucker for a stray. He attributes it to being a bit of a stray himself.

Edward looks tired. Really tired, more than just the wound would justify.

Perhaps he can get some rest here. Perhaps Stede can help with that, at least.

 

In which notorious outlaw Edward Teach and his band of miscreants are taken in by kindly ranch owner Stede Bonnet and his misfit crew of semi-reformed criminals.

AKA the cowboy au no one asked for but I desperately want. Yeehaw.

[COMPLETE!]

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter Text

THE INFAMOUS BLACKBEARD

 

Pain is not an unfamiliar concept to Edward Teach. On the contrary, pain is an old friend, possibly the oldest he has. He nearly always hurts, at least a little, ever since he was a child and the sting of his father’s hand on his cheek became a daily reminder of his place, even more so after he fucked up his knee when a horse threw him. That one aches constantly, despite the brace he’s engineered for himself, but it hurts worse when it rains. 

 

So when he gets hurt during an escapade, it usually just adds on to the growing list of injuries and slight discomfort that he deals with on a day-to-day basis. 

 

This time, he thinks it's worse than usual. A few variables factor into that conclusion. One, he can barely feel the pain in his leg anymore, and it had been throbbing like a sonofabitch after the hard riding of the past few days. Two, there’s a rather alarming amount of blood coming from his side. He can see it on his clothes, on his hands, falling on the ground like rain. Three, Izzy is shouting at a register he wasn’t even aware the man could reach, ordering Ivan and Fang to his side while shots continued to fire from the back of the train. 

 

Finally, his vision is swimming, the train car they were in the process of robbing wobbling as it chugs away. 

 

“Well, fuck,” he says, looking down at the gunshot wound in his side with a sort of curiosity. Then his legs give out, and he falls off his horse. The stirrup slows his fall, foot hooking in it for a terrifying moment (if it doesn’t give, he’ll be dragged, and he’s seen men die from that) but it slips out. He hits the ground with a pained shout, and hears hoofbeats off to his side as Izzy and the boys gallop to his side. Izzy is dismounting his own horse before they’ve even come to a stop, falling to his knees next to Ed, pulling off his handkerchief and holding it to the wound. 

 

“Ed, stay with me,” he orders even as Ivan and Fang join him at Ed’s side. 

 

“Boss, we gotta get outta here,” Ivan says, looking over his shoulder. “They'll be coming after us.”

 

“Does he look like he can fucking move?” Izzy snarls. Ivan steps back, cowed. 

 

“Can we get him on the horse?” Fang suggests hesitantly. “Cause he’s right, boss, if they saw who we were they’ll be on their way now.”

 

“Boy’s ‘re right,” Ed slurs, loss of blood making him woozy. Even now, whatever law enforcement had been on that train would be saddling up, rejoicing in the fall of the infamous Blackbeard and his Black Skulls. 

 

Izzy curses under his breath, because he’s smart enough to see it too. “We put you on that horse, you bleed to death.” 

 

And he’s right on that, of course. Izzy may be a bastard of a man but he’s usually right. He’s the whole reason their gang runs at all, really,  because Ed may be the face and the name but Izzy is most certainly the brains. 

 

“Do it,” Ed orders. If he bleeds to death, he bleeds to death, but he won’t sacrifice the lives of his men alongside him. Bleeding to death might be a blessing at this point in his life, if he’s honest. He’s been doing this for a long time now, the whole outlaw thing. And every heist brings him closer to getting caught, closer to spending his life in a federal prison or closer to death by execution. Ed would rather die than rot in a cell, and he’d rather go out like this than give whatever sheriff catches him the satisfaction of seeing him hang. 

 

“Ed-”

 

“I gave you an order, Izzy,” he says, and Izzy, dutiful as ever, nods, even though it clearly pains him, and with Ivan and Fang’s help, hoists Ed to his feet. He groans, forcing his feet to move in the direction of his horse-

 

And then he hears hoofbeats, and his heart drops. They were too slow. The long arm of the law has reached him at last. He closes his eyes, both out of resignation and out of necessity from the wave of dizziness that crashes over him, and reaches for his gun. 

 

“Howdy, boys!” a voice calls, and Ed frowns. That voice and that greeting is far too friendly for the situation, and the word “howdy” sits strangely in the air in an accent that is clearly not born to that dialect. 

 

“Stop there!” Izzy hollers, pulling his own pistol from its holster. Ed hears it click, and he knows if Izzy takes the shot, he won't miss. 

 

“Now, no need for that,” the voice continues. Ed is too weak to turn on his own, but when Ivan and Fang turn, he is dragged along with them. 

 

There’s two figures on horseback some yards away, two men, one tall and lanky with an instrument strapped across his back,  and the second-

 

Well, the second is possibly the most ridiculous man Ed has ever seen in his life. He’s dressed in an all-white ensemble, complete with painted leather chaps and golden hair sticking out from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Ed wonders if he’s hallucinating. Who the fuck wears all white out here? Wouldn’t that be difficult to clean? It’s ostentatious, at the very least. 

 

Ed kind of likes it.

 

“What seems to be the trouble here?” the golden-haired man asks, pulling his horse to a stop. 

 

“Boss, I don’t know-” the first man cuts in.

 

“None of your fucking business,” Izzy says. Ed wonders why he hasn’t just dropped the men yet. Usually no one gets this close. 

 

The golden haired man looks remarkably unphased for someone facing the weapon of Israel “Quickshot” Hands. His eyes, brown and warm like a good whiskey, land on Ed, and widen. 

 

“Oh, you’re hurt,” he says, and goes to dismount. 

 

“Don’t make another fucking move,” Izzy says through gritted teeth. He glances back at Ed, assessing him. He doesn’t have much longer before he loses consciousness, and not much longer after that before he’s too far gone to save. These men are a waste of their time- but Ed can’t seem to look away from the man in the ridiculous ensemble. 

 

“I can help,” the man insists. “I have a ranch not far from here, medical supplies, and Frenchie here’s damn good with a needle and thread.” 

 

“I am, yeah,” the lanky man, Frenchie, chimes in. 

 

“And why the fuck would we trust you?” Izzy says. 

 

“I suppose you’ve no reason to,” the golden-haired man admits. “But I don’t see you’ve got much choice.”

 

And sure enough, at those words, Ed passes out. Whatever decision Izzy makes, Ed thinks as he feels darkness rushing in, he’d better make it fast. 




 

STEDE BONNET, RANCHER!

 

Stede’s not a fool. He knows how people see him. His airs and his clothes and the way he runs his ranch- it's all far from traditional, but he likes these things, dammit, they make him happy, and wasn’t that the whole point of starting over in the Wild West? To find happiness? 

 

He’s well aware that all of this makes people dismiss him as some kind of a dandy. But even a dandy like himself  knows an outlaw when he sees one. Hell, pretty much everyone on his ranch has been an outlaw at some point or another. He’s very familiar with the profession, despite never practicing it himself. And this group, with two large men holding up their bleeding comrade while the other aims a pistol between Stede’s eyes- these people are outlaws for certain. 

 

Not very good ones, clearly, but Stede applauds the effort. That train car would have been a breeze to rob for anyone with a brain or any experience. 

 

They’re wary, and the short one holding the gun reminds Stede of a dog caught in a trap, complete with snarling and lips pulled back from his teeth, but a quick assessment shows that the man who’s been shot doesn’t have long. And from the deep-set worry lines around the gunman’s eyes, Stede is willing to bet that he won’t risk the man’s life if there’s no other option. 

 

So Stede waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. The man collapses, caught under the arms by the larger of the two holding him. And sure enough, after a moment of indecision, the gunman lowers his pistol with a hissed “save him,” and Stede leaps into action. 

 

“Frenchie, my good lad,” he says, hopping down from his horse with a flourish. Frenchie follows suit, long legs hitting the ground. 

 

“Don’t we need to get him to the ranch?” one of the other men asks, looking warily over his shoulder, dreadlocks swinging around his face. Worried about the law, then, Stede thinks. 

 

“Indeed!” he confirms. “But I want a look at him first. No sense putting him on the horse if he’ll bleed out before we get there.” 

 

With confirmation from the gunman, they lower the unconscious figure to the ground. Stede is all business, taking only a moment to look at his face, half covered by a highly impressive beard, with bags under his eyes even with the slackness of his face. 

 

“What do you think, Frenchie?” he asks, lifting the man’s shirt. He winces. It’s an ugly looking wound, seeping blood around the edges. Stede’s never much liked blood, to be honest, but he powers through. 

 

“Dunno,” Frenchie says, poking his head around to look at it. “Roach is really better at this than me.” 

 

“I thought you were a fucking doctor,” the gunman seethes. 

 

“Nah, mate, just got the neatest stitching, is all,” Frenchie says. The gunman looks like he might be having a conniption, red-face and sputtering. 

 

Stede pulls off his cravat, taking only a moment to mourn the loss of the pure white fabric, and ties it around the mans’ waist. It’s soaked red in moments, but hopefully it’ll be enough to get him to the ranch, where Roach and Frenchie can work their magic. 

 

“All right,” he says, gesturing to the two men to hoist him up again. “Bring him here.” 

 

He leads them to his own horse, and directs them to place the man in front of him, so he can keep pressure on the wound until they reach home. Frenchie hitches their two horses together so Stede doesn't have to worry about steering, and he wraps his arm around the man, pressing on the gunshot. The man lets out a huff, muttering something even in unconsciousness that Stede can’t quite make out. His body is warm against Stede’s front, and he’s shockingly heavy, so much so that it’s all Stede can do to keep his balance.

 

The other men stay close to him as they ride, which Stede supposes they can’t be blamed for. They don't know him from Adam, after all, but still,  it's a strange and silent vigil until the the Lighthouse Ranch, named in honor of the wife who released him from their oaths, who left him free to go West and find his own happiness while she took hers back east, comes into view. 

 

“Boss?” Oluwande’s voice calls from the road leading up to the main house. “Got another one?” 

 

“An injured one!” Stede calls back. “Be a good man and fetch Roach, will you?” 

 

“On it!” Oluwande confirms. 

 

They dismount, and with the help of the two large men who hold the unconscious man with a sort of reverence, Stede directs them into one of the back rooms, where Roach is waiting. Roach has never had official medical training, it's true, but he’s lived a rough and tumble sort of life, and is highly familiar with gunshot wounds. 

 

“You bring me another broken man to fix, eh?” he asks, falling to the task of examining the wound. 

 

“Can you fucking do it?” the gunman interjects. 

 

“Sure, sure,” Roach confirms, poking and prodding at the skin around the gunshot. “Lost some blood, some bullet bits in there, but nothing I can’t handle.” 

 

“You need me, man?” Frenchie asks, entering the room after having hitched the horses. 

 

“Might as well,” Roach replies. “Now, shoo, shoo, let me work, yes?”

 

“No fucking way,” the gunman says. “I’m not leaving him-”

 

“Out,” Roach demands, a dangerous glint in his eyes that Stede is a little too familiar with. Roach knows how to gut a man as well as he can put him back together. The gunman seems to see that danger, too, and even though he puffs his chest out, something is holding him back. 

 

“Can I stay?” the larger of the three men asks, the one with the white beard. Stede will have to learn their names eventually, he imagines. “I’ll sit in the corner. Won’t even know I’m here.” 

 

Stede looks to Roach with a raised eyebrow. He looks the man up and down, and gives a short nod. That seems to pacify the gunman, at least slightly, and they file out of the room. But the second they’re out, the shorter man grabs Stede by the collar and slams him into the wall. A huff of air leaves his body. 

 

“Who the fuck are you?” the man hisses. “What the fuck is this place?”

 

Behind him, Stede can see Jim emerge from the shadows like a specter, knows they’re holding a knife loosely in their hands, and he raises his own hand to halt them. 

 

“Stede Bonnet!” he says, introducing himself like he’s meeting a friend of a friend, rather than being held by force against a wall. Rather than diffusing the tension, though, the man’s hand clenches tighter in his shirt. 

 

“Iz-” the man with the dreadlocks says, wincing slightly. “Maybe we should-”

 

“Shut up, Ivan.” 

 

“This is the Lighthouse Ranch” Stede continues, gesturing to the surrounding area. 

 

“And you do this a lot, do you?” 

 

“Pick up strays, you mean?” Olu’s voice chimes in. Stede should have suspected he’d been around- he and Jim are never far from one another. 

 

“Was I asking you?” the man bites out. 

 

“I like to help where I can,” Stede says, redirecting his attention. Jim has been known to knife people who even look at Oluwande wrong, and he has a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. They may be incompetent outlaws, but the man holding him is clearly confident with a gun, and the other two are quite large. 

 

“I can see you got in a spot of trouble. Not my business what you were doing. But I don’t like to leave men to bleed to death.” 

 

The gunman’s jaw works furiously, muscle ticking under the skin- and then he releases Stede, who brushes the wrinkles out of the shirt. 

 

“Now, you’re quite welcome here,” Stede says. “Make yourselves at home. If I might inquire as to your name?” 

 

The man closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength. “Israel.” 

 

“Well, Israel. Ivan, was it?” 

 

Ivan nods. 

 

“We’ll take good care of your friend. He’s in the best possible hands.” 

 

Israel clearly doesn’t believe him, given the defensive stance he takes up against the wall and how he refuses to leave. Stede leaves him to it, not wanting to crowd Roach and Frenchie- and besides, he knows Roach can handle himself if anything goes awry, and Jim is there just in case. They take up a similar stance as Israel, but against the opposite wall, meeting his gaze with a raised eyebrow. He wouldn’t want to be caught between the two of them, no he would not. 

 

Ivan, surprisingly, follows Stede and Oluwande when they leave. 

 

The rest of Stede’s people have gathered in the common room, with the exception of Buttons, who is rubbing down the horses outside. 

 

“Well, everyone,” Stede says to the room at large, “we have a few guests staying with us for a time. One of them is injured, and the others are, understandably, staying with him until it’s certain whether he will recover. This is Ivan.”

 

Ivan looks surprised to be addressed, but raises his hand in an awkward greeting. Pete cocks his head with a confused look, which Ivan returns, almost like they recognize one another, but aren’t quite sure from where. 

 

“Treat them as you would any other guest of ours,” Stede says firmly. “Lucius, can I speak with you?” 

 

Lucius raises from his chair with a sigh, but obliges. He motions for Oluwande as well, and the three of them debrief, Stede catching them up on the happenings of the day.

 

“They couldn’t rob the Redwood Route?” Lucius asks, trying to conceal a snort. “Hell, I’ve never robbed a train at all and I'm quite sure I could manage that one.”

 

“Now, Lucius, perhaps they’re new at all this,” Stede chides gently. “Everyone has to start somewhere, don’t they?” 

 

“But that really is child's play, boss,” Olu says. He has a bit more experience with this sort of thing, having worked for Spanish Jackie, one of the most notorious outlaws in the West, for some time before he and Jim found Stede. 

 

They’re interrupted by the reappearance of Roach and Frenchie, followed by the man with the white beard, who introduces himself as Fang.  

 

“He’ll live,” Roach announces to the general vicinity. “Be out of it for a while, but he’ll live.” 

 

Stede lets out a sigh of relief.

 

 “Thank you, my friends,” he says to Frenchie and Roach, who both wave off the thanks as they always do. 

 

It’s some hours before he makes his way back to check on his guest, mostly out of respect for Israel, who hasn’t left his side once. It’s well into evening by then, and the candlelight flickers off of the man’s skin. He’s sallow and pale, but he’s breathing easier. 

 

Israel is sitting in a chair he’s drawn up next to the bed, stiff and formal, eyes fixed on the man’s face. They dart to Stede for a moment, then back down. 

 

“How is he?” Stede asks softly. 

 

“Well enough,” Israel replies grudgingly. 

 

“May I ask his name?” 

 

There’s a flicker of disbelief that flashes across Israel’s face, which Stede doesn’t entirely understand. 

 

“Edward,” he says finally, after some internal debate. 

 

Edward, Stede thinks, examining the man laying on the bed. He looks for all the world like a fearsome outlaw, which makes the failed robbery all the more confusing to Stede, but there’s a vulnerability in his sleeping face that tugs on his heartstrings. Stede’s always been a bit of a sucker for a stray. He attributes it to being a bit of a stray himself.

 

Edward looks tired. Really tired, more than just the wound would justify. 

 

Perhaps he can get some rest here. Perhaps Stede can help with that, at least. 





 

 

ISRAEL “QUICKSHOT” HANDS

 

Israel Hands used to work on a ranch. Not many people know that about him. He thinks Ed is probably the only one left alive who does. It’s not a happy time in his life, and he doesn't like remembering it. That was how they dealt with parentless children in the town he was born into, with a tiny population and set-in-stone traditions. Parentless children were a burden, so they were set to work. Izzy always pitied those children, the ones with hollow eyes and hunger-worn cheeks and the bruises on their limbs from too-harsh hands. 

 

Then he became one himself after his mother’s death when he was ten. He was shipped off to a ranch at the edge of town, the Dormer Ranch, where he worked under a cruel boss and a crueler mistress of the house. 

 

His bosses were cruel, but they were effective, and they turned a high profit. So the point is that he knows how ranches work. Or he thought he did. Because Bonnet’s ranch is unlike any he’s ever seen before. 

 

His joints hurt, his back aches, he’s been sitting in this strange little room their host- 

 

Stede fucking Bonnet, he mimics in his mind, in the same tone Stede introduced himself earlier that day, or yesterday, he supposes, judging by the dawn light breaking through the windows-

 

-has placed Ed in, and Ed is no closer to consciousness than he was hours ago. He’d finally been shooed away by Bonnet himself with an audacity that Izzy knows he would never use if he knew who he was facing. It’s become very clear very quickly that Bonnet has no idea who he’s housing. He’s figured they’re outlaws, which doesn't seem to matter all that much to the man. More evidence of his ego, Izzy thinks sourly, big rich man doesn’t need to be afraid of mere outlaws. 

 

But back to the ranch, and why it’s so fucking strange. Dawn is well underway now, approaching early morning, and no one is fucking working. Back at the Dormer Ranch where he worked as a child, you were up before the sun. That’s when the work gets done. Lazing about was reserved- well, reserved for people other than Izzy, but even for them it was reserved for later in the day. The only one who seems to be working is the cook. The rest are lounged around the common room in various states of sleep, near sleep, or half sleep. Those who aren’t sleeping are nursing cups of coffee like they’re on fucking holiday. He even spots Fang, in conversation with a younger man with a missing finger and a bald man who gives Izzy a nod in greeting. He nods back on instinct. 

 

The younger man looks Izzy up and down with an appraising eye, and Izzy feels his skin prickle. He’s used to being sized up by people- his stature is rather less than intimidating, though he makes up for it in the way he carries himself and in his reputation- but he usually comes out on top in those scrutinies. Right now, he feels like he’s been found lacking somehow, the raise of the man’s eyebrow tells him that much. He doesn’t like it. 

 

The man turns away and leans into the other man, the bald one, placing his chin on his shoulder and an arm around his waist. Izzy blanches, then flushes red, and makes a hasty exit. 

 

What kind of fucking place is this? What kind of ranch allows men to- to flaunt their affections in so blatant a manner? Izzy knows plenty of men this side of the country who have less than savory preferences, he’s no stranger to it himself, but for fuck’s sake, have a little discretion. Don’t they know what could happen if they were caught? It’s foolish, is what it is, a lack of common sense. 

 

They need to leave this place the second Edward is better. It’s dangerous here. Wrong. 

 

He feels somewhat better, out in the fresh air, but even out here the lack of work is disturbing. It isn’t until he sees the paddocks that something seems to settle in him. 

 

Bonnet’s ranch is a fucking nightmare. But he has some beautiful horses. 

 

Izzy counts a number of yearlings in this paddock, and some older, nearing breaking age. He’s drawn to them at once, to the gentle whickering and the stamp of hooves.

 

But of course, because even though he’s only been on Bonnet’s ranch less than a day he already knows he’ll never get a moment’s fucking peace here, there’s someone else at the paddock. The other man who found them with Bonnet, some ridiculous name- French? Frenchie?- is perched on a fencepost, strumming at the instrument Izzy had noted the previous day. 

 

The music comes into range as he walks closer, not close enough to alert Frenchie to his presence, but close enough to hear. 

 

“My ceiling is the sky, my floor is the grass, 

My music is the lowing of the herds as they pass;

My books are the brooks, my sermons the stones,

My parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones.” 

 

It’s an old song, one Izzy has heard time and time again, and the familiarity of the words and the rhythm sink deep into his skin like rays of sun. Frenchie’s fingers dance across the strings, and Izzy can see at once why he’s so good at stitching, why that was the first thing Bonnet said about him- he has slender hands, clever fingers that move with an accuracy and skill that rivals how Izzy handles a gun. 

 

It’s entrancing. Though he does blame it on the music, and his lack of sleep. 

 

Ivan finds him there later, a cup of coffee in hand. He extends it, and Izzy takes it, sipping at the scalding liquid. 

 

“We got a plan?” Ivan asks, and Izzy thanks the heavens for him- at least there’s one member of his gang with some wits about him. 

 

“We wait for Ed to wake up, and then we get the fuck out of here,” Izzy replies. 

 

The sound of voices alerts Frenchie to their presence, and the music stops. He raises a hand in a lazy wave, which Ivan returns, and Izzy does not. 




 

 

EDWARD TEACH

 

Fuck, but his head hurts. 

 

Ed blinks open his eyes, trying to clear the film that seems to cover them, before realizing it’s no film at all, but the lack of light aside from a single candle on the bedside table. It takes a moment for everything to come back to him- it's the deep ache in his side that finally brings the memories to the surface. The failed robbery. The gunshot. Falling off his horse. Izzy’s fear.

 

And the golden-haired stranger. 

 

He’s still woozy, but he tries to sit, letting out a pained huff as he does. His side nearly splits in half with the effort. When he sees movement to his right, he doesn’t even flinch, expecting it to be Izzy- he doesn’t imagine Izzy would have left his side, wherever they were, unless something awful has happened- 

 

But it isn’t Izzy. It’s him, the stranger, looking all the more golden in this light, those whiskey-warm eyes wide and startled. 

 

“Oh!” he exclaims, and there’s that accent again, that doesn’t sit quite right in the air of the West- he’s not from here, clearly, same as Ed himself. “You’re awake!” 

 

He places a hand on Ed’s chest, ushering him back down, and it pains Ed to admit that it doesn’t take much effort on the stranger’s part to get him to comply. He flops back down. 

 

“Where- how long-” he mutters. His tongue is bone dry. 

 

“Here, you should drink,” the stranger says, like he can sense this, pushing a tin of water into Ed’s hand that he must have prepared for the event of his awakening, using his own hand to steady the shaking in Ed’s. 

 

His hands are soft. Ed hasn’t felt soft hands in a long, long time. 

 

“You’re at my ranch,” the man says, low and soothing. “You were injured when we found you, do you remember?” 

 

Ed nods once, still drinking. Some of the water runs down his chin. 

 

“You’ve been out for two days. Lost a lot of blood.”

 

Ed’s eyes widen, and suddenly Izzy’s absence feels sinister, like something’s gone wrong- 

 

But the man puts his fears to rest at once. “Your people are safe. Your friend Israel has a lot of opinions about how I’m running my ranch.” 

 

He says it with a mixture of amusement and irritation that only Izzy is able to inspire in people. Ed relaxes. 

 

“Izzy made his choice, I guess,” Ed mutters, throat still dry, voice hoarse from disuse. 

 

“Well, it was that or let you bleed out,” the stranger says. “Not much of a choice, really.” 

 

Ed looks at him then, with his warm eyes and his warm expression- everything about him is warm, really- and it finally occurs to him to ask the man’s name. 

 

“Stede Bonnet,” the man says, like he’s pleased to be asked. He extends his hand, and Ed shakes it. “And you’re Edward, Israel said?” 

 

“That all he said?” Ed finds himself asking. 

 

“Should he have said something else?” Stede asks, brow furrowing. 

 

Good old Izzy. He always knows what to do. He doubts Stede would have brought him into his home if he knew who he really is. 

 

“Just my last name,” Ed says instead. “Edward Teach. You can call me Ed.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Edward Teach,” Stede says with a smile, and Ed feels like he’s been caught in a ray of sun on a windy day- it’s like a respite, a safe haven, and how the fuck does he feel like that when he’s only known the man a handful of minutes put together?

 

“This is your place, then?” he asks, sitting up as best he can. 

 

“It is indeed,” Stede confirms. “The Lighthouse Ranch.” 

 

“Lighthouse?” 

 

The question is out of his mouth before he can stop it. Something akin to a grimace passes across Stede’s face before it’s smoothed away. 

 

“It’s named for someone important to me,” Stede says. “Someone who made this place possible. When you’re up and at ‘em, I’ll give you the tour.” 

 

Ed wants to protest that he could be up and at ‘em right now, because he suddenly very desperately wants to see the Lighthouse Ranch in all its glory, wants to know what kind of a place could possibly spawn someone like Stede Bonnet, but his side is fucking aching and he thinks he might pass out again. 

 

He does. 

***

When he wakes a second time, Stede is gone. Fang is sitting in the corner of the room, arms crossed over his chest, chin nodding in sleep, and there’s a man with manic eyes poking at his side. 

 

“Ah! You’re up,” he says gleefully. “How do you feel?” 

 

Fang snorts himself awake. 

 

“Boss!” he says, grin pressing at his round cheeks. “You’re up!” 

 

“I am,” he says, a bit befuddled. “Fine, I think?” 

 

And he does feel better, much better than the last time he woke up. 

 

“How long was I out?” 

 

“Not too long this time,” the man poking at his wound says. “Few hours.”

 

“This is Roach,” Fang says. “He’s the doctor.” 

 

“Not a doctor,” Roach corrects. “Did save your life, though.” 

 

Ed should probably thank him, but no words come to mind. 

 

“Oh! You’re up,” a new voice says. A man with a missing finger and an ascot waves at him from the door. “I’ll get Stede.” 

 

“Get Izzy too, please,” Fang says, and shit, when was the last time anyone in Ed’s gang said please? But with a wink, the man is off down the hall. 

 

It’s Izzy who finds him first, nearly skidding into the room in his haste. 

 

“Ed,” he says in a low huff of breath, like the syllable has been punched out of him, relief written over every inch of his features. 

 

“Iz,” Ed says with a nod. 

 

Stede closely follows, along with the other man who had found them after Ed was shot. The little room is suddenly very crowded. Ed isn’t used to such confined quarters. He used to be, once upon a time, but now he’s become accustomed to the open sky above him and the dirt beneath him. 

 

“Can I walk?” he asks Roach. 

 

“Hmmm,” the man hums thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Not for too long. Don’t want to pop your stitches, or Frenchie here will have to sew you up again. Not pretty work.” 

 

Frenchie waves at him from where he's standing near Izzy, who seems to be holding his entire body as far away from everyone else in the room as possible. 

 

“Do you need some air, Ed?” Stede asks, all concerned, and how does he already get it?

 

“Promised me a tour, didn’t you?” Ed says in response. 

 

The smile that lights Stede’s face is blinding. 

 

“I did, didn’t I?” 

***

Stede offers Ed his arm as they walk, and Ed, to his surprise, doesn’t hesitate to lean into it. This ranch is already breathtaking, and they haven’t even left the house yet. Ed’s robbed places like this before, but he’s never had cause to admire one. The house itself is ornate in a way that’s probably impractical for a ranch, covered in expensive rugs and paintings and furniture. 

 

“Isn’t this hard to clean?” he asks, thinking of the dust and the dirt that must accompany whatever animals they care for on this ranch-he knows they have horses, at the very least. Stede laughs, a bit self-conscious. 

 

“Hellish,” he admits, and isn’t it interesting that Stede’s self aware? That he knows this house is ridiculous for what it is, and he leans into it anyway?

 

Stede is keeping a running commentary as they go, about the house and about the people they pass. He knows Roach and Frenchie now, and of course, Stede, but as they walk, more and more people keep appearing. 

 

He spots Ivan in an intense- looking card game with someone in a low-brimmed hat. Ivan doesn’t even see Ed as he comes out, glaring at the person across from him,  who grins, sharp and knife-like and predatory. The man next to them, darker skinned with a kind face, rolls his eyes. 

 

“You’re cheating,” he says. 

 

“Am not,” hat-person replies.

 

“Yes you are.”

 

“I knew it!” Ivan exclaims, throwing his cards down on the table. 

 

“Jim and Oluwande,” Stede says, gesturing first to the low-brimmed hat, and then to the man beside them. “Jim’s sort of our protector around here. Keeps us all safe. Olu helps me run things on the ranch. Bit of a spotty background, the both of them, but I’d trust them with my life.”

 

Spotty background, huh? Ed comes to realize quickly that everyone here seems to have a spotty background. 

 

“Lucius and Pete,” Stede says next, gesturing to the man who Ed had seen in the doorway, with the ascot, who is walking arm in arm with a man who stares at Ed in a way that makes Ed think he must know him from somewhere. That makes him antsy. “Lucius manages general household operations, and Pete is our main grounds caretaker. Make sure everything is up to snuff, don’t you, boys?” 

 

“That’s incredibly condescending,” Lucius says. 

 

“Yeah, don’t call me boy,” Pete says. 

 

“Lads?” Stede tries. 

 

“Slightly better,” Lucius replies. 

 

Next is Buttons, the horse trainer, who seems to have some kind of telepathic connection with the animals and is also absolutely off his rocker. Stede says they found him wandering outside of town one day, talking to a vulture who was almost certainly circling him to eat him. Stede swears the vulture still shows up now and again. John Feeny follows him, along with a man known simply as “the Swede,” a groomer and a general ranch hand, respectively.

 

“John was in a bit of trouble with the law recently,” Stede whispers to Ed as they pass. “Frenchie and I helped him out of it, and now look at him!”

 

John does look happy, Ed has to admit that much. They all do, really. It’s very strange. 

 

“Where the hell’d you find all these people?” he asks as Stede leads him outside. 

 

“Oh, here and there,” Stede says airily. He doesn’t elaborate until they're farther out. 

 

The grounds are fucking spectacular. Wide and green and with open sky above them. Ed thinks he could stay here forever, with the slight breeze touching his face. 

 

“A lot of them were like you, actually,” Stede says, keeping his voice down. 

 

“Like me how?” 

 

“Well,” Stede says carefully. “On the wrong side of the law.” 

 

Ed snorts. “Outlaws, you mean?” 

 

“Yes, I didn't want to say it like that,” Stede says, looking relieved. “But it’s quite true all the same. Lucius was a pickpocket, you know, and Pete was involved in some general thievery.  Roach has been in and out of orphanages and gangs all his life. Swede- well, we aren’t entirely sure where he comes from, quite frankly, but he was in jail with Roach when we found the both of them.”

 

“So, what, you go around finding criminals and you adopt them?”

 

“Well, there’s no legal paperwork,” Stede says in a way that’s not convincing. “My point is, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need or as long as you like. There’s no judgment from anyone here.”

 

Ed’s stomach drops a bit. Because while some of these people may be outlaws, or reformed outlaws, or whatever, he thinks there very likely would be judgment if Stede found out who he actually is. 

 

Blackbeard, after all, is no typical outlaw. 



 

 

 

LUCIUS SPRIGGS

 

“Babe?” Pete says. 

 

“Yeah, darling?” Lucius replies. 

 

“I have to tell you something.” 

 

“Oh god,” Lucius groans. “What is it?” 

 

“So you know how I was in that crew a while back? Low's?” 

 

“Not this again,” John groans. 

 

“I was!” Pete objects. 

 

“Ignore him, babe,” Lucius says, shooting John a look. “What about it?” 

 

“I know that guy.” 

 

“What guy?” 

 

“The guy with Stede.” 

 

“You mean Edward?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“From when you were in the gang?” 

 

“Yeah. I didn’t recognize him before, but I do now.”

 

“Well, who is he?” 

 

Pete doesn't answer. Lucius doesn’t like the look on his face at all. 

 

“Pete?” 

 

 

 

 

STEDE BONNET

 

Stede gets a little too excited when he’s showing Ed around the ranch. In his defense, he’s given the tour a thousand times before- whenever he gets a new recruit, or a guest, he takes them around, the Lighthouse Ranch is his pride and joy- but no one has ever reacted the way Ed does. He looks like he’s in awe, even at the more frivolous things that Stede admittedly hoards like a dragon. He likes his creature comforts, and judging by Ed’s wide eyes, he’s discovering that he does as well, and Stede wants to absolutely shower him in them. 

 

He’s not sure what it is about Ed that’s so… interesting. Yes, he’s a badass, leather-clad outlaw (failed robbery aside), but Stede sees a lot of those around here. He’s come face to face with Spanish Jackie, after all, who is far more terrifying than Ed. The Lighthouse Ranch  is situated in a bit of a crime hotspot, due to the intersection of railways nearby and the lack of towns with fully-staffed law enforcement. The hills surrounding the valley make good hiding places for gangs, too. It’s sort of why he chose the area, if he’s being honest. 

 

So it isn’t the leather or the disregard for the law that makes Ed interesting. Not that Stede is shoving those things aside. He likes the leather. But there’s something else about Ed, something Stede can’t quite figure out. A vulnerability that feels out of place in that bad-ass outer appearance. 

 

Ed has to return to his room after a turn about the paddocks, and Stede leaves him to rest with a promise to bring him tea later that afternoon. Israel is waiting for Ed, and Stede swears that man’s forehead vein is going to pop one of these days. 

 

He closes the door behind him, turns, and nearly leaps out of his boots. Lucius and Pete are standing not six inches from him, both with wide eyes and furtive looks on their faces. 

 

“Good heavens,” Stede swears. “Whatever is the matter?” 

 

“We need to talk to you,” Lucius says in a whisper. 

 

“Talk away.” 

 

“Not here,” Pete hisses, with a pointed stare at the door leading to Ed and Israel. 

 

Well. That’s interesting. 

 

They take Stede out to one of the far paddocks, where they let some of the more wild horses roam, free of interference, before either of them will speak. 

 

“Spit it out,” Stede orders, and eventually, Pete does. 

 

“You know, boss, that I, uh, was in that gang, for a while?” he stutters out. 

 

“Yes, yes, what about it?” 

 

“Well, when Ivan came in, I sorta thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it, right, and then Fang was kinda familiar too, and then Ed was sorta familiar-” Pete starts. 

 

“Oh for god’s sake,” Lucius interjects. “Ed is Blackbeard. That’s what he’s trying to say.” 

 

“Thanks, babe,” Pete says gratefully. Stede frowns. 

 

“Blackbeard?” 

 

“Like, Blackbeard?” Lucius says slowly, looking at Stede like he might be thick. “Like, the most notorious outlaw this side of the Mississippi?”

 

“Oh. Oh, that Blackbeard.” 

 

Stede figures he should probably be reacting a little more strongly, but… 

 

“Really? Him?” 

 

“Yeah, him,” Pete says with a nod. “100% certain.” 

 

“But- they couldn’t even rob the Redwood Route!” he exclaims, echoing Lucius’s words when he’d heard where they found Ed and the others. 

 

“Yeah, I’m  a bit confused by that, too,” Lucius admits. 

 

“You’re confused? I’m fucking confused,” Pete says. “Blackbeard is a genius. He could rob that train in his sleep.” 

 

“Wait, Pete, how do you know him?” Stede asks. 

 

“I worked with Ivan for a while,” Pete says, sending a self-conscious glance at Lucius like he always does when he talks about his past crimes. Stede is well aware that Lucius couldn't care less that Pete used to be in a gang, but that hasn’t sunk into Pete’s head yet. “Our gang had a run in with the Black Skulls, Blackbeard’s gang. We lost pretty badly. I’m still surprised they let us live. Ivan went to join them after it all went down, said he wanted to run with a real crew. I was gonna go, but… well, I got caught.”

 

That must have been when Stede found him, he thinks, in that jail cell towards the beginning of his journey west. Pete had been one of the first men he invited to join him. Lucius was the very first, since he’d been a city man back east, like Stede, and they’d crossed paths very early on. 

 

“So, that means, Israel-” Stede begins.

 

“Israel ‘Quickshot’ Hands,” Pete confirms. 

 

“And Ivan-”

 

“Lawless Ivan,” Pete says. 

 

“And Fang-”

 

“Fang the Vicious,” Lucius says, with a bit of a dreamy air. Pete snorts, elbowing him in the side. 

 

“What? He’s got lovely cheekbones. So do you, though.” 

 

“He does have nice cheekbones,” Pete agrees. 

 

“Lads, not the time,” Stede says absently. 

 

“What are you going to do?” Lucius asks apprehensively. “I mean, he’s Blackbeard. This is a lot more dangerous than we thought.” 

 

Stede ponders that for a moment, then nod decisively, squaring his shoulders. 

 

"I’m going to bring him tea.” 

 

***

It’s a few hours until teatime, of course, but he figures, Blackbeard or no, Ed is in no condition to be trying anything just yet. Mostly, in all honesty, he’s waiting for Israel to vacate the room. While he thinks he can speak to Ed, Israel is another obstacle altogether, since Stede is quite certain the man won’t hesitate to put a bullet in his head if he thinks Ed might be in danger. 

 

It takes some time, but Israel eventually leaves, with short, quick steps down the hall, and Stede swoops in. 

 

Ed looks tired, but something brightens in his face when he sees Stede. 

 

“Tea-time?” he asks, almost like a kid, and Stede wonders, once again, if Pete isn’t wrong. This is Blackbeard? This man?

 

“Tea-time,” he confirms. “Today we have quite a lovely raspberry leaf tea. Roach’s own concoction.” 

 

He pauses. “I suppose I should have asked what kind you like.” 

 

Ed shrugs. “Don’t really drink tea, to be honest, mate. Coffee, mostly. Whiskey.” 

 

His eyes dart up to meet Stede’s, and then down, at that word. Curious. 

 

“Oh, well, I can get you that-”

 

“Tea’s great,” Ed says, already reaching his hands out for the cup. “Always wanted to try it.”

 

Stede hands it off, making sure Ed’s grip is steady, and is turning for the milk and sugar when he hears a hiss from the other man. He whirls, but Ed is just fanning at his mouth. Stede suppresses a smile. 

 

“Yes, it’s a bit hot,” he says, just managing to get the words out without laughing. 

 

“You’re fucking telling me this now?” Ed grumbles, but there’s no malice behind it. 

 

“Try it with some milk and sugar,” Stede suggests, passing the tray his way. He sips at his own cup, mostly to give himself something to do. He’s really not sure how to broach the subject of Ed being Blackbeard. Ed does as he’s told with an eagerness that doesn’t do anything to help the smile steadily growing on Stede’s face. 

 

“Oh, that’s well good, that,” he says, after his second, more successful, sip. 

 

“I’ll pass the compliments on to Roach,” Stede says. “So, er… how are your men holding up?” 

 

That’s an innocuous enough question. 

 

“Fine, seems like,” Ed says with a tilt of his head. “Fang’s digging the place. Izzy and Ivan are a bit harder to crack, but think they’re doin’ fine.”

 

“Ivan does seem to be getting along well with Jim and Oluwande,” Stede says. “By the time you’re recovered, I think one of those three will probably be bankrupt from all the cards they’re playing.”

 

“Oh, yeah, Ivan’s bit of a card shark,” Ed says. “He cheats.”

 

“Good. So does Jim.” 

 

Ed grins. 

 

“So, er… no lingering disappointments about the robbery attempt?” Stede asks. Ed’s dark eyes narrow slightly. 

 

“Who said anything about a robbery?”

 

“Oh, come now, Ed, I’m not a fool,” Stede says. “I know that route and I know how often it gets hit. Why else would you have been shot out there?” 

 

“Maybe Izzy shot me.”

 

Stede fixes him with a pointed look. “Israel would rather shoot off his own toe than lay a finger on you, I think.” 

 

“Wouldn’t be a finger, if he shot me. Would be a bullet.” 

 

“Figure of speech, Edward.”

 

Ed’s still staring at him, and Stede… well, he’s not the best under pressure. He cracks. 

 

“Ed, I know. I know you’re Blackbeard.” 

 

A shadow crosses over Ed’s face, features going carefully blank, and Stede instantly mourns the loss of the spark he’d seen in Ed’s eyes only seconds before. 

 

“How?” he asks. 

 

“One of my men has had a run-in with you before,” Stede says carefully. 

 

“Who?” 

 

“I’d rather not say,” Stede says firmly. He won’t bring down retribution on Pete. 

 

Ed looks surprised at that, but only for a moment. Stede supposes the infamous Blackbeard isn’t much used to resistance. 

 

“What’ll you do about it, then?” he asks, almost carelessly, but Stede can see the way his fingers inch towards his gun. God, he hopes Ed doesn't shoot him. He hopes he hasn’t horribly misjudged this. 

 

“Well, I need your word that you won’t harm my people,” he says. 

 

“That all?’ 

 

“That’s all. I don’t plan on turning you in, if that’s what you’re asking. It would do harm to my people as well, putting them back in the law’s eyes. A few still have prices on their heads.”

 

Stede himself included, actually, but he won't bring that up unless he has to.

 

“You’re still welcome to stay, as long as I have that word,” he finishes.

 

“And you’d take my word, would you? The word of an outlaw? Blackbeard’s word?” 

 

“I’d take Ed’s word,” Stede says at once, and that mask, the shadow over Ed’s face, slips, eyes widening and mouth parting slightly. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“Well, I’ve spent rather a lot of time with Ed today. Seems like a good man.”

 

“I’ve done some monstrous things.”

 

“Haven’t we all?” Stede says. Ed quirks an eyebrow. 

 

“And what monstrous things have you done, then?”

 

Stede smile falls slightly. 

 

“You’d be surprised,” he says, and his head is suddenly full of his children’s voices and Mary’s face and fire crackling in the wood of a grand house back east. He forces the thoughts to the back of his mind. 

 

For some reason, that admission seems to relax Ed more than anything else, though the intrigue is something Stede will likely have to deal with eventually, and a bit more of that openness falls into his expression. 

 

“You’re not turning us in? Really? They’d cut you a good deal.” 

 

“If I turn you in,” Stede says, “my people will never trust me again. You all are under my protection while you stay here, Edward.”

 

He realizes how laughable that must sound to the fearsome Blackbeard, a man who, as Stede has heard it told, runs the most fearsome gang this side of the Mississippi, who has skinned men alive and set moving trains ablaze, and he braces himself for the laugh, or the smirk, or the snort, or the look of plain disgust that always comes-

 

But Ed doesn’t look like that. There’s no other word for how he looks except… stunned. Like Stede has surprised him. 

 

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” he says, and the words are probably bad but the way Ed says them isn’t. Rather the opposite, in fact, they set something warm and glowing in his chest. “They could hang you for that. Harboring a fugitive.”

 

“Well, they could hang me for a lot of things, I suppose,” Stede says, and when that smile spreads across Ed’s face again, pressing at his cheeks and crinkling his eyes,  he thinks maybe a lunatic isn’t such a bad thing to be. 




 

 

 

FRENCHIE

 

Israel is a strange case, Frenchie thinks. He’s uptight and stressed out and ready to snap at a moment’s notice, but he lets Ed and Ivan and Fang call him “Izzy” or “Iz” with a familiarity that seems out of place for the man’s formal bearing. He’s a bit like a barn cat, one that’s mostly feral but sort of accustomed to being around people, who hisses at an outstretched hand and is as likely to claw at you as he is to purr. The image of Israel purring is enough to send Frenchie into a fit of laughter.   

 

He takes life very seriously, Israel does. Frenchie, on the other hand, does not. Life is a bit of a joke to him, in a lot of ways. He learned very early on that he could either let this world break him, or he could take the blows on the chin with a smile and a wink. The latter option makes things a lot more bearable. Israel seems the type to bend, and bend, and bend, under the weight of the world and its expectations and its cruelty, and Frenchie knows one day he’ll snap, because that’s what all that bending brings you. 

 

So they don’t have a lot in common. Or at least, he thinks that, until he spots Israel out by the paddocks for the third day in a row. That seems to be the one common thread between them, the horses. Frenchie likes the horses, likes them a lot. He was never around animals much as a child, growing up in a city like he did, and in a lot of ways they still frighten him. But not the younger horses, the yearlings especially. They aren’t scary. He likes how playful they are, how they snort and stamp their feet and frighten themselves with too-sudden movements, like they don’t know their own speed or strength. And the yearlings like him. It’s important, Stede says, and Buttons says it too (and Frenchie is more inclined to trust Buttons on the matter of animal husbandry than he is Stede, no offense to his boss), to get them used to people, so that’s what Frenchie’s doing. 

 

Besides, the yearlings are a bit of a captive audience. There’s only so much singing the rest of his friends can take, so Frenchie removes himself in the early mornings, before everyone is set to work, to serenade the little guys. 

 

And that’s when he and Israel cross paths most often. Israel never comes close, not really, doesn’t really acknowledge Frenchie’s presence at all, but he can tell Israel likes the horses too, and he thinks he might like the music. He plays around with it, figuring out what types of songs Izzy sticks around for, and finds that he likes the traditional ballads, the soulful music, so he ends up singing a lot of that. 

 

It’s the third morning of their stay when Israel speaks to him for the first time. He’s been inching closer and closer all morning, which Frenchie studiously ignores, crooning to the colts and the fillies with a practiced air of nonchalance. 

 

“They’re close to breaking age,” Israel says in the lull between songs, nearly startling Frenchie off of his post. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” he replies. “Some of ‘em, anyway.”

 

“Who does that around here?” 

 

Frenchie shrugs. “Well, Buttons is best at it, but we’ve all had a crack at it if we’ve been around long enough.” 

 

Israel stares at him in a way that’s becoming very familiar to Frenchie, the look that says that he can’t fucking believe this is how they run their ranch. 

 

“You all… take a crack at it…?” he says slowly, every word dripping with disdain. 

 

“Yep.” 

 

“Are you trying to fucking traumatize them?” Izzy demands. Frenchie blinks. 

 

“No?” 

 

“Stupid fucking fuckers,” Israel mutters. “I’ve only ever seen you and Buttons out here with the younger horses. The others don’t have a relationship with them. Trust is how you break a horse, for fuck’s sake. They have to know you.” 

 

“Huh,” Frenchie says. “I didn’t know that. You’ve broken horses before, then?”

 

Israel looks away, a guarded expression crossing his face. “I have.”

 

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.” 

 

“Course I fucking do.” 

 

Frenchie shrugs. “Then why don’t you teach me? If you’re around still, I mean, when it’s time.”

 

That seems to make Israel pause. “I won’t be around.” 

 

“No loss, then. I’ll have Buttons teach me, now that I know it fucks with ‘em to have the others do it. I like these little guys, I wouldn’t mind taking it on. I come out here every morning. They’d know me well enough by now, yeah?” 

 

Israel nods sharply. “They would.” 

 

“Cool, then. But if you are around, I wouldn’t mind a lesson or two.” 

 

And that’s a new expression that flashes across Israel’s face. Wary, in a way that would make Frenchie worried he would snap at him if it weren’t for something else hidden deep in his eyes. Frenchie can’t quite place it. 

 

“Very well,” he says, low and husky. 

 

The moment is snapped clean in half with  the sound of hoofbeats, and not from the yearlings. Israel is off the fence like a shot, racing back to the house with a hissed fuck me. The change is so abrupt it makes Frenchie’s head spin- 

 

Until he sees the tell-tale flash of a sheriff’s badge, and then he’s jumping into the paddock with the horses in a desperate attempt to look like he’s doing something. 

 

He hopes Israel makes it in time to warn the others. 





Chapter 2

Summary:

A new face steps into the spotlight. Secrets come to the surface and more mystery emerges. Stede proves himself a leader. Ed continues to be stunned by Stede, and vice versa. Izzy is having a rough time of it. Jim vows revenge for an atrocious crime. Frenchie... well, Frenchie's having an incredible time.

Buckle in, buckaroos, this one's long.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

EDWARD

Ed has never been less thrilled to see Izzy. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the man, but right now, Stede and his ranch and his strange conglomeration of a crew and the way he didn’t even flinch at Ed being Blackbeard is so goddamn interesting, the most interesting thing he’s experienced in years, maybe in his whole life, that any interruption is highly, highly unwelcome. He’s in the sitting room, listening to Stede ramble on about the design of the ranch and the different buildings and their uses (Stede has an entire building dedicated to his wardrobe, and Ed is fucking thrilled about it), when Izzy comes huffing and puffing into the room, wheezing his name. 

 

“Good heavens, Israel, what is it?” Stede asks, looking, to his credit, only concerned, and not irritated at the interruption as Ed is. 

 

“Spit it out, Iz, for fuck’s sake,” Ed says, less gently. 

 

“Sheriff- on the road-” Izzy pants, and Ed’s blood runs cold. 

 

“Fuck,” Ed says, getting to his feet quickly enough to make his head spin. He’s still not at 100%, but he thinks he could at least ride out of this ranch before he passes out again- 

 

But he doesn’t want to leave. His eyes fly to Stede, beautiful Stede, kind Stede, fascinating Stede -

 

Fascinating Stede looks unphased. 

 

“Lucius!” he calls briskly, standing up with a scrape of his chair. 

 

“What?” Lucius calls. 

 

“Get your shaving equipment, quickly.” 

 

Lucius darts off without another word. 

 

“Israel, how far out?”

 

“Paddock with the yearlings,” Izzy responds. “Ed, we have to-”

 

“Got it,” Lucius says, jogging back into the room, Pete hot on his heels.

 

“What's going on?” Pete asks. 

 

“Authorities are here,” Stede says, beckoning Lucius over. He points to Ed, and it’s only then, looking from the scissors and the razor to Stede’s pointing finger, that he puts the pieces together. Izzy puts them together a split second faster. 

 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he snaps. “You want to shave his beard?” 

 

“If he’s going to survive the next few minutes, yes,” Stede says. There’s not a drop of sweat on his brow, not a single quaver in his voice, in sharp contrast to Ed and Izzy, who are both essentially dripping in sweat and stress. 

 

“You can’t-” Izzy starts. 

 

“Ed, do you trust me?” Stede asks, and looking into those whiskey brown eyes and hearing Stede’s you are all under my protection here, Edward- well, the only answer Ed could ever give is yes. 

 

“Do it,” he says to Lucius, who falls to work at once. Ed stops him. “Leave a bit?” 

 

“As much as I can,” Lucius agrees. “Beard’s pretty dashing. Be a shame to snip it all.”

 

“Now, Israel,” Stede says, turning to the shell-shocked Izzy, “I need you to get your men and get to work. If this is to be successful, you’ll have to act as hands here on the ranch. Inconspicuous. Get Fang out of the spotlight as much as you can, he’s rather too large and too recognizable.”

 

“Stables, maybe?” Pete suggests. 

 

“Perfect, Pete, well done,” Stede says, still so congratulatory even when time is this tight. Ed’s beard is falling in pieces around his feet, Lucius snipping at it with remarkably steady fingers. Izzy sputters for a moment, but one look from Ed has him moving. 

 

“Good enough, Lucius,” Stede says, and Lucius stops cutting. Ed can’t help himself, he reaches up to his face and finds his beard shorter than it’s been since he was… 18, maybe, when he started dedicating his efforts to growing it out. 

 

“Get rid of the clippings,” Stede orders, and the Swede swoops in, gathering the hair and running it somewhere else. 

 

“Now, Ed, Pete, Lucius, with me,” Stede says, and Ed falls into step without a second thought. Stede leads them to a garden out back, filled with vegetables and herbs that flood the air with a pleasant scent. 

 

The Swede comes sprinting back. 

 

“How far?” Stede asks. 

 

“Nearly at the house,” the Swede says. 

 

“Very well,” Stede says, straightening his shoulders, and brushing at the front of his shirt, a deep orange buttoned thing with white fringe that does nothing to dissuade Ed of his theory that Stede might just be made of pure sunshine, like Apollo himself. “Showtime, lads!” 

 

“Showtime?” Ed manages to stutter out. 

 

“Just act natural,” Stede says, before shoving Ed towards the garden, along with Pete, who seems to not be breathing. “You’re doing great!”

 

“We’re going with those two?” Lucius asks. “Really?”

 

“You’re right. Where’s Frenchie? He’s good at acting casual,” Stede says.

 

“He’s with that little angry fecker, Israel,” John Feeney calls from the porch.

 

“Oh, very well. You and I will just stick close, then, Lucius. Try to cover for them. Olu!”

 

“Yep!” Olu replies, trotting over to them after a hushed word with Jim, who promptly vanishes. 

 

“Take this,”  Pete hisses, shoving a small spade towards him, and it's only then that Ed sees the sheriff Izzy had come panting up the road about marching their direction with a purpose. He does as Pete orders. 

 

“Howdy!” Stede calls. “What can we do for you?”

 

The officer slows, making a show of looking Stede up and down. He’s a balding man, though it can be hard to tell under those big hats the sheriffs wear, with a birthmark poking out from under the brim. His spurs click with each step he takes. Every click makes Ed flinch. 

 

“Sheriff Chauncey Badminton,” he introduces himself. Stede holds out his hand, but the man doesn’t shake it. 

 

“Lovely to meet you,” Stede says. “Is something amiss?” 

 

“You tell me,” Badminton says. “Were you aware of a robbery that took place a few days ago?” 

 

“A robbery!” Stede gasps, looking for all the world like a scandalized city dandy. “Good heavens, really? Was very much taken?” 

 

“Nothing, actually,” Badminton says. 

 

“More of an attempted robbery, then, isn’t it,” Lucius says snidely. 

 

“Attempted,” Badminton agrees slowly. “We haven’t caught the culprits responsible. You’re quite close to the railways here, aren't you?” 

 

“Oh, yes indeed,” Stede says. “Love the sound of the trains. Such miracles of engineering, wouldn't you say?”

 

Badminton doesn’t honor that with an answer. 

 

“Have you seen anyone? Suspicious? Outlaws, maybe?”

 

“Oh, well, I don’t think so,” Stede says. “Lucius, have you?” 

 

“Don’t think so, boss,” Lucius says. 

 

“Oluwande?” 

 

“Nah. I mean, not that I've seen. Don’t even know what an outlaw looks like, really, do I? But I haven’t seen anyone except our staff here in the past few days,” Olu says. 

 

“Have any of you seen any outlaws?” Stede calls, raising his voice to be heard by the men milling about the area. They all chorus back “no” and “nope” and “don’t think so” and “fuck no”. 

 

“No outlaws here,” Stede says, and Ed has to wonder how he’s not fucking cracking. Ed’s having a hard enough time as it is, and it’s his life on the line, but Stede looks as cool as a mountain spring.

Badminton, after one more look at the three of them, seems to dismiss them entirely. 

 

“Well, if you hear anything-”

 

“You’ll be the first to know,” Stede says. “Stede Bonnet, I’ll come find you personally.”

 

The sheriff, who’s halfway up the lawn, pauses, and Ed’s stomach drops. “I knew a Stede, once.” 

 

“Did you?” Stede asks, and suddenly there’s a more flinty quality to his voice, hidden under all that honey he’s using to sweeten the pot. “Common name.” 

 

“No. No, it isn’t,” Badminton says. He looks Stede up and down once more, then turns on his heel and leaves. 

 

“Keep working,” Stede says under his breath, and it's such a firm order that Ed snaps to attention immediately, and Ed is used to being the one giving orders, not following them, so why does the tone of Stede’s voice affect him like this? He shoves his spade into the dirt, even though he has no idea what he’s doing, and just tries not to fuck up the clearly lovingly tended plants. 

 

It’s another quarter of an hour before Jim reappears, whispering an all-clear to Oluwande. Everyone seems to let out a breath at once, though Ed is still tense and on edge. Stede claps his hands together. 

 

“Bravo! Bravo, everyone!” he calls, and those gathered close enough to hear let out a cheer. He sees Ivan taking part, even, clapping Roach on the back in congratulations. The only one who looks concerned, aside from Ed himself, is Lucius. 

 

“Does that sheriff know you?” Ed hears Lucius hiss to Stede, who keeps a carefully blank expression on his face. 

 

“Not enough to recognize me, clearly,” Stede says. “I wouldn’t worry.” 

 

Before Lucius can inquire more, Stede is striding a few feet away, calling out general thanks and acknowledgements to his people. They all seem to glow, Ed notes, even the more reluctant ones, when on the receiving end of Stede’s praise. 

 

When Stede moves back into the house, Ed is helpless to do anything but follow in his wake. 

 

“Buttons, my good man, call the others in, will you?” Stede asks.

 

“Aye, sir,” Buttons responds. The rest of the men (and Jim) collapse onto the various chairs and sofas and cushions in the main room, sprawling with an ease that Ed envies. Ed settles himself onto a chair near Stede, Fang appearing at his side. His eyes widen. 

 

“Boss?” he asks carefully. 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“The, uh, the-” Fang pantomimes stroking his chin. “Your beard?” 

 

“Hm? Oh.” Ed’s hand flies to his face. In all the commotion, he’d nearly forgotten. “Had to go, otherwise he’d have recognized me.”

 

Fang accepts that explanation, but Ed can see him and Ivan exchange a look. He can’t blame them. He doubts he’s ever looked less like himself, in all honesty, dressed in one of Stede’s flowing white shirts, embroidered with flowers over the breast pockets, and soft breeches and a very extravagant pair of boots- and with a much shorter beard. It’s a bit of a change from the black leather ensemble Fang and the others are used to. It’s likely why that sheriff didn’t spare him a second glance. A stroke of genius on Stede’s part, really.

 

The rest of the men file in one at a time, aside from Frenchie and Izzy, who come in together. 

 

“Ivan and Fang call you Izzy,” he hears Frenchie say. 

 

“Yes,” Izzy says, in a long-suffering tone. 

 

“Can I call you that?”

 

“No.”

 

“How about Iz?”

 

“Fuck no.” 

 

“Quickshot, then, can I call you Quickshot?” Frenchie asks, nudging Izzy in the side. Izzy, to Ed’s eternal shock, doesn’t immediately go for the gun strapped to his hip. 

 

“Is there something wrong with calling me my fucking name?” he demands. 

 

“Everyone else gets a nickname for you, man, so I think I should too.” 

 

“We don’t know each other.”

 

“So when I get to know you, can I call you Quickshot?”

 

Izzy rolls his eyes. “You’ll never know me, so we’ll never get there, will we?”

 

If Ed didn’t know better, he would say Izzy is bantering, that the position of his shoulders isn't quite so tight, is almost relaxed- but that can't be right. The only time he’s ever seen Izzy relaxed is during a firefight. Izzy in battle is a demon in the best possible way, cloaked in gunsmoke and powder sparks, moving with an easy grace and fluidity that contrasts how he moves in the rest of his life. 

 

There’s a  reason people are fucking terrified of him. It’s baffling that Frenchie doesn’t seem to be. It’s even more baffling that Izzy isn’t trying to make him be afraid of him. Izzy thrives on fear, always has, ever since Ed met him…What, 12 years ago now? Longer? Fuck, time’s gotten away from him.

 

His hand moves, absentmindedly, to his butchered beard. 

 

This place is strange. It’s changing them. Changing him, changing Izzy. 

 

He doesn't know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 



STEDE

 

I knew a Stede, once.

 

Stede wishes those words hadn’t shaken him like they did. He’d thought the name Badminton sounded familiar,  but hadn’t been able to place it-or perhaps his brain simply blocked it out, like it did so many unpleasant memories- but now, fuck , now he knows exactly why the man and the name are so familiar. 

 

He’s never met this Badminton. But he met another, a long time ago and a long ways away from here.

 

It didn't end well. And if this Badminton, Sheriff Badminton, is the person Stede thinks he is- well, it doesn’t mean anything good. And not just for himself. No, the consequences for this reach further than just Stede’s own well-being. Farther than the Lighthouse Ranch, farther than the West itself- this goes all the way back east. Back home. Or at least, the place that used to be home. 

 

But he pushes it to the back of his mind as his people gather around him. Ed is sitting not far away, and his eyes haven’t left Stede once since they reentered the house. Lucius did a good job with the beard, Stede thinks, especially in the time allotted, even though a part of him is already missing it. The beard really did complete the look, but he supposes that’s why it had to go.

 

“All right, everyone, listen up!” Stede says. It takes a moment, as it always does, for the buzz of conversation to die down, but it does die down. Stede remembers a time, towards the beginning, where he would have to wait for multiple minutes at a time to get their attention. How far they’ve come, as coworkers, as family. 

 

“Now, I know that what happened with the Sheriff was confusing and troubling,” Stede says. A couple of them nod along, the Swede and Roach in particular. 

 

“What was he doin’ here?” John says from his seat towards the back of the room. 

 

“Looking for an outlaw.” 

 

Roach snorts. “Well, he found a few, eh?” 

 

A chuckle runs through the room. 

 

“He found no one, actually,” Stede says, though a smile graces his own face. “You all did very well.”

 

“I thought you were really good, Swede,” Frenchie says. 

 

“Yeah, mate, when you came running out it looked totally natural,” Fang chimes in, and that makes Stede’s heart grow at least three sizes, to see Ed’s crew joining in on the banter. 

 

“Oh, stop it,” Swede says, blushing. “Don’t tease me!” 

 

“Swede, Swede, Swede!” Roach chants, the others joining in.

 

“Which outlaw were they looking for, anyway?” Buttons calls. 

 

“Well,” Stede starts, hesitating. He glances back at Ed, despite his best efforts, who gives a shrug.

 

“Well, they were looking for our guests,” Stede says. 

 

“Why?”

 

“Attempted robbery,” Lucius says, not entirely convincing.

 

“They came all the way out here for attempted robbery?” John scoffs. “Not fuckin’ likely. There’s an attempted robbery every hour out here.” 

 

“Yes, well,” Stede hedges. 

 

“What’s really going on?” Roach asks.

 

“We deserve to know!” 

 

“Yeah!” 

 

They start clamoring, and Stede, despite all his composure during the actual event, is sweating now-

 

And then Ed stands. 

 

“They’re looking for me.” 

 

“Yeah, mate, we established that,” Frenchie says. 

 

“Not for the robbery. They’re looking for me because I’m Blackbeard.”

 

There’s silence. Stede can nearly hear his own heartbeat. 

 

“Blackbeard?” Swede says hesitantly. 

 

“Like, Blackbeard?” Frenchie echoes.

 

“Like the Blackbeard on all the wanted posters?” Roach adds on.

 

“That’s the one,” Ed confirms. “We did attempt a robbery. We think they must have seen us. That’s why they’re searching.” 

 

“Did you know about this, boss?” Olu asks. 

 

“I did, yes.” 

 

“Then what the fuck is he still doing here?” Jim says, leaning against the back wall. 

 

“He’s our guest, Jim,” Stede says firmly. “As are his crew.” 

 

“Yeah, they were our guests when we thought they were just some stupid outlaws who couldn’t even rob the Redwood Route,” Jim says. “But Blackbeard’s a whole other story.” 

 

“Jim’s right,” John says. “Blackbeard’s dangerous.” 

 

“I have heard that, a bit,” Roach says, almost apologetically, glancing towards Ed.

 

“They’re still our guests-”

 

“I think we should get a say in it,” Lucius says. He already knew Ed was Blackbeard, of course, but Stede realizes he must have been keeping his own misgivings under wraps.

 

“Agreed,” Jim says, with a nod to Lucius. “Blackbeard being here puts all of us in the law’s sights. It’s not just harboring a fugitive anymore. It’s harboring Blackbeard. He’s got a price on his head that would keep all of us rich for the rest of our lives.” 

 

It's not like Jim to care about money, but when Stede sees the eyes of some of the other men light up, he realizes that was more for them, to give them an incentive to get rid of Ed. 

 

“We are not turning him in!” Stede says, hopefully heading off the physical attack that he’s sure would come from Ed’s crew if that idea was explored more. Israel, at the very least, has been itching to use that gun of his for days. 

 

“I agree,” Pete says. “But I don’t think they can stay here.” 

 

For a moment, selfishly, he almost listens. Because what they’re saying is true. Ed being here is dangerous, dangerous for all of them- especially for Stede, now that Badminton is involved. Mary’s face swims in his mind, fearful and pale, his children crying behind her-

 

But then he looks at Ed, and Ed isn’t angry, the way Israel is, or fearful, the way Ivan and Fang are shifting about. No, Ed is resigned, his head down, lips pursed, eyes sad. 

 

And that simply won’t do. 

 

“Gentlemen!” Stede says. “And Jim.” 

 

Jim rolls their eyes. 

 

“I understand the risk,” Stede begins. “Keeping Ed and the others here could be dangerous for us. But I ask you to remember how all of you came to find this place. It was dangerous to have you here, too. All of you.”

 

He turns to Roach. “What was the price on your head, when they arrested you?” 

 

“$400,” Roach says with a shrug. “Nothing to write home about.” 

 

“But nothing to sneer at, either,” Stede points out. “John?” 

 

“$600.” 

 

“Frenchie?” 

 

“Bout a thousand, give or take?” Frenchie says, scratching at the back of his neck. Stede sees Izzy blink, staring at the musician incredulously.

 

“A fucking thousand?” Izzy hisses. “For what?” 

 

“Your guess is as good as mine, Quickshot,” Frenchie says. 

 

“And Jim?” Stede asks finally, with a pointed stare. Jim sighs, but mutters an answer. 

 

“$2,000.” 

 

“And would you say that’s a risk, to house a fugitive worth $2,000?” 

 

“Don’t patronize me.” 

 

“Just making a point,” Stede says, a little too innocently. Jim narrows their eyes. 

 

“So, I ask you to reconsider. You all came here in a time of need, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

There’s a grumble of assent. 

 

“So, what do you say? Shall we let them stay? Shall we shelter them in a time of need, the way all of you were sheltered here?” 

 

“I think they should stay,” Frenchie says. “Izzy’s gotta teach me how to break horses, anyway, right Iz?”

 

“What did I say about the fucking nicknames?” 

 

With Frenchie’s approval, the rest of the votes come in, and though there are a few against, the majority vote to let Blackbeard’s crew stay. Stede grins, satisfied. 

 

“I suppose the matter is settled, then?” he asks, with a pointed look at Jim, who just shakes their head. 

 

“Whatever.” 

 

“You didn't have to do that, mate,” Ed says when the chatter has started up again and the crew has gotten back to work. “They’ll be pissed at you.” 

 

“It’ll blow over,” Stede says dismissively. “All I did was point out the facts.” 

 

“They’re right, though,” Ed says, and Stede doesn’t like the expression that passes over his face. “It’s dangerous to have me here.”

 

“But-”

 

Ed holds up a hand. “Yes, more dangerous than Jimenez. I-” 

 

He hesitates, glancing around. Stede catches it. 

 

“Have you seen the view from the far paddock yet?” he asks suddenly. “It’s quite exquisite.”

 

And it is an exquisite view, but that’s not really the reason for Stede’s suggestion. No one ever really goes to the far paddock, aside from Pete and the Swede when it needs maintenance. They’ll have privacy there. Ed catches on at once. 

 

“Nah, not yet,” he says. 

 

“Up for a walk?”

 

“Always.” 

 

It is a bit of a walk out there, especially with Ed’s slowed pace from the gunshot wound, so Stede makes general conversation, as they walk, trying to appear casual to the others. 

 

Ed lets out a low whistle as the view of the mountains comes into sight. “Fuck, mate.” 

 

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Stede says, a smile touching his face. 

 

“You can really see out here, huh?” Ed says, with a cock of his head. “Used to live somewhere in those mountains.” 

 

He points, waving his finger vaguely. “Long time ago. Can’t really remember where. Never saw it from this vantage point, you know?” 

 

“I imagine it's a bit different when you’re holed up in there,” Stede says. 

 

“Nice, though. Lots of rocks.” 

 

“Ed. There was something you wanted to tell me?”

 

“Sorry,” Ed says, a bit sheepishly. “Yeah.”


“About how it was dangerous? For you to stay here?” Stede prompts. Ed lets out a huff, leaning against the fencepost, and lord but isn't he a sight? All that long hair, against the backdrop of the mountains. He’s favoring his left leg, Stede notes, like the joint hurts. Perhaps he’d tweaked it falling off his horse?

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed says. “Look, you can’t repeat this, ok? Iz and I are the only ones who know. It’d freak Fang and Ivan out, if they heard.” 

 

“You have my word,” Stede says, intrigued. 

 

“There’s someone out there looking for me.”

 

“Yes, well, I’d gathered that,” Stede says. “You are one of the most wanted on this side of the country.” 

 

“Yeah, but, I mean there’s someone hunting me,” Ed says. “He’s an old… I’ve known him a long time. And he won’t ever stop until he catches me. I'll be on his radar, now, from the robbery. That’s why the sheriff came here.Like your guy John said, no one comes all the way out here for attempted robbery. He’s got pull with these guys, the law, you know?”

 

Stede frowns. “An old vendetta?” 

 

“Yeah, more or less. Someone who’s got it out for me. And Iz, too, but mostly me.” 

 

“Who?” 

 

Ed frowns. “I don’t-”

 

“Edward. If I need to be on watch for someone, I should know his name, don’t you think?” 

 

Ed sighs, and shifts his stance. Stede imagines, as Blackbeard, the man’s made quite a few enemies. This one, though, this one seems to make him uneasy. And that makes Stede uneasy. 

 

Finally, Ed looks up, those dark eyes boring into Stede’s and making him shiver. The man really can exude intimidation when he wants to, can’t he? Even leaning on a fence post for support, favoring a bullet wound in his side, Stede can very easily see the outlaw in Ed, the man who’s terrorized railways and towns and sheriffs for years. 

 

“A bounty hunter. His name’s Hornigold. Benjamin Hornigold.” 




JIM

 

“Puta madre,” Jim hisses, crouching in the middle of the garden. Why did Stede have to put Blackbeard here, of all places? He’s absolutely butchered the roots of their tomato plants. Jim’s tomato plants are their pride and joy, and he’s butchered them. They’d blame Pete, but after they’d held a knife to his throat when he’d dared to pick an unripe tomato a few months back, he knows better than to fuck up thier garden. 

 

“Don’t worry, mis bebes,” Jim croons in a tone usually reserved for a lover, fingers dancing over the broken roots and upturned soil. “He’ll pay for what he’s done to you. I will rain vengeance upon him. Every broken root will be a broken bone in his body-”

 

“You know that’s well creepy, right?”

 

Jim doesn’t even have to look up to know who the voice belongs to. They’d know that tone, the fondness and the warmth and the rolling accent, anywhere. They’d know it in their sleep, they’d know it in their grave. 

 

“Look what he did!” Jim exclaims, gesturing furiously to the plants. Oluwande kneels next to them, his knee bumping theirs. 

 

“Damn,” he swears. 

 

“See? I think I’m entitled to a couple broken bones.”

 

“Ah, it's not so bad,” Oluwande says, bending closer. He reaches out, skimming the exposed roots with all the tenderness and caution that is always so inherent in Oluwande. 

 

The garden was his idea in the first place. Jim had been absolutely climbing the walls when the two of them found their way to Stede’s ranch. They aren’t built for sitting idle. They’d been trained in combat and sharpshooting and subterfuge under their Nana (who wasn’t their Nana at all, but a nun at the orphanage where Jim had ended up after the slaughter of their town by the Siete Gallos) since they were ten years old. 

 

Oluwande, the only one who knew, the only one who knows, really, about Jim’s quest for vengeance and the murder of Alfeo de la Vaca, the entire reason they had to come to the Lighthouse Ranch in the first place, finally got fed up and suggested they return to their roots. Literally. Their family had been farmers, and though Jim is not exactly what you might call nurturing, they took to the new task with fervor. 

 

And they’re good at it. They seem to have inherited their father’s green thumb. They’re so good that Roach has started putting in requests for herbs and spices and various vegetables that cost a fortune in town. Not that Stede can’t afford those items, the man has more money than God, it seems, but the rest of them are more cautious about spending than their boss. And Jim welcomes a challenge. 

 

It’s something to do, anyway.

 

“See?” Oluwande says. He’s managed to pat the dirt back down, removing some of the more damaged roots so the others can thrive (and Jim tries not to think too hard about that metaphor, about Oluwande pruning back the broken parts of their own soul with that same caution, that same care, so that they can grow, because if they think about it too hard they’ll have to chain Oluwande to their body so he can never leave, never) and setting the plant back to rights. 

 

“Oh,” they say. 

 

“So maybe you can admit you were being a little dramatic?” Olu asks. 

 

“I’m never dramatic,” Jim says, deadpan, just to hear Olu snort in amusement. 

 

“Sure, and that giant-ass hat you wear is just for the sun, yeah?”

 

“Exactly,” Jim says, tapping the brim of the admittedly overly dramatic hat they wear. It’s good for hiding their face, for avoiding Spanish Jackie’s vengeance and for concealing the fact that they were born a woman (even though that word, that identity, has never fit quite right, not even when they were a child) from overly nosey eyes. They don’t have to wear it here, really, since everyone on the ranch has seen their face and heard their voice and they don’t seem to have a problem with it, but Jim likes the hat. Dramatic though it may be.

 

Oluwande grins, and then it drops. 

 

“That sheriff knew Stede,” he says, keeping his voice low so Fang, who’s  resting on the porch, can’t hear. 

 

“No shit?” 

 

“Yeah. He said he knew a Stede once, and looked him up and down like he definitely knew him.” 

 

“What’d Stede say?” 

 

“Nothing,” Oluwande says, a line between those lovely eyebrows of his. “Said not to worry.”

 

“So we definitely should worry, then.” 

 

It’s one of the idiosyncrasies (one of many) of their boss. When he's worried, you almost certainly don’t need to be, and when he says not to- well, that’s usually when things go to shit.

 

“That’s what I was thinking,” 

 

“Did you catch the sheriff’s name?” Jim asks. 

 

“Badminton. Chauncey, I think,” Oluwande replies. 

 

Jim frowns. That name sounds… Familiar. 

 

“You know it too, yeah?” Olu asks. 

 

“Yeah, but I don't know from where. Did Jackie run into him, maybe?” Jim muses. 

 

“I was kinda thinking that, but I’m not sure,” Oluwande replies. “But it's the only thing I can think of.” 

 

“There’s one other option,” Jim says slowly. They don’t want this option to be true, but they’d be stupid not to admit it's a possibility. 

 

“What's that?” 

 

“Jackie had some law enforcement in her pocket,” Jim says. “Maybe this guy is one of them?” 

 

“Fuck, I hope not,” Olu says with a shiver. “The last thing we need is one of Jackie’s lackies on our asses. Besides, this is a bit out of her territory, don’t you think?” 

 

“A bit, but I know she had them all over the state,” Jim says. “We probably should tell Stede, just in case.” 

 

“Yeah, most likely,” Olu says. He gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders, and extends a hand to help Jim up, even though both of them know they don’t need it. 

 

Jim takes it anyway, reveling, even just for a moment, in the warmth of his skin and the calluses on his fingers. 

 

“I got you, you know,”Olu says, and Jim knows he’s not talking about helping them up off the ground. “No matter what.”

 

“And I got you,” Jim confirms. “No matter what.” 



IZZY

 

$1,000? One thousand dollars? For- for Frenchie

 

Everyone else’s bounties make sense to Izzy. He’s seen enough menace in Roach’s eyes not to question the $400, John’s stature alone tells him the man is probably capable of obtaining a $600 bounty, and Jimenez- well, that’s self explanatory, he thinks. 

 

But $1,000 for Frenchie? For the man who sings to horses and teases Izzy about different nicknames, who’s skittish around too-loud noises, who Izzy has seen trip over his own feet when he isn’t even walking?

 

That Frenchie?

 

He can’t fucking puzzle it out. For fuck’s sake, that’s barely below Fang’s bounty, set at $1,500. Ivan is closer to Jimenez in number, while Izzy and Blackbeard hover between $4,000 and $5,000, depending on the town and the lawmen involved. 

 

He’s fixating on it, probably, but at this point the puzzle is a welcome distraction from the ever-growing itch under his skin from staying in one place too long. The arrival of the sheriff had been the perfect opportunity for them to leave. Ed is still weak, yes, still suffering from blood-loss, but he’s seen Blackbeard walk off worse and come out alive. Every second they stay here is risky- and Izzy is beginning to believe that the threat of the law isn’t the only dangerous thing about this place. 

 

There’s something… insidious, about Stede Bonnet. Something crafty, he thinks, something not quite right. He’s seemed to crawl under Blackbeard’s skin and make a home there. For fuck’s sake, Ed had revealed their identities just because Stede was struggling to explain why the Sherriff had been there in the first place. 

 

It’s growing frustrating. Very, very frustrating. 

 

“You always look that sour, or is today a special occasion or something?” 

 

Izzy closes his eyes, taking a deep, deep breath through his nose. That’s the other thing about this fucking ranch- no one knows how to mind their own business. 

 

“Is there something you need?” he responds instead of answering, raising an eyebrow at Lucius, who’s draped himself over a ridiculously ornate outdoor couch.

 

“Just making conversation,” Lucius says with a shrug. “You aren’t integrating as well as the others.”

 

“No one said anything about integrating,” Izzy grumbles. God, he hopes Ed hasn’t said anything about integrating. 

 

“Everyone else is doing it though,” Lucius replies. 

 

“Don’t plan on being here long enough to need to integrate,” Izzy says shortly. 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

Izzy shoots him a look. 

 

“Fuck does that mean?” 

 

“Nothing,” Lucius says. “Just that your boss seems to be liking it here.”

 

There’s something hidden in there, something Lucius isn’t saying, and Izzy thinks he knows what it is but he really, really doesn’t want to believe it. 

 

“You know you’ve got a vein in your forehead?” Lucius points out. “Sticks out when you get angry. You should try breathing exercises, or something. That amount of stress can’t be good for your heart.”

 

“Fuck off.” 

 

“You don't like me much, do you?” 

 

“I don’t think about you enough to like you or dislike you.”

 

“Sure.” 

 

Lucius is doing that thing again, looking Izzy up and down like he’s trying to find some kind of weakness in him, and Izzy hates it just as much as he hated it the first time, because this time he doesn’t think Lucius has found him lacking. No, he thinks Lucius sees some kind of challenge when he looks at him, some kind of a nut to crack. He doesn’t fucking like it. 

 

He likes it even less when Pete comes out of the house. He greets Izzy with a somewhat tentative nod and heads straight for Lucius. Izzy doesn’t think he’s ever seen the two of them more than a few feet apart when they’re in the same space. He places a hand on Lucius’s lower back, rubbing in a circular motion, and Lucius lets out a sigh-

 

And then Izzy is moving inside, slamming the door behind him. He can hear Lucius let out an incredulous snort and hear Pete saying something, a question, but he doesn’t fucking care because the more time he spends here, the more time he spends around Lucius and Pete the more the memories start to crowd into his head, clamoring until he can’t ignore them anymore- Charles’s hands on his back, breath warm with liquor fanning his face, long hair and piercing eyes and a noose around his neck-

 

He can’t fucking do this anymore, he can’t- he needs a timeline. That’s what he needs from Ed, he needs to know how long they have to be here and how long before they can fucking leave.

 

“Hey, Quickshot!” Frenchie greets, and if Izzy feels a little guilty about the ferocity of the fuck off that leaves his mouth, he’d never admit it. 

 

“Jesus, man, all right,” Frenchie mutters, moving to the side with raised hands. “Loud and clear.”

 

One thousand dollars? Izzy spares just enough brain-power to think, before he’s moving on.

 

He’s practically tearing out of his skin by the time he finds Ed. He thinks he’s spoken to every single person on this goddamn ranch before he’s finally directed to Stede’s ‘clotheshouse’, as Oluwande describes it, and if that’s what he fucking thinks it is-

 

It is. It’s an entire building dedicated to clothes, as Izzy is absolutely bombarded by fabrics the second he bursts through the door. 

 

“Gracious!” Stede exclaims. 

 

“You ever knock, Iz?” Ed chimes in. 

 

Izzy has to take a moment to figure out exactly what the fuck he’s seeing. He moves his eyes between Ed, then Stede, then Ed again, and maybe Lucius has a point about his stress levels, because seeing Stede in Ed’s customary Blackbeard ensemble, all black leather with giant spurs and white embroidery on the back of his jacket in the shape of a kraken, his broad-brimmed hat too large for Stede’s head, and Ed in some sort of… chartreuse getup, with his long hair tied back and his shorter beard freshly trimmed-

 

He thinks at this point he’s counting down the seconds until his heart just explodes in his chest from rage. 

 

“Edward.” His voice is short, and clipped, and usually Ed would know what that tone of voice means, but he’s too busy snickering with Stede as he tries to button the jacket he’s wearing. 

 

“Edward.” he says again, and this time, at least Ed looks up. 

 

“Something wrong?” 

 

“I need to speak with you.” 

 

“Go on, then,” Ed says absentmindedly, because Stede has moved into Ed’s space, taking over the buttons for him, and Ed is looking at him with a sort of warmth that makes Izzy’s jaw clench-

 

“Edward!” he says, and this time, he gets both of their attention. “I need to speak with you now. Alone.” 

 

That, at least, gets its way into Ed’s brain. 

 

“You mind, Stede?” he asks, and Stede raises an eyebrow, but shakes his head. 

 

“Not at all. Please, stay here. No one else really comes in, you’ll have privacy,” Stede says, and he exits the building, but not without a backwards look at Ed, who shrugs. Izzy lets out a breath, relaxing slightly with Stede’s absence. 

 

“What’s this about, then?” Ed asks, sinking down onto a couch that Stede has set up in this absolutely fucking ridiculous building. 

 

“What’s the plan, here, Ed?” Izzy asks. 

 

“Plan?” 

 

“When are we getting out?” Izzy clarifies. 

 

Ed shrugs. “When I’m better, I guess.”

 

Izzy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ed, I can understand that you find this place… interesting. But you know it's dangerous for us to stay.”

 

Ed avoids his gaze. It’s like a child who’s been told he can’t have dessert before dinner, that same sort of sulking, and it boils Izzy’s blood. 

 

“Stop that,” he snaps. “You know I’m right.”

 

“Yeah, I fucking know,” Ed snaps back. 

 

“Then what’s the holdup? We could have left today-”

 

Ed shoots him a look, gesturing to his side. “Can’t, Izzy. I can barely walk across this fucking ranch without this fucking thing bleeding.”

 

“I understand that, Ed. But-”

 

“But nothing. I say we’re staying. We leave when I say we leave.”

 

“I need to know when. I need a timeline,” Izzy insists. 

 

“I don’t have one.”

 

“Then fucking come up with one!” Izzy shouts.. Ed tilts his head, eyes narrowing to slits, and even in this absurd getup he’s dressed in, Izzy can see him, can see Blackbeard, and part of him relaxes, because that means maybe he’s not too far gone to see reason.

 

“You fucking questioning me?” he asks, low and dangerous, and Izzy is shaking his head immediately. 

 

“Then what? What’s bothering you so fucking much that you come storming in here, undermining me in front of the man who decides our future?”

 

“Stede fucking Bonnet does not decide-”

 

“He owns the ranch. We’re outnumbered here, aren’t we? And they have fighters. I’m not at my best, and Fang’s already attached to that Spriggs guy, you know how sentimental he gets. So he’s not at his best, either. If it comes to a fight, we lose. So, yes, Stede fucking Bonnet decides our future. If he kicks us out, what the fuck can we do about it, huh?” 

 

“Maybe that would be for the best.” 

 

“Fucking hell, Izzy,” Ed sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You wanna leave so fucking bad, why don’t you just  go?” 

 

The words hang in the air for a moment, weighty and stifling, and Izzy can barely fucking breathe. Ed’s eyes widen, like he didn’t mean to say that in the first place, but the words came out of him, didn’t they, which means he was thinking them. 

 

“You’re telling me to leave?” Izzy says. It’s less of a question and more of a confirmation. “After how long I’ve served you? After everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve done in your name?”

 

Ed’s shaking his head, but Izzy’s seeing red. 

 

“After fucking years,” he says, seething, “you’re choosing a man you’ve known for four days over someone who’s been by your side, been loyal to you, for over a decade? Is that what you’re fucking telling me, Blackbeard ?” 

 

He spits the last word out like it’s poison, and Ed reacts like Izzy’s fucking shot him, a breath punching out of his chest. 

 

“Iz-”

 

“I’ll burn this fucking ranch down,” Izzy says. “I’ll burn it down before I let you make this choice, Ed, before I let you destroy yourself, destroy this crew-”

 

“I didn’t mean it!” Ed says, standing up and moving towards Izzy. Izzy backs away, and Ed follows, until Izzy is crowded up against the wall, chest heaving. 

 

“I didn’t fucking mean it,” Ed mutters, laying a hand on Izzy’s shoulder, and it’s only with that touch that Izzy’s world begins to right itself. 

 

“You know I need you here, Iz,” Ed says. “You know I can’t do this shit without you. You just fucking pushed me, man.” 

 

Izzy swallows, taking a deep breath in through his nose. He knows that's the closest he’ll get to an apology from Ed, and he’ll take it for what it is- an admission of Izzy’s worth, of his service. 

 

“I don’t mean to question you,” Izzy says in return. “I trust you, Ed, but I worry about your judgment here.”

 

“My judgment’s intact, “ Ed says. “But there’s something you should know.”

 

He sighs, taking a step back. “I told Stede about Hornigold.” 

 

Izzy blinks, opening his mouth, but Ed holds up a hand. “He needed to know. If Hornigold tracks us here, he needs to know who he is so he can be on alert.”

 

“How much did you tell him?” Izzy asks, fighting down the urge to start yelling again. 

 

“Not everything. Just that he was looking for us. That he has it out for us specifically.” 

 

Izzy lets out a breath of relief. 

 

“All right.” 

 

“But I need you here in case the worst happens, Iz. I need you watching. In case he finds us,” Ed says. 

 

“Then I will be,” Izzy says. 

 

“Good. Because I’m starting to think-” Ed pauses. “That train-”

 

“It should've been an easy hit,” Izzy finishes. He’s been thinking it for some time, but never found the time to voice it. “Why wasn’t it?”

 

“Exactly,” Ed says, and this feels better, this feels like how things usually are between the two of them. He and Ed have been working together for so long that they can practically finish each other’s sentences, they barely need to speak to be able to know what the other is thinking. 

 

“A trap,” Izzy says with a sigh. “Fucking Hornigold laid a trap.”

 

“And we fell right into it,” Ed says, flopping back down on the couch. “He picked the one thing he knew we couldn’t resist. And we fucking fell for it.”

 

“You going to tell Bonnet?” 

 

“Not yet. I think he knows what he needs to know, for now,” Ed says, and the tension in Izzy’s chest releases. 

 

“Good. Think his men might take matters into their own hands if that came out. Hornigold’s got a reputation,” Izzy says. 

 

“Rightfully so,” Ed mutters. He looks up at Izzy then. 

 

“Are you holding up all right, Iz?” he asks. 

 

Ed is not what you would call a gentle man, or a particularly thoughtful one, but he knows Izzy, knows him better than anyone left alive on this earth. He’s the only one who might have some understanding of why Izzy is struggling here, the only one who knows how Izzy ended up outside that tiny town in the middle of nowhere where Ed found him all those years ago, delirious, rope burn on his neck, covered in someone else’s blood. Ed’s the one who slung him over the back of his own horse and took him to Hornigold’s gang. Ed gave him a life again, gave him purpose, and as distracted as he is by Stede, at least Izzy knows Ed hasn’t forgotten that. 

 

“I- yes,” Izzy says, and it's sort of a lie, sort of not. “I just need your word, Ed. I need your word that we’ll leave.”

 

Ed hesitates, and he presses. “This isn’t us, Ed. This type of life. It never has been. It never will be.” 

 

Something dark crosses Ed’s face, and for a moment, Izzy regrets the statement, true as it might be. 

 

“Yeah. It’s not.” 





EDWARD

 

Benjamin Hornigold. It’s a name Ed doesn’t like to think about. He likes the man attached to it even less. 

 

It wasn’t always like that, though. He used to revere Hornigold, once. Worshiped the man, practically. After all, Hornigold was the one who introduced Ed to this life when he had nowhere else to go, on the run after killing his father, forced to leave his mother behind lest she bear the consequences of his crime. He was penniless, starving, begging at taverns, working for crumbs, taking backhands to the face when he was found scrounging in wastebins in the backs of shops. 

 

He was fifteen when he tried to steal from Hornigold. He didn't know who he was, of course- all he knew was that the man looked wealthy enough that he wouldn’t miss a few bills. Maybe even a silver dollar, if Ed was quick enough to snatch it. 

 

He wasn’t. Hornigold had caught him around the wrist the second his hand slipped into his money belt, twisting it so hard it nearly broke. 

 

Any other man might have had Ed killed. But Hornigold took one look at him, at this scrawny, snarling beast of a boy, and he laughed. 

 

He took Ed in, trained him, taught him how to use his slender fingers to really pickpocket, then moved on to larger prizes. 

 

He still wasn’t sure how it had gone wrong. Izzy says that Hornigold was weak, that he gave in to the law for the promise of a steady income and a pardon, but Ed can’t reconcile that in his mind. It had to have been something more. He can’t reconcile the man he knew, the steadfast leader who made Ed into the man he is today, with some yellow-bellied traitor. 

 

But it's the truth. Hornigold turned lawman, turned bounty hunter, and he’s dedicated his career to catching the infamous Blackbeard and his Black Skulls. 

 

There's a knock on his door, breaking him from his reminiscing. 

 

“Come in,” he calls, sitting up in the armchair that Stede has arranged in the corner, placed to give a good view out the window. The attention to detail in this place, really, is astounding. How does he find the time?

 

Stede’s head pokes into the room, and it's like every muscle in Ed’s body relaxes. 

 

“Bad time?” Stede asks, almost hesitantly, as if this wasn’t his own home. 

 

“Nah, mate, come on in,” Ed says. He shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the throbbing in his bad knee. His brace is somewhere back at their stash. He doesn’t always wear it during raids, it’s not exactly conducive to riding, at least not at the speed they have to reach in order to catch up with train cars, but fuck, he’s missing it now. 

 

“I don’t mean to bother,” Stede says, coming fully into the room now, and Ed can see that he isn’t empty handed. “Are you a whiskey man? I’ve got a lovely vintage.”

 

Whiskey, Ed thinks, amused. Ironic. 

 

“I am, yeah,” he says, and Stede’s face lights up. 

 

“Oh, good. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” he says, bustling over to Ed, handing him a glass and pouring a healthy two fingers of liquor. He settles himself on the edge of the bed, given as there’s no other seating in the room. 

 

“What’s the occasion, then?” Ed asks. 

 

“New friends. Escaping the long arm of the law, for another day, anyway,” Stede shrugs. “Take your pick.” 

 

“New friends, then,” Ed says, trying to ignore the warmth that pools in his stomach at the words. 

 

“To new friends,” Stede says, clinking their glasses together. Ed takes a sip. The whiskey burns in the best way down his throat. 

 

“Oh, man, that’s good,” he says. 

 

“I thought you might enjoy it,” Stede says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Most of my men, much as I love them, can’t tell the difference between a subpar whiskey and a good one. You seem to have a more sophisticated palette.”

 

Ed snorts. “Don’t think anything about me’s sophisticated, Stede.”

 

“Now, I don’t know about that,” Stede says, and the burn in Ed’s veins doesn’t have anything to do with the liquor now. 

 

He’s not sure how to go about this, really. Blackbeard doesn’t really make friends. The only friend he really has is Izzy, and half of that is built out of a mutual rage and desire to watch the world burn for what it's done to them, what it’s taken from them.  He’s never done something like this, before, never built something based on warmth and kindness and care. 

 

“Where d’you get all this stuff?” Ed asks, gesturing to the trappings of wealth and luxury that surround them. 

 

“Oh, here and there,” Stede says. “Some of it I’ve had shipped. Some of it I brought with me from back east.”

 

“How about that?” Ed asks, pointing to his favorite of the paintings that litter Stede’s house. It’s a lighthouse, portrayed in an explosion of color and light. 

 

Stede’s face softens, a smile touching his lips. “Back east. A… friend made it for me.”

 

“Same friend that made the ranch possible?” Ed asks. 

 

“Mmm, yes,” Stede says. “Mary. She’s quite an artist.”

 

Ed feels a sudden pang of… something, at the way Stede’s voice lingers on that name, the gentleness, the softness of it. 

 

“Must be some friend,” he says, and he wishes he could have hid the note of bitterness in his voice a little better. Stede turns back to him, taking  another sip of his whiskey. 

 

“I think you two would like each other if you ever met,” he says. “You’re quite different, but I think you’d get along.”

 

“Maybe. Don’t know. Don’t get along with a lot of people, really,” Ed says. He’s sulking a bit, he knows that, but he can’t help it. He shifts, and this time he can’t hide the wince when he moves his leg wrong. He rubs at his knee, swollen flesh sending pangs up and down his leg. 

 

“Your leg,” Stede says softly. “I noticed earlier. Did you pull it in your fall?”

 

Ed shakes his head. “Maybe a bit, but nah. I’ve got a bum knee. Fell off a horse a long time ago.” 

 

“Is there anything you need?” 

 

“Don’t think so. I’ve got a brace, but I left it behind before we went on the raid. Just takes time.” 

 

There’s one thing that might help, but it's bold, too bold to ask of Stede. 

 

“You know, Pete has a bad shoulder,” Stede says, eyes flicking away from Ed’s face. “Lucius rubs it for him sometimes. Would that help?”

 

Ed’s entire body freezes. Is Stede a mind-reader? Can he read Ed’s fucking mind? Is Stede really suggesting the very thing that Ed was determined not to ask of him, because he thinks it might be crossing a line?

 

“Dunno,” he says, stalling. “Might do.” 

 

“Worth a shot, wouldn’t you say? You seem to be in quite a lot of pain, Ed.” Stede's voice is gentle, and that, above anything, is enough to make Ed nod his head. 

 

“Come here, then,” Stede says briskly, patting the bed next to him. Ed swallows. This is the logical place to do it, yes, none of the other furniture in the room provides enough space, but it still takes some courage for him to stand and move to where Stede has indicated, propping his leg up in front of him.

 

“May I?” Stede asks, and it's such a funny question, so prim and proper, that Ed nearly laughs. 

 

“Yeah, go on, then,” he says. Stede takes his leg, maneuvering it so his calf is resting on Stede’s thighs. 

 

“Where’s the spot?” Stede asks. 

 

“Uh, here,” Ed says, tapping the side of his knee, trying very, very hard not to focus on Stede’s hands sliding up his leg. 

 

“Oh, yes, I feel that,” Stede murmurs, thumb coming to rest on the swollen joint. He digs his thumb in, gently at first, and then with increasing pressure, and Ed lets out a hiss. 

 

“Too hard?” Stede asks. 

 

Ed shakes his head. “Always hurts at first,” he says through gritted teeth. 

 

“Tell me if I should be doing something differently,” Stede says. 

 

It only takes a few minutes of the intense pressure before the pain slips into relief, and Ed lets out a groan, letting his head fall back. 

 

“Fuck, mate, that’s good,” he says. 

 

“Hm? Oh, well, I’m glad,” Stede says, and is Ed imagining things, or does his voice sound a little strained? 

 

Sure enough, when he cracks an eye open, that’s a blush on Stede’s pretty cheeks. 

 

He swallows. This may have been a mistake. The gravitational pull Stede has on him is getting stronger by the second, not helped by the wave of giddiness that crashes over him with the subsiding of the pain that’s plagued him for days. It’s like a drug, really, and combined with the whiskey- well, it's enough to make Ed’s head spin. 

 

Luckily, after a little while, Stede’s hands on his leg begin to feel more comforting and less blood stirring, as the breathtaking relief fades into a more natural state. 

 

“So, that sheriff knew you,” Ed says. It seems a bit out of the blue, but it's been bothering him all day. Stede’s movements pause, just briefly, and then continue. 

 

“Must have had me mistaken for someone else,” Stede says, not making eye contact. 

 

“Come on. I saw what happened. I heard. He knew you. That gonna be a problem?” 

 

“He didn’t know me. I’ve never met the man,” Stede says, more firmly this time, and maybe Ed should drop it, but Izzy’s words still ring in his mind. 

 

I’m worried about your judgment here. 

 

He’d assured Izzy his judgment was intact, and the years of instinct that he’s accumulated over his lifetime are telling him that Stede is hiding something, something potentially dangerous, and it would be foolish to drop it just because Stede is looking a little uncomfortable (no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much wants to stop so that Stede will stay here and he won’t have to break the spell). 

 

“Knew of you, then,” Ed corrects.

 

Stede sighs. “It’s nothing important.”

 

“I’d still like to know.” 

 

“Edward, I really don’t-”

 

“Come on, Stede, I’ve told you a lot of shit recently-”

 

“And what, now I owe you?” Stede shoots back, mouth snapping closed the moment he says it. Ed’s jaw drops a little. 

 

“Nah, that’s not what I meant.”

 

Stede looks away, taking a deep breath in through his nose, and exhaling out. His shoulders fall with the movement. 

 

“If it becomes an issue,” he says slowly. “I’ll tell you. You have my word. But you are not entitled to information about my life, Edward, as I am not entitled to information about yours.” His voice is short and clipped, nothing like the kind words and velvet tones of his usual speech, or even like the stern command he uses in crisis- no, Ed’s made him angry. His stomach drops. 

 

“Stede-”

 

“I need to go and check on Buttons,” Stede says. He pats Ed’s shin, and Ed moves it at once. Stede rises, brushing off his pants, and walks to the door. 

 

He leaves without a farewell. The bottle of special occasion whiskey is left behind on the table. 

 

Ed’s head thunks back onto the headboard. 

 

“Fuck me,” he mutters. 

 

What the fuck is Stede hiding?





STEDE

 

Buttons does not need checking up on. Stede just had to get out of that room. It’s too small in there, too close, too warm, especially with his hands on Ed’s leg and Ed looking at him like that, pupils dilated with such an exhilarated expression on his face-

 

Then, of course, the room became even smaller with the subject change and the poking into topics Stede really does not want to address. 

 

He sighs, making his way down to the barn. Perhaps it was childish of him to storm out the way he did. Ed did have a point. He’s been remarkably open with Stede, given the circumstances, and this business with the sheriff is something that could affect Ed and his crew-

 

But he can’t talk about it. Not yet, not with Ed. Stede still hasn’t puzzled this out himself, hasn’t had the time to unpack what it could all mean. 

 

He wishes for Mary, suddenly, wishes there was a way to speak with her over the distance that separates them. He doesn’t wish for that often. He and Mary, while dear friends now, are perfectly content living their separate lives,  communicating through letters and newspaper clippings. But Stede's former wife always had a unique way of looking at the world. Stede is prone to getting caught up in whimsey and romance and adventure, while Mary is much more down to earth. He wonders what she would make of the situation. What she would tell him to do now. 

 

He’s interrupted from his musing by Frenchie’s appearance, humming on his way back to the house. 

 

“Night, boss,” he calls, and Stede realizes with a start that the sun has nearly set, only tendrils of deep red showing over the mountains that surround them. 

 

“Yes, goodnight,” Stede says. Frenchie has just passed him when he stops. 

 

“Frenchie, I was wondering if you would run into town tomorrow?” he calls. “I believe I’m overdue for a letter.”

 

“Sure thing,” Frenchie says. “Probably best we don’t leave shit at the post office anyway, given the situation.”

 

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking,” Stede agrees. 

 

“Mind if I take someone with me?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“I suppose not. Who do you have in mind?” 

 

“Israel. I think if he stays here another day he’s gonna explode,” Frenchie says. 

 

Stede blinks. “Are you certain? You’re comfortable with that?” 

 

“He’s not such a bad guy,” Frenchie says with a shrug. “Not once you talk to him a bit.” 

 

“If you say so,” Stede replies skeptically. “Just be careful, will you? Tensions are high enough as it is.” 

 

“Ah, I can handle myself, you know that,” Frenchie says, grinning. 

 

“Thank you, dear boy,” Stede says. Frenchie is off again with a wave. 

 

Stede pushes open the door to the barn, taking a moment and letting the snorts of the horses calm him. He smiles, and makes his way towards the back. 

 

“Hello, Halifax,” he murmurs, reaching a hand out. Halifax, named by his daughter, Alma, bumps his hand with his nose. 

 

“I’ve brought you something,” he says, conspiratorially, pulling the handful of chopped carrots he’s stuffed into his pocket. Halifax begins to nose around for them, and Stede smiles. 

 

“Do you think I overreacted?” he asks. Halifax snorts. 

 

“A little bit?” Stede says. “Well, I suppose I agree. I just… I don’t quite know how to explain it all, I’m afraid. I’m a bit worried, you know. I don’t like to say it, but I am.” 

 

Halifax absconds with another bit of carrot. 

 

“I know, I know, we’ve gotten through worse,” Stede says. “But this could affect Mary and the children as well. I don’t want that. I left to keep that from happening-”

 

“Do you do this a lot?” 

 

Stede nearly leaps out of his skin, pressing a hand to his chest. It’s Jim’s voice, standing silhouetted at the door of the barn with Oluwande by their side. 

 

“Heavens, Jim,” Stede says, trying to regain some dignity. 

 

“What were you and Halifax talking about, then?” Oluwande asks, trying to stifle a grin. 

 

“Personal matters,” Stede says. “He’s got quite an ear for it.”

 

“He does have some big-ass ears,” Jim comments. 

 

“Did you come here just to frighten me, or can I help you with something?” Stede asks. 

 

Jim and Oluwande exchange a look. 

 

“Yeah, actually,” Olu says. “Jim and I were talking, about that sheriff-”

 

“This again?” Stede sighs. “I told you-”

 

“We know him,” Jim cuts in. “Or, we think we do.”

 

That makes Stede pause. “Really?” 

 

Olu nods. “I thought the name was familiar, but it wasn’t ‘til I ran it by Jim that we figured it out.”

 

“Jackie mentioned a Badminton, a few times,” Jim says, shifting in the wary way they always do when talking about their time in Jackie’s gang, like they half expect the woman herself to leap out of the shadows. 

 

“Could it be another Badminton?” Stede suggests weakly. If Spanish Jackie is involved in all of this, this just became much more frightening than it already was. 

 

“Suppose it could be,” Olu allows, “But Jim remembered that Jackie keeps some law enforcement in her pocket. Seems like too big of a coincidence.” 

 

Stede’s shoulders sag. 

 

“Stede, what’s going on?” Oluwande asks. 

 

“It’s nothing. You don’t need to-”

 

“Worry? Yeah, you say that, but when you say not to worry it usually means we should,” Olu says. Jim nods in agreement. 

 

“You’ve gotta tell someone, man,” Olu continues. “You can trust us. We won't say shit. Jim barely talks anyway-”

 

“Shut up,” Jim says, kicking at his shin. Oluwande dodges.

 

“Point is, let us help carry the load,” he says.

 

Stede looks between the two of them, Oluwande’s earnest expression and Jim’s typical stoic one, the only thing betraying their concern the line between their brow. 

 

He forgets, sometimes, that he can lean on his crew. On his friends. He’d been wishing for Mary’s input, but perhaps in doing so he’d disregarded the input he has access to here. 

 

“Very well,” he says, lowering himself onto a hay bale. “Badminton did know me.” 

 

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Jim says drily. 

 

“Well, he knew of me, anyway,” Stede corrects. “I never met him. But-”

 

He lets out a sigh. “I did know his brother. Back east. His twin brother, Nigel.”

 

“Is that… bad?” Oluwande asks. 

 

“Usually, no. In this case, yes,” Stede says. “You see, Nigel- well, Nigel is dead.”

 

Oluwande blinks. “Oh. And- was it- did you…?” 

 

Stede doesn’t answer. Nigel’s sneering face looms in his memory, cruel smile and taunting jabs- 

 

-What do you think will happen, Baby Bonnet, when they find out what you are? They’ll string you up, they’ll come for your wife and your children-

 

-blood on his hands and Nigel’s body dropping to the ground with a sickening thud, shaking fingers lighting a match, Mary’s hand in his as the flames climb higher and higher-

 

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“That means he did,” Jim mutters to Olu, and Stede tries his best to ignore it. 

 

“What matters-” he presses ahead, “-is that Badminton may believe I was involved. And if he believes that, then this isn’t only dangerous for me. It’s dangerous for all of you, for Mary and my children.” 

 

“What do we do, then?” Oluwande asks. Stede raises his hands helplessly. 

 

“I don’t know. I thought I’d gone far enough that this wouldn’t catch up with me. I’m sorry.” 

 

“Well, we should find out if Jackie’s involved,” Jim says. “If she is, this gets a hell of a lot more complicated really fast.” 

 

“How do we do that?” Stede asks. 

 

“Jackie’s got a pretty far reach,” Jim says. “This place is outside her territory, but she’s got a bar in town. Run by a dude called Geraldo. I’ll go tomorrow, see what I can find.” 

 

“You want me to come?” Olu asks. Jim shakes their head. 

 

“Nah, Geraldo would recognize you. I’ll put the beard on. ” 

 

“Frenchie’s going into town tomorrow,” Stede says. “I believe he’s taking Israel with him.”

 

Jim spits on the ground. “Fucking pendejo.” 

 

“I’d feel much more comfortable if you were there as well,” Stede says. “I know Frenchie can handle himself, but Israel is a dangerous man.”

 

Jim sighs. 

 

“Fine. I’ll tag along with them, slip off and get to Jackie’s,” they say reluctantly.

 

“Thank you.” 

 

“Then we’ll go from there, yeah?” Olu says, clapping Stede on the shoulder. Stede rises. 

 

“I do feel much better about this,” he admits. 

 

“Yeah, man, that’s what happens when you talk to people,” Olu says, with a pointed look at Jim. 

 

***

The sun has entirely vanished when Stede makes his way back up to the house, the moon cresting over the tops of the mountains. It’s nearly full tonight, and in the glow of it he can just make out a silhouette on the porch. The figure turns, and no one else on the ranch has the head of hair that Ed does. He raises a hand, and Stede raises his in return. He steels himself, and joins Ed on the porch, leaning his forearms against the railing. 

 

Ed studies him with those dark eyes for a moment. 

 

“You ok?” he asks. Stede nods. 

 

“I apologize. For earlier,” he says. 

 

“Nothing to apologize for, mate,” Ed says. “I was prying.” 

 

“Yes, well, I understand why you were,” Stede says. “I’d have done the same.” 

 

Ed snorts, eyes crinkling. “Nah, you wouldn’t have done. You’re too polite.” 

 

Stede chuckles, some of the tension in his chest releasing. “Perhaps not.” 

 

Ed nudges him with his shoulder. “You know, if you’ve got the law on you, I’m a bit of an expert at evading ‘em.” 

 

“I’ve gotten this far on my own, haven’t I?” Stede asks. “Besides, I don’t see myself running off into the mountains, which I believe is your preferred method.”

 

“Hey, don’t knock the mountains, man,” Ed says. “I think you’d make a good outlaw, anyhow.” 

 

Stede really laughs at that.

 

“I mean it,” Ed says indignantly. 

 

“Ed, come on,” Stede says. “I don’t believe I’m exactly cut out for it.” 

 

“You could do it. You’re smart as anything, Stede. Quick on your feet,” Ed insists. “Iz and I were ready to shoot the place up when Badminton came marching in, and you just talked at him until he left.”

 

“I imagine there’s rather more shooting than talking involved in being an outlaw, and I’m not a very good shot, I’m afraid,” Stede sighs. 

 

“I could teach you,” Ed says. Stede glances at him. 

 

“What, to shoot?” 

 

“Yeah. You should know, anyhow, seeing as you shelter outlaws and shit.” 

 

“Perhaps I’ll take you up on that,” Stede says slowly. The corner of Ed’s mouth quirks up. 

 

There’s a beat of silence. 

 

“You know,” Ed says, looking straight ahead, up at the moon. “Whatever it is that Sheriff knows you from, I’m sure I’ve done worse.”

 

It's an invitation, clearly, and not a pushy one. For a moment, Stede is tempted to spill the whole story, here in the night air, in this bubble the two of them seem to be occupying. It would be a relief, for someone to know the whole story, he thinks. Mary is the only one who does, and she’s thousands of miles away. It's a lonely burden to carry on his own. 

 

But then he thinks of Nigel’s face again, the sheer glee on it, what do you think will happen when they find out what you are-

 

And the impulse is gone like a flame blown out in the wind. 

 

“You’d be surprised,” is all he says. Ed’s eyes are on him again,  inscrutable and heavy, and Stede tries to ignore the pricking of his skin under the weight of it. 

 

“Guess I would be,” Ed says, so quiet it’s nearly swallowed up in the dark. He pushes himself up, and Stede hears the door close behind him. He closes his eyes. 

 

What the hell has he gotten himself into?




FRENCHIE

 

Izzy’s already out at the paddock before he gets there the following morning. He’s hopped the fence, looks like, sitting on the ground with one leg stretched in front of him while some of the colts curiously nudge at his shoulders. Frenchie gets closer before he sees the cigar in Izzy’s fingers. He’s rubbing it, almost absentmindedly, bringing it to his nose and inhaling, but it isn't lit.

 

“I didn't know you smoked,” Frenchie says, mostly to alert Izzy of his presence. He thinks he might have already been aware, though, since he doesn’t jump, or even really react. 

 

“I don’t,” Izzy says, tucking the cigar into his breast pocket. “Bad for the horses.”

 

“So you don’t smoke at all, or you don’t smoke around the horses?” 

 

“Both.” 

 

“But you carry a cigar around?”

 

Izzy stiffens. 

 

“Backing off,” Frenchie says at once. “Not my business, right? Nice blend, though.”

 

Izzy raises an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a smoker.” 

 

“Oh, I’m not,” Frenchie says, hopping the fence himself. He doesn't sit yet, giving Izzy some space, but he holds out his hand to one of his favorite fillies, a pinto with pretty patterns in her coat. “Gotta preserve this lovely voice, don’t I? But I knew someone who smoked that blend. Always liked the smell.”

 

Izzy grunts in response. He glances at Frenchie, noting his lack of instrument. 

 

“Not singing today?” he asks. 

 

“Why, d’you want me to?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“Don’t care one way or another,” Izzy says, just a little too stiffly, and Frenchie knew it, he knew Izzy came to the paddock for the music as well as for the horses. “Horses probably expect it now.”

 

“You think so?” 

 

“They’re intelligent creatures,” Izzy says. “Smarter than most.”

 

His voice softens, just a bit, in the way it always does when he talks about the horses. It’s interesting. It’s just bad timing that at the exact moment he comments on their intelligence, one of the colts gets frightened by his own hoof and leaps away, nearly knocking two of the others over in the process. 

 

Frenchie snorts, then falls into a full blown laugh. Izzy smiles in spite of himself, and Frenchie thinks that’s maybe the first time he’s ever seen Izzy smile in a way that didn’t look pained. 

 

“Maybe not that one,” he says, and Frenchie laughs harder. 

 

“His name’s Beetle,” Frenchie says when he stops chuckling, gesturing to the colt. “He’s not the brightest of the bunch.”

 

“What kind of fucking name is Beetle?” 

 

“Roach named him,” Frenchie says, and Izzy nods like it makes more sense. “We’ve all named a few of ‘em, at least. Most of Roach’s are named after bugs. He’s got a theme, you gotta give him that. John gets his mixed up, though, so he named all of his Cassie, after his mother. We’ve got about five Cassies in here, at least. That one-”

 

He gestures to the colt that’s been nudging at Izzy’s shoulder ever since he sat down. 

 

“That one’s Silver. Named him myself.”

 

Izzy reaches up to pat Silver’s neck, like he's been doing intermittently for the past few minutes. 

 

“Fine horse,” he says, almost grudgingly. “What’s Silver from?” 

 

“Used to work with a dude named Silver,” Frenchie says. “Could also be Silver dollar, cause he’s lucky, you know?”

 

“How’s he lucky?” 

 

“He’s here, isn’t he? Not a half bad life for a little guy like him. I’d switch with him sometimes, honestly.”

 

He's not so little, really, but all the yearlings are little to Frenchie.

 

Izzy sort of hums in response, but he’s staring at Frenchie like he can’t quite make him out. Frenchie gets that reaction a lot, to be fair. 

 

“How d’you know so much about horses, anyhow?” Frenchie asks. He settles down, the pinto- one of the many Cassies- attempting to chew at his hair when it's within biting range. He offers her a bit of carrot he keeps in his pockets instead. 

 

Izzy pauses.

 

“I used to work on a ranch,” he says finally, like even this little bit of information is a risk to share with Frenchie. “When I was a boy.” 

 

“So you’re a bit of an expert, then,” Frenchie says, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Born into it?” 

 

“No.”

 

Frenchie tilts his head. Ah. He’s putting a few of the pieces together now. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to, if that story wasn’t so close to Frenchie’s own. He’s heard of ranches where they send children with no place else to go. Frenchie’s a city lad, so he never worked on one himself, but he grew up in poorhouses, and when he was old enough, workhouses. He imagines it's not so different an environment.  And he knows that, more often than not, it isn’t a pleasant experience. From Izzy’s tone, sharp and harsh, his was not pleasant. Which makes it all the more interesting that he talks about the horses with such… gentleness. 

 

Izzy’s looking at him now, a frown on his face. 

 

“What?” 

 

“A thousand dollar bounty?” he asks, nearly spitting it out, like he's been holding the question in. Frenchie shrugs. 

 

“Give or take, yeah” 

 

“That’s barely below Fang’s.” 

 

“No shit?” 

 

“What’s it fucking for?” 

 

Frenchie pauses. He could tell him, he supposes, but where’s the fun in that?

 

“How ‘bout I show you?” he says. 

 

“Fuck does that mean?” 

 

“Stede wants me to go into town today. Good place as any to show off my skills,” Frenchie says. “Come with me and I’ll tell you.” 

 

Izzy stiffens. “You trying to get me off the ranch? Separate me and Ed?” 

 

“Nah, man, I just think you're gonna drop dead of a heart attack if you don’t get outta here for a bit,” Frenchie says. “You’re not used to sitting around, are you?” 

 

Izzy stares at him again, that same pinched expression on his face. “I’ll need to speak with Ed.”

 

“Be my guest, but I already asked him,” Frenchie says. 

 

“All the same,” Izzy says slowly, rising to his feet. He gives Silver a final pat, and then he’s walking away with those quick, stiff steps of his. 

 

Frenchie grins, reclining back in the grass. Cassie nudges at his face. 

 

Oh, Frenchie’s going to enjoy this.






Notes:

Some of you all guessed it- Sheriff Badminton has entered the ring! And boy oh boy, is he here to cause some trouble. I’m really excited to play around with his character and with these little secrets Ed and Stede are keeping from each other, because I love strife and pain.

I’m attempting a bit of a different take on Ed and Izzy’s relationship than I usually do. I’m going less unrequited love and more like toxic hero worship/coworkers who have been working together so long that they kinda hate each other, but they could also never work with anyone else lol

Side note, I’ve got no idea if these bounties are realistic or not lol I looked up some old western bounty amounts but I was too braindead to really dive too deep into it, so for now this is what we’re going with. The idea is just that Ed and Izzy have the highest, followed by Jim and Ivan, then Fang, and then, surprisingly, our favorite boy Frenchie, so do with that what you will.

Thank you all for the support you showed the first chapter-I’m so glad you all are enjoying my very very self indulgent yeehaw story. I hope you guys liked this installment! It was a lot of fun to write. It’s looking like this is going to be longer than I originally planned. This story has become much more plot heavy than I anticipated. At least four parts, maybe five, would be my guess at this point, but I’m still trucking along, so who really knows?

Next up- Ed and Stede continue to navigate their relationship, but emerging secrets and old habits get in the way. Stede gets in touch with an old friend. Jim does some espionage and runs into trouble. Frenchie and Izzy go on a field trip, and we get more of a glimpse into Frenchie’s backstory. See y’all then!

As always, comments are loved and cherished and appreciated so so greatly!

Chapter 3

Summary:

Izzy, Frenchie, and Jim make an expedition into town. Izzy gets his head spun. Frenchie reveals a devious past. Jim ruminates on past tragedies. Ed and Stede are bad at emotions and communicating, but they're working on it. The plot with our villains thickens.

guys I swear on my life I thought this chapter was going to be shorter, and somehow its the longest one yet.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

IZZY

 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Izzy hisses. 

 

“Just hold on, hang tight for a second,” Frenchie whispers back, and unless he’s fucking mistaken, Frenchie is making a beeline for the wanted board outside the sheriff’s station. Izzy looks around for Jimenez- he doesn't think Frenchie will listen to him, but he might listen to Jim- but Jim has vanished. He thinks he catches a glimpse of their long coat, heading the opposite direction, and he swears. 

 

They’ve been in town all of ten minutes, barely finished hitching their horses, and already, Izzy is regretting the decision to come. 

 

He looks back to Frenchie-

 

And he has to blink. Because he knows that’s Frenchie, no one else around here has that lanky frame or that height, but… it doesn't look like Frenchie. He’s slouched, head ducked, shrinking away from anyone who comes within  a few feet of him. It’s nothing like the Frenchie he’s come to recognize, with the easy grin and the bright laughter, and for a moment he’s almost… worried, worried that something had happened in the split second he’d turned away- 

 

But then he sees Frenchie’s hand dart out and snatch one of the wanted posters off the board, so quickly that if Izzy hadn’t been specifically looking he’d have missed it. 

 

“What the fuck?” Izzy whispers. Frenchie turns, jerking his head towards one of the shops, and Izzy heads there. Frenchie meets him at the side, straightening back to his full height. 

 

“It's me!” he says. 

 

“Yes, I gathered that,” Izzy says. 

 

“No, like, it’s me, look-” Frenchie shoves the wanted poster towards him. Izzy frowns. 

 

“Are you having me on?” 

 

“Nah, man, this is one of mine. It’s from a few counties over.”

 

“It looks nothing like you.” 

 

And it doesn’t, really. There’s a very, very passing resemblance- something in the shape of the face, Izzy thinks, but this poster has a long beard and very different hair, and they even seem to have lightened his skin tone. 

 

Wanted, the poster reads. $900 reward for the capture of Carlos Hernandez for the crimes of larceny and fraud. 

 

“This isn’t you,” Izzy says again. “That’s not your fucking name.” 

 

“What name is it?” 

 

“Carlos Hernandez.”

 

“Ah, thought so.” 

 

Izzy shoots him a questioning look. Frenchie shrugs. “I don’t read all that well, mate. Just knew it was mine from the picture. But anyway, how d’you know? Maybe that is my name.”

 

“Are you Spanish?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Then that’s not your name.” 

 

“Could be. I’ve got a lot of ‘em.” 

 

Izzy’s getting a fucking headache. 

 

“I thought,” he said slowly. “If I came with you, you were going to tell me how you earned that bounty.”

 

“I am, Iz, don’t worry,” Frenchie says, and Izzy doesn’t have the energy to protest the nickname. “It’s all a performance, isn’t it? That's the grand finale. We’ll get there.” 

 

“Just fucking tell me.” 

 

“That’s no fun, though. When was the last time you had fun?” 

 

Izzy gives him a stare that would have weaker men begging for mercy. Frenchie just raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Guess that answers that, huh?” he says. “Come on, we’ve got some places to be.” 

 

And with that, he’s off again. Izzy is seriously considering just turning and hightailing it out of here-

 

But he follows. Why, he doesn't know. But he follows. 

 

In the time it takes them to get to the post office, where there’s a package waiting for Stede, the general store where Roach has requested a few items- Frenchie picks up some matches and some sort of powder for John as well, saying he’s almost out, which Izzy finds incredibly foreboding- and finally, the tailor, which Stede clearly frequents, given the way the seamstress’s eyes light up at the sight of Frenchie and the money he carries, Frenchie has transformed into at least five different personas. 

 

Izzy can’t fucking tell how he does it. It’s a slight shift, each one of them. Frenchie doesn’t use costumes or props or whatnot, it's all in his facial expressions and his body language, but each of them is an entirely different person. He’s got the one from the sheriff’s station, shrinking and afraid; he’s got a stumbling drunk; he’s got a stoic, serious cowboy with a drawling accent; one with a blank stare that suggests a simple mind- and, true to his name, he has a pompous frenchman who refuses to speak English. That one he seems to be using for the sole purpose of aggravating Izzy. 

 

“Are you actually speaking French?” Izzy demands in a whisper, because he thinks Frenchie might just be fucking with him, as Izzy doesn’t speak the language himself. 

 

Oui, oui, monsieur, je parle français ,” Frenchie says, clapping his hand to his chest like he’s offended. “ Vous doutez de moi, Monsieur Israel?

 

That doesn’t answer Izzy’s question in the slightest.

 

He’s almost jealous. Izzy’s always been, very painfully and very strictly, himself, for better or for worse. He can’t fake things, he’s never been able to. His emotions, particularly anger, just lie there on the surface, exposed, like a fucking nerve. It’s one of the many reasons people often find him unlikeable, which, to be fair, usually suits Izzy just fine. But the ease with which Frenchie puts these personas on, the way he slips in and out of them like he’s just changing clothes-

 

It’s mesmerizing.

 

It’s also a problem. Because Izzy is so goddamn distracted that he nearly walks directly into Sheriff Badminton. 

 

“I beg your pardon,” the man nearly growls, still managing to sound upper-crust. Izzy ducks his head. He’s suddenly thankful that Frenchie had insisted he change out of his usual get-up, claiming it would be too conspicuous- but there’s still the matter of the x tattoo on his cheek. A stupid decision, he got it on a dare when he was younger, Ed’s doing, and now it’s catching up to him. Badminton narrows his eyes, examining him closer-

 

And then Frenchie is there, catching him by the elbow and twisting so he’s slightly in front of Izzy in a way that somehow looks natural. 

 

“Jonas, you fool, how many times-” he starts up, voice raspy and hoarse, aging him at least 20 years, bowing his head to Badminton repeatedly in contrition. 

 

“You’ll forgive my man here, please, Sheriff, he is not well, kicked in the head by a horse when he was a boy,” Frenchie says quickly, “never quite the same afterwards. My wife, bless her soul, insisted we keep him on. I try to keep an eye on him but he wanders off, you’ll forgive us-”

 

He’s speaking so quickly that Izzy is having a hard time following, and from the exasperated sigh Badminton gives, he’s not willing to expend the effort to keep up. 

 

“Keep a better eye on him,” he says. “I’m an officer of the law, you know, I could have him thrown in a cell.” 

 

“Thank you, good officer, thank you, I will, my apologies, come, Jonas, with me, foolish man-” and Frenchie tugs Izzy away, still chastising him. Izzy’s head is reeling, because Badminton isn’t even looking at them, not even watching them leave. 

 

Frenchie continues talking until he pulls Izzy inside a saloon, and then he straightens. The change is instantaneous, from this overly apologetic babbler to Frenchie’s more typical, slightly amused stare. 

 

“How did you ever survive without me?” Frenchie asks. “Come on, we’ll wait it out in here. Gotta let Jim catch up to us, anyway, they said they’d meet us here. You drink?” 

 

Izzy blinks, trying to keep up. “When I have to.” 

 

“Well, we’ve gotta keep up appearances, so you have to,” Frenchie says. He gestures to a table in the corner, where they’ll be relatively concealed. “What’s your drink?”

 

Izzy starts to answer, but Frenchie stops him. “No, I’m gonna guess.” 

 

He strides off to the bar, where the bartender greets him with an enthusiastic “Frenchie! How’s the big boss?” 

 

“Big boss is the big boss, ain’t he?” Frenchie replies, sliding a couple bills across the table. “Got me running his errands for him now.” 

 

“Psh, with how much that man pays, I’d run whatever he wanted me to run,” the bartender says, grinning. “You lucky bastard.” 

 

Izzy sidles back towards the table Frenchie has pointed out, placing his back to the wall, making sure he has a good sightline towards the swinging doors. He side-eyes Frenchie and the bartender. This whole fucking thing is making him antsy. Frenchie is known here, clearly, which means anyone who comes in with him is open to scrutiny- Izzy himself included. 

 

Frenchie comes back a few minutes later, sliding a bourbon across the table to Izzy, taking a sip of his own drink that Izzy recognizes as a Mule Skinner, a mix of whiskey and blackberry liquor. 

 

“Did I get it right?” Frenchie asks, gesturing to the drink. Izzy takes a sip, liquor burning on his tongue. 

 

“Not bad,” he admits, grudgingly. 

 

“So, if I know your drink, that means I get nickname privileges now, right?” Frenchie says. He’s propped both of his feet up on the bench, sitting in a sort of half crouch, half recline that can’t be good for his spine. The man never sits normally, Izzy notes. Like a cat.

 

“No.” 

 

“Oh, come on,” Frenchie protests. “What else do I have to do?”

 

“You could tell me about your fucking bounty like you promised,” Izzy says, deadpan. Frenchie rolls his eyes. 

 

“Ah, you’re no fun,” he says, raising a hand in greeting to another patron who’s walked in. To Izzy’s eternal gratitude, the man doesn’t come over. 

 

“You ever run into Anne Bonny’s gang?” Frenchie says, and Izzy’s head, like it's been doing all goddamn day, spins. 

 

“What?”

 

“Anne Bonny? Famous outlaw? Runs with Calico Jack and Mary Read?” Frenchie elaborates. 

 

“I know who she fucking is.” 

 

“So you ever run into her?” Frenchie asks again. “Figured you might have, given as you’re both big time outlaws and all.” 

 

Izzy came here to have questions answered, not to answer questions himself, but everything’s been turned so fucking topsy turvy that it spills out of him without a second thought. 

 

“Few times,” he says, and his mind flashes to Ed and Jack. He grimaces at the memory, taking another swig to wash the distaste in his mouth away. “Fearsome woman. Gave me a scar here.” 

 

He taps his shoulder, where Anne had shot him through on their first meeting. Ed was able to calm things down after that, even with Izzy swearing and spitting at Anne. Their second meeting was more civil.

 

Sort of. 

 

“Really?” Frenchie asks, tilting his head. His eyes dart down to Izzy’s shoulder, and then back up, a strange sort of smile playing on his lips.

 

It’s a bit like how the Spriggs boy has been looking at Izzy, ever since he got to the ranch, but with Lucius the looks felt more… calculated. Frenchie’s eyes have none of that, just curiosity and something else that Izzy can’t quite place, something warm. 

 

He coughs, averting his gaze. “Why are you asking-”

 

He stops, snapping his head back to Frenchie. His sly sort of smile gets bigger, though he tries to hide it behind his drink, looking like a cat in a chicken coop, like Izzy’s finally caught on to something, and he’s got to be fucking joking.

 

“You ran with fucking Anne Bonny?” Izzy hisses, leaning over the table. 

 

“Might’ve done, yeah,” Frenchie says, barely concealed laughter in his voice. 

 

“Anne fucking Bonny?” Izzy says again, because he really cannot grasp this, truely, he cannot, and if Frenchie doesn’t start explaining right now-

 

But then, because Izzy will never, ever, get a moment of peace or satisfaction while he stays with Stede fucking Bonnet’s people, everything goes to shit. The doors swing open, and Jim is there, wide-eyed and out of breath, dashing to their table and dragging Frenchie to his feet. The rest of the patrons look remarkably unphased. 

 

“We gotta go, we gotta go now-” Jim hisses, and Izzy is on his feet at once. Badminton, must be, he must have caught up with them after Izzy’s stupid fucking move on the street earlier-

 

“They went this way, baby, I saw, and I’m pretty sure it was Bonifacia-”

 

“Don’t fucking call me that. I told you not to call me that while we’re working.” 

 

Izzy’s stomach drops to the floor. 

 

Fuck it all . He knows that voice. 

 

What the fuck is Spanish Jackie doing all the way out here?



JIM

 

Geraldo hasn’t changed one bit since the last time Jim saw him. He’s still as cantankerous as ever, shooting them a dirty look when they dare to enter his bar, as if they aren’t meant to be there. It’s relatively quiet here, which is surprising. Jackie wouldn't waste money on a dying endeavor, so there must be some other purpose this particular establishment serves. It only makes the weight of Jim’s suspicion grow worse. 

 

Their beard itches, the wax nose feels like it's going to slip off at any second, and the drink Jim has ordered is fucking disgusting. It’s not mixed, the liquor is subpar, burning down their throat, and not in the good way. 

 

Geraldo, with Jackie’s initials etched into his cheek, is engaged in a hushed conversation with a rough looking dude with a bruise on his temple. He’s a couple years younger than them, they think, large hat covering his head, peeling an orange with his knife as he speaks in a hushed tone. Nothing too interesting, from what Jim can gather- some sort of tussle with a lesser band of outlaws trying to infringe on Jackie’s territory. Not anything they need to be concerned about- not yet, anyway. 

 

They’re starting to wonder if this whole thing is a bust, if they’ve come all this way, put on this whole fucking disguise, for nothing- but they suppose, at least, there’s someone close for Frenchie in case Israel goes off the rails, like Jim’s been worried he’ll do for days. 

 

They still don’t like that Blackbeard’s crew is here. It’s dangerous. For all of them, but particularly for themselves and Olu, who have bounties on their heads and a hit out on them from Spanish Jackie. Double the risk, double the danger. Blackbeard draws attention. His whole crew draws attention. 

 

Jim is relatively confident that if something goes wrong with one of the two dangers, they can get Olu out safely, and that’s really what matters. If something goes wrong with both threats, however- Jim has considerable skill, but not even they can fight a war on two fronts. It makes them nervous, makes them itchy. 

 

They always seem to itch in Spanish Jackie’s establishments. When they first came to her, going by Bonifacia, posing as a waitress in a town further south, they’d been itching for a fight, itching for a kill, specifically, itching to kill Alfeo de la Vaca, one of Jackie’s husbands.  Jackie ran with a lot of gangs, a vast network that begins with her own, but none more notorious than the Siete Gallos, run by Alfeo. The Siete Gallos are the people responsible for the slaughter of their town.

 

Jim can still remember that night, in bits and pieces. They remember the alarm sounding, the clanging of a bell. They remember their mother shoving them under the bed with their little brother. They remember the fear in their father’s face- and they remember the door being kicked in. Their father fell first, with a bullet to the temple. Their mother was next. Her bullet hit her in the gut. A slower death. 

 

This is where their memory gets fuzzy. 

 

The next thing they remember, they’re standing in the middle of a smoking building, bodies of the people they’d grown up with strewn across the ground, blood seeping into the earth-

 

They remember their father saying venimos del polvo y al polvo volveremos- we come from dust and to dust we shall return- and they wonder if dust can mean ashes, too, because some of these bodies are burning-

 

And then their nana, though they don’t know to call her that yet, is there, an envoy from the orphanage a town over, and she is looking down at them with an expression Jim doesn’t understand. 

 

La vida es dolor, little one,” she says, but it doesn’t sound sad, it only sounds like a promise. And it was just that, a promise, because Jim’s life often feels like nothing but pain. The only thing that changed that, the only person who changed that, is Olu. 

 

Jim saw their father’s body. They saw their mother’s. They never saw their brother fall. But they don’t hold out hope that he’s alive. Even if he survived the original attack, it's been many years and many, many miles since that night. But Jim still finds themselves looking sometimes, looking for a man with their father’s eyes and their mother’s curly hair. 

 

They wonder if they would recognize him. They wonder if he would recognize them. They don’t recognize themself, half the time, so they don’t imagine their brother would, either. 

 

Stop it, they tell themself. They’re getting distracted, and that’s dangerous. Especially in a place like this. 

 

They take another gulp of the drink, and grimace. Geraldo glares at them from behind the bar. 

 

They should just leave. There’s nothing here, nothing that they're going to find. Badminton is a lawman, after all, maybe he’s just an overly ambitious one, willing to go to extreme lengths to catch even petty criminals. They’re tired and they’re sweating under all this fake hair and the wax nose, and now they’re sad about their family, which they hate, so they need to go and see Olu, the only family they have left, and once they get back they know they’ll be ok again-

 

“Baby!” 

 

Jim freezes. They’ve only ever heard Geraldo speak in that tone of voice when he’s addressing- but no, it can’t be, what would she be doing this far out of her territory-

 

Boots click on the wooden boards of the saloon, squeaking with the movement- and there she is. Spanish Jackie herself, in a red leather jacket that Jim knows for a fact she has custom-painted, a ruffled white shirt and the heeled boots that make her even taller than her already six-foot stature. She married a cobbler just to get those boots. She’s got a pistol on both hips and a knife on her calf and one up the sleeve of her jacket, which Jim knows all too-intimately after Jackie nearly took their fucking ear off with it in thier escape following Alfeo’s murder. 

 

 If there’s one thing Jackie can do, Jim has to admit, it’s exude presence. 

 

“What?” she snaps, sharp as ever. Jim has never been able to tell if Jackie likes Geraldo or not. She likes his loyalty, they know that much, because Geraldo would kill and die for Jackie, but beyond that-

 

“I didn't know you were coming in today!” Geraldo exclaims. 

 

“Change of plans,” Jackie says slowly, eyes roving the room- and they come to rest right on Jim. Jim averts their gaze, bringing up their cup to cover their face, slouching more, but still, Jackie’s eyes linger just a little too long. Geraldo moves closer to Jackie, whispering something in her ear, and Jim takes the opportunity. They’re out like a shot, slipping out of the door, coat whipping behind them. 

 

Padre, I know I’ve been a bad Catholic recently, but I could really use some luck here, Jim prays wildly, fingers toying with the rosary they still keep in their pocket. Why they’ve kept it so long, they don’t really know, but like Nana’s la vida es dolor, the rosary feels like a promise, too. A promise of what, Jim doesn’t know, but they’ll keep it until they find out. 

 

God doesn't answer. They can hear Jackie and Geraldo exit the bar, and they break into a sprint. Fuck, Frenchie and Israel better be at the fucking saloon or they’re going to kill them-

 

They burst through the doors, and they know they don’t have long before Jackie and Geraldo catch up with them, and thank fuck, Frenchie and Israel are there. They rush to Frenchie, tugging him to his feet. 

 

“We gotta go, we gotta go now-” 

 

Israel is on his feet like he’s been burned, and for a moment Jim is thankful for his presence, because Frenchie is not a good shot and they know Israel is, so if it turns into a shootout here they might have a chance between the two of them-

 

“What, what is it?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“Jackie-” Jim whispers, and Frenchie catches on at once. 

 

“Give me this,” he says, reaching for Jim’s beard, tugging them back behind a divider. “And your coat, and the hat, give them here-” 

 

Jim complies, because they know Frenchie knows what he’s doing, that his brain works faster than one of those newfangled railway cars that zoom through the valley at a break-neck speed in situations like this. 

 

“Nose?” they ask, and Frenchie shakes his head. 

 

“No time,” he says, affixing the beard to his own face, popping the hat on his head and slinging the coat over his shoulders- it's too small for him, but he can make it work-

 

“You two get outta here,” Frenchie orders, and Israel, who’s been moving his head between the doors and the two of them like a dog caught between a rabbit and a squirrel, unsure which to chase, finally catches on. 

 

“No fucking chance,” he says. 

 

“I got this, Quickshot,” Frenchie says, and that’s definitely a wink he shoots at Israel, and Jim does not have time to unpack that right now.

 

“Come on,” they say, because the footsteps are getting closer and they only have seconds before Jackie and Geraldo are here. “Are you sure, hermanito?”

 

“Totally sure,” Frenchie says. “Get going. Get back to the ranch, tell Stede. If I’m not back in a couple hours-”

 

“I’m coming for you way before that,” Jim swears, and Frenchie ruffles their hair. 

 

“Go.” 

 

Israel lingers a moment longer, some sort of wordless conversation passing between him and Frenchie, and then he’s following them. 

 

The last look they get of Frenchie, he’s slouching down into his seat  in a remarkably good impression of how they sit themselves, and he doesn’t look like Frenchie at all. 

 

They get to the horses, unhitching them with trembling fingers, and they swing themselves into the saddle. Israel is seconds behind them. They only breathe again when they're out of the town limits. 

 

“Fuck,” they groan, patting the side of their horse’s neck absently. 

 

Israel has been glancing back towards the saloon every five seconds since they rode off, the tick in his jaw getting more and more pronounced. 

 

“This is the shit you pull, then, at your fucking ranch?” he spits out. “You leave men behind?” 

 

“We aren’t leaving Frenchie behind,” Jim says. “He’s covering for us.”

 

“Covering for you . What, exactly, is he going to do against Spanish Jackie?” 

 

“Frenchie knows his shit, dude,” Jim says, glaring. “I’ve worked with him a hell of a lot longer than you have. He’s good at this, he can take care of himself.”

 

“I don’t think-”

 

“Listen, pendejo, I don’t give a fuck what you think. I didn’t fucking want you here in the first place. That bartender is on our side. Half the people in that bar know Frenchie. Worst comes to worst, they’ll stand by him. And if he isn’t back in an hour, I’m going back for him. So don’t fucking tell me about leaving men behind.”

 

Israel stares at them, and Jim stares back- and Israel breaks first. Jim clicks their tongue, urging their horse into a trot. 

 

They wish Israel’s words didn’t strike a chord. Frenchie’s in danger. And it’s Jim’s fault. 




EDWARD

 

Ed doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He wakes up like normal, goes to eat like normal, lounges around like normal, but with Stede avoiding him, all the lounging and the eating is really not as appealing as it was yesterday. And Stede is definitely avoiding him. Oh, he’s polite as ever, but he said he had some “urgent business” to take care of with Buttons and Pete on “the other side of the ranch”, a very vague direction. Ed has been on this ranch long enough to know that Stede doesn’t really work, and the work he does do is by no means time sensitive or urgent. 

 

Unless Stede’s hiding something again. Very well could be the case. 

 

And now Izzy is gone too, off with Frenchie and Jim, and Ed is kinda regretting saying yes to that little venture, because he really could use someone he trusts to talk with. He’s 99% sure Izzy’s advice would be “let’s fucking leave,” but hell, maybe that’s what he needs to hear. 

 

The most frustrating part about all of it is that he’s not really sure where things went wrong. Oh, he knows when things went wrong in the conversation in his bedroom, knows exactly when the mood shifted from Stede’s lovely hands on his knee to a tense, weighty thing, but he thought the second conversation out on the porch was going well. He wasn’t too pushy, he doesn’t think, or maybe he was, but again, he doesn’t know, because Stede won’t talk to him. 

 

So Ed spends the day- well, there's no dignified way to put it. He mopes. He mopes hard. He mopes like it's his goddamn job. Blackbeard the Moper, they’ll call him in the history books. The Man Who Moped. 

 

With that in mind, who can really blame him for being excited to see Izzy’s horse come into view?

 

“Iz!” he calls, springing up from his seat on the porch. He gets closer before he realizes that something is a little off. Izzy is tense, looking back behind him every few seconds, but whatever it is, it can wait. 

 

“Iz, hey, you’re back, I gotta talk to you,” he says. Izzy tugs on the reins, pulling to a stop next to Ed. He glances behind him again, then down at Ed. 

 

“Fuck’s wrong with you?” he asks. 

 

“I gotta talk to you, Iz-”

 

“It’ll have to wait, Edward,” Izzy says, sharp and brusque, and Ed blinks. 

 

“What?” 

 

“It’ll have to wait. Where’s Bonnet?” 

 

Ed has to look around to make sure a pig hasn’t sprouted wings and started flying nearby. 

 

“What?”

 

Pendejo, come on, what’s the holdup?” Jim calls, trotting up behind him. 

 

“Ed, where’s Bonnet?” Izzy asks again. 

 

“I don’t know, somewhere-” 

 

Izzy swears, pulling his horse around. 

 

“You!” he shouts, pointing at Lucius, who nearly jumps out of his own skin. “Your boss. Where is he?” 

 

“Far west pasture, I think,” Lucius says. Izzy and Jim break into trots, urging the horses in that direction. Ed stares after them, then he’s behind them, best he can with a still-healing bullet wound and a bad knee, anyway. 

 

What the fuck is going on here?

 

As expected, it takes him some time to catch up with the others, and when he does, he falls right into the beginnings of a brawl between Stede and Izzy. Not a physical brawl (not yet, anyway) but Izzy’s as deadly with words as he is with a gun, and Ed knows that Stede’s preferred battlefield is verbal. 

 

“Allow me to clarify,” Stede says, cool and clipped, and it's probably a bad thing that that voice goes right to the pit of Ed’s stomach, crackling and electric. “Frenchie is still in town. You left him there, voluntarily, to face Spanish Jackie, alone?”

 

“Why are you fucking looking at me?” Izzy demands. “It wasn’t my fucking idea-”

 

“You’ll excuse me if I have a difficult time believing that,” Stede says, “given the open disdain you’ve shown for myself and my men since the moment you arrived here, despite our hospitality.”

 

“You think I would still be alive if I had left him?” Izzy asks, pointing to Jim. “You think they’d have let me come back here?” 

 

“That’s a good point,” Pete chimes in, from where he’s standing behind Stede with Buttons, both men looking a little lost.

 

“It was Frenchie’s idea to stay,” Jim admits. “We wouldn’t have gotten out of there otherwise-”

 

“I’d have thought you’d know better, Jim,” Stede says. “We don’t leave men behind.” 

 

“Clearly you fucking do,” Izzy mutters, and Stede and Jim turn matching glares on him. Ed winces. 

 

“What’s going on here?” he asks, trying not to pant too much, even though they’d all have been able to see his lopsided jog to catch up. 

 

“Edward,” Stede says, turning to him, and it's also probably bad that Ed is relishing in this tiny bit of eye contact, even despite the less than ideal circumstances.  “I believe you need to have a talk with Israel.” 

 

“You don’t tell him what to fucking do,” Izzy snarls, and Stede’s eyes flash. Without thinking, Ed steps in front of Stede, putting a hand on his arm. It doesn’t occur to him until after he’s made the movement that maybe he should be protecting Stede from Izzy, not the other way around. 

 

“You wanna talk to me, mate, tell me what’s happening?” he says quietly, eyes fixed on Stede’s face. Stede’s nostrils flare, still glaring at Izzy over his shoulder, before he finally looks at Ed, and Ed can feel the muscles in his arm relax, ever so slightly. 

 

“Jim?” Stede says.

 

“Uh, we had a bit of a run-in with Spanish Jackie in town,” Jim says. “My fault, I got made. Frenchie stayed behind to put her off the scent. It really was Frenchie’s idea, Stede, but I’m going back for him if he doesn’t show up soon.” 

 

Ed frowns. “Fuck’s Spanish Jackie doing in town?” 

 

Stede shifts, a little guiltily. “We believe… well, Jim and Oluwande proposed that Jackie might be working with Badminton.” 

 

Ed raises an eyebrow. “And when’d you figure this out?” 

 

“Yesterday?” Stede says, and the steel has gone out of his tone, replaced with what sounds like guilt. 

 

“Didn’t think to tell me, then?” Ed asks, and it bothers him, feels like a knife in the back. He knew Stede was keeping secrets, but to have it confirmed-

 

“I was going to,” Stede says softly, leaning in towards Ed, but Ed takes a step back. 

 

“When, then? While you were busy avoiding me this morning?” 

 

Stede has the audacity to look hurt. “Ed-”

 

“Can this fucking wait?” Izzy snaps from behind him. “We need to go back-”

 

“No need, no need, the conquering hero returns. I’m flattered though, Iz, really.” 

 

Ed snaps his head around just in time to catch the look of relief that crosses Izzy’s face at Frenchie’s voice. The musician is trotting up to the pasture, Oluwande next to him. He tosses Jim what looks like a wad of hair. 

 

“This beard’s awful, babe,” he says, dismounting. 

 

“You’re telling me,” Jim says, but there’s a grin on their face. It’s replaced very quickly with a scowl, and they punch Frenchie in the arm. 

 

“Ow!” he exclaims. 

 

“Jim, we talked about the hitting,” Oluwande says. 

 

“He deserved it.”

 

“For what, saving your life? Getting crucial information on our Spanish Jackie connection?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“You heard something?” Stede asks. 

 

“You bet your boots I did. Or maybe don’t bet your boots, you probably need them. Guess you’ve got enough boots, though, all things considered-” 

 

“Fill us in, then, man,” Ed interrupts. 

 

“Dunno if Jim already heard some of this,” Frenchie says. Jim shakes their head. 

 

“I didn't hear much. Jackie made me before I got anything good.”

 

“I told you going was dangerous,” Oluwande mutters. 

 

“Eh, whatever,” Jim mutters back. 

 

“Anyway,” Frenchie says, with a pointed look at the two of them. “Jackie’s definitely working with Badminton.”

 

Mierda,” Jim and Oluwande swear, nearly in unison. 

 

“Are you certain?” Stede asks. 

 

“Yeah, like, 99%,” Frenchie says. “Stayed to listen for a bit after Jackie saw I wasn’t you, Jim-”

 

Ed supposes that’s why Frenchie’s wearing Jim’s hat, but he’s not sure how this diversion was supposed to work- there’s not much resemblance between Frenchie and Jim. 

 

“-And Geraldo asked her why she was in town, and she said someone told her about an attempted robbery. Figured it was Badminton. and this dude, I think one of her men, Nicolás, she called him, curly hair, big-ass hat-”

 

Jim visibly starts, and Ed sees Oluwande give them a concerned look. 

 

“-he came in, said he fetched Chauncy. That’s Badminton’s first name, yeah?” 

 

“It is,” Stede confirms. 

 

“So, putting two and two together, you know, seems like they’re working together. I couldn't stay when Badminton came, though, too much risk.”

 

“That’s all right, Frenchie,” Stede says, and Frenchie seems to preen a little. “You’ve done very well.”

 

“Told you he could handle himself,” Jim hisses to Izzy, who rolls his eyes, but that tinge of relief still colors his face, and Ed is only getting more confused about this dynamic by the second. 

 

“Well. This complicates things,” Stede says. 

 

“What do we do, boss?” Pete asks. 

 

Stede frowns, and Ed has the strongest urge to smooth that crease between his brows away. 

 

“Let me think. I’ll gather everyone, I suppose, once I have a handle on this,” he says slowly. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

 

“I think I may take you up on those shooting lessons, Ed,” Stede says, and despite the sting of betrayal Ed still feels, there’s no part of him that feels able to deny Stede. “It looks as though I may need them after all.” 



STEDE

 

Stede is not necessarily one for vulgarity. He feels as though there are more often than not better words to convey what one is feeling. Something leftover from his posh upbringing, more than likely, but something he still believes. Most of the time.

 

But right now, there’s really only one word that sums up how he’s feeling. 

 

And that word is fuck. 

 

Between the newly confirmed threat of Spanish Jackie, the ever looming threat that Badminton poses, and now that flash of hurt that crossed Ed’s face when he found out Stede had kept something from him- well, it’s all getting to be a bit much. He needs time to think, he needs time to figure something out here, before it all comes crashing down around his ears. 

 

So he takes a walk. He takes a long walk, with the package that Mary has sent, which even in all the kerfuffle that took place in town Frenchie has still managed to get to him. He finds himself out in one of the feed sheds, and he takes a seat, tearing open the package. 

 

Much of the art that adorns his home is from Mary. He has a few pieces that he’s picked up himself, along his journey, but he’s quite partial to Mary’s work. She tends to send along whatever pieces she doesn’t want to sell, accompanied with drawings from the children, newspaper clippings of her latest shows, and updates on how her life is going. With the shitshow that Stede’s life is steadily devolving into, he wouldn’t mind an escape into Mary’s life for a moment. 

 

This painting is a small one, in a simple wooden frame, and Stede knows at once why she’s sent this one his way. It’s a pair of gravestones, broken and cracked on the ground, light shining from between the cracks. Stede chuckles. He recognizes these particular gravestones. They were gifts from Mary’s family on their wedding day, possibly the most morbid gift they could have gotten. Not even death will part you, those gravestones said. Mary always did have a wickedly dark sense of humor. And it’s nice, with the light in the cracks. Reminds Stede of a new beginning, which is what they both got with the breaking of their union. 

 

Accompanying the painting is a clipping of a recent auction Mary’s held, and two drawings from his children, one from Alma that consists of  a group of her friends from school, and one from Louis, which Stede thinks might be of their dog, but he’s not certain. It could also be a cow. Or perhaps a muddy pig. Their son has not inherited Mary’s artistic talents. 

 

He unfolds Mary’s letter, written in her neat, flowing script. 

 

Stede, 

 

Remember those gravestones my mother gave us on our wedding day? Well, these are them. I figured we won’t be needing them anymore, given that you’re already dead, so I smashed them up. Hope you don’t mind.

 

The children are well. Alma is taking well to school. Louis, not so much, but he’s found another boy down the street with equally destructive tendencies. He gets that from you, you know. Maybe a few years on the ranch would do him well, when he’s older. What do you think?

 

Doug and I are well, also. Doug has taken up woodworking, and he’s got a little space in my studio now (not too much, of course, it's still mine) and it's nice to be working together. He’s a little rusty still, but he’s getting there. Practice makes perfect after all, and he’s got an eye for it. He sends his well wishes. He was quite excited to hear about Pete’s adventures in your last letter. He and the children both request more of those stories. 

 

Now, on a more serious note, I received a strange visit a few weeks ago. I would have written you at once if I thought it meant anything, so I don’t want you to worry yourself, but a certain twin brother of a certain old acquaintance came to the house. He came to offer his condolences, he said, about your passing, but I’m not so sure he meant it. I think he came to gloat. 

 

I’d advise you lay low for a while, all the same, to be on the safe side. It did make me uneasy to know that this man knows where we live. I love Doug, but he’s not exactly a fighting man, is he? Though I suppose if I have access to a skewer, I could probably fend him off in a pinch. 

 

I’m playing it safe as well, and I hope you’ll do the same. My understanding is that he’s a lawman out west, and while it’s highly unlikely he’s stationed anywhere near you, I wouldn’t want to take a risk. 

 

I hope you’re well, Stede, and that you’re taking care of yourself and your people. I’d say I hope you aren’t getting into too much trouble, but I know you well enough to know you are. Just stay safe.

 

All my best, 

 

Mary 

 

Stede doesn't realize his hands are shaking until there’s a rip from the paper. Then he places it down, carefully as he can, and stares straight ahead. 

 

Badminton has been to Mary’s house. He’s seen Mary. He’s seen Stede’s children. And now he’s here. It can’t be a coincidence, it doesn’t make any sense for it to be a coincidence, unless some higher power really has it out for Stede. Which he supposes it might. 

 

Does Chauncy know about Mary’s involvement? Is that why he went? Or was he truly there for the reason Mary said he was- to gloat over Stede’s death, to revel in the downfall of the man suspected of murdering his brother?

 

And what the hell is Stede supposed to do about it? He’s not a fighter, he never has been. He’s not like Israel, or Ed, or really like any of the outlaws here on his ranch, people who run headfirst towards challengers and damn the consequences. No, Stede has always run away. He’s never had to suffer the consequences for his actions, never had to suffer for what he did to Nigel-

 

On the contrary, in fact, Nigel’s death and the manner in which it occurred allowed Stede to follow his dearest wish, allowed him to flee the city and his old life and go west. It freed both him and Mary from the confines of their loveless marriage. It allowed both of them a chance at happiness, and they both found it. Mary with Doug, and Stede with his new family of misfits here on the ranch. 

 

He should have known that happiness could never last. 

 

They’ll string you up. They’ll come for your wife and your children. 

 

Perhaps Nigel’s final words weren’t just spite. Perhaps they were an omen.

 

Stede runs his hand over his face and takes a shaky breath. He’ll have to face his crew eventually. He’ll have to tell them something. 

 

But for now, he sits hunched in on himself, trying very very hard not to shake himself apart. He’s so focused on that task that he misses the dark figure in the distance, long hair whipping around his face in the wind, watching Stede with a conflicted expression. 




FRENCHIE

 

Despite all of Frenchie’s bravado, he’s absolutely shitting bricks when the doors to the saloon fling themselves open and Spanish Jackie steps in. A scrawny little dude, who must be Geraldo, is glaring around the room. Jackie looks remarkably unphased, which, if Frenchie remembers correctly, is pretty par for the course for her. 

 

He’s only met Spanish Jackie once. Well, meeting might be too strong a word, he’d more just sort of been there while she and Anne shot at each other. It had ended well enough, all things considered, as no one died. It had gone so well, actually, that Jackie proposed to Anne- and then it quickly turned sour again as Mary, in a fit of jealousy, had fired a shot straight through the brim of Jackie’s hat. 

 

He doesn’t think she’ll recognize him. Most people don’t. But still, he slouches like he’s seen Jim slouch, tips the hat brim over his face, and shrugs the coat closer around his shoulders. It’s harder to imitate a real person than it is to come up with his own alias- he’s got more creative freedom with the latter, so if he screws up, not a big deal, he can incorporate it into the character. At least right now, he’s not trying to imitate Jim, exactly, just get close enough to get their attention so he can reveal himself to be someone else and throw them off the scent.

 

“Baby,” Geraldo says, laying a hand on Jackie’s arm and gesturing to Frenchie. Game on. 

 

“You!” Jackie says. Frenchie takes a sip of Izzy’s abandoned drink, and nearly spits it out. He’s never been one for straight liquor, himself. Jackie’s striding over, and he looks up, barely sparing her a glance. 

 

Que quieres ?” he asks. He doesn't speak much Spanish, not as well as he speaks French, but he’s picked up a bit from Jim and Oluwande here and there, to add to his rapport. 

 

Jackie frowns, looking him up and down. “You speak English?” 

 

Mas o menos ,” Frenchie says. “What do you want?” 

 

He goes for a lazy, slightly dangerous air- not dangerous enough to be a threat, but dangerous enough to slightly mimic Jim.

 

Jackie leans in closer, squinting her eyes, and Frenchie meets her with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“This the dude you saw, Geraldo?” Jackie asks. 

 

“Same clothes and everything,” Geraldo says. 

 

“You stupid motherfucker,” Jackie swears. “This look like Bonifacia to you?” 

 

Geraldo comes closer, and does a double take. “I swear, it looked like her-”

 

“That bar’s got shitty ass lighting,” Jackie grumbles. “Sorry, man, thought you were someone else.” 

 

“Pay for my drink, we’re square,” Frenchie says. He’s already paid for the drinks, of course, but he’ll take any chance he can to throw a little extra money Santiago’s way. 

 

“Fair deal,” Jackie agrees. She pays for Frenchie’s drink, and then, to his surprise, she orders two for herself and Geraldo, settling into a booth not far from Frenchie. 

 

“I’m not going back to that shitty-ass bar,” she says when Geraldo wonders if it's wise to stay here. “Why do your drinks suck so much?” 

 

“Sorry,” Geraldo says. Jackie rolls her eyes in response. 

 

Frenchie could leave. Maybe he should leave, as he knows every second he spends here is another second that Jim, at least, will worry about him, another second that someone could catch on to the ruse. He kinda thinks Izzy might worry too, but maybe that’s just him flattering himself. He doesn’t think so, though, he saw the twitch in Izzy’s eye when he caught on to what was happening. 

 

But… he doesn't know what Jim was able to find out from their reconnaissance at Geraldo’s bar. That wasn’t exactly priority one when they were shoving their clothes at him. And after all, Frenchie was born for this kind of subterfuge. 

 

He’ll just stay for a few minutes. Just to see. Just to hear what he can hear, and then he’ll hightail it out of here quick as he can. 

 

He makes the mistake of taking another sip of Izzy’s drink. It makes his eyes water. 

 

“So, change of plans?” Geraldo says, in a quiet enough voice that anyone other than Frenchie would probably have trouble hearing. 

 

“Yeah,” Jackie says slowly, eyes roving over the bar. “Seems like there’s a bit of a situation with an attempted robbery few days back. My man asked me to be here. Thought I might be interested in it.”

 

“In an attempted robbery?” Geraldo asks skeptically. 

 

“Guess so. He says there's a bit more to it than that.”

 

Well, there's that theory confirmed , Frenchie thinks. Fuck, but that makes things complicated. 

 

Frenchie’s always one to look on the bright side of things, but fighting both the law and Spanish Jackie’s gang- it's one hell of a challenge. If Frenchie wasn’t so attached to these people, to Stede and to John and to Roach and to all of them, really, he’d be considering cutting his losses and running. 

 

He’s still kind of considering it, to be honest, though he doesn’t think he’ll go through with it. It’s his usual move, though, why he’s left most of the previous towns he’s lived in, why he left Anne’s gang- that one had hurt quite a lot, leaving those people behind, but the law was getting too close, and Anne had insisted that he was right to run. They haven’t been caught, not yet, and Frenchie still wonders if it was the right move, leaving. He always checks the papers, though, just to see, makes one of the others read it for him, just to make sure he doesn't see Anne or Mary’s names in print. Calico Jack he could kind of care less about. But Anne and Mary are family, even though he hasn’t seen them in years. 

 

The saloon doors swing open, and a younger man saunters in. There’s something familiar about him, in the way he carries himself, in the slouch of his shoulders and the sharpness of his chin.  

 

“Nicolás,” Jackie says, raising her hand, patting the seat next to her. The man drops into it, thumping his boots up on the table. Geraldo wrinkles his nose. 

 

“What was that about?” he asks, almost bored. He takes his hat off, revealing a head of curly dark hair. 

 

“Nothing to worry yourself over,” Jackie says, sharing a look with Geraldo. “You fetch Chauncy?” 

 

“Yeah, sure did,” Nicolás says. “He’ll be along.” 

 

Well, that’s Frenchie’s cue. He slides out of his seat, tipping his hat to Jackie, who gives him kind of a weird look, but she did pay for his drink, so Frenchie thinks it isn’t too weird of a gesture to be memorable. Frenchie always does like to add a little pizzazz to his characters, anyway. 

 

He manages to make it out just as Badminton is coming in, and he doesn't spare him a second glance. Frenchie’s heart is absolutely pounding in his chest, and this beard Jim wears is itchy as hell. He can’t pull it off until he’s out of town, though, so he mounts his horse and heads off. 

 

He hasn't been gone too long, so the others shouldn't be too worried yet. 

 

Though he kinda hopes Izzy was a bit worried. It wouldn’t do for him to start taking Frenchie for granted, would it?

 

***

Turns out, Jim was worried. The way they express that, though, leaves a lot to be desired, since Frenchie doesn’t usually consider a punch to the arm a typical method of expressing affection.  Frenchie rolls his shoulder, wincing. Jim can really pack a fucking punch, huh? They love very violently, it seems, and though Frenchie is honored to be on the receiving end of that love, he wishes they would take it down maybe two pegs, so they don’t bruise his arm. 

 

Stede and Ed are off somewhere strategizing, so Frenchie heads down to the stables. Usually he lets John take care of grooming his horse, Salt. Salt was one of the first fillies Frenchie was around to see born. He named her himself. Since Frenchie can’t always carry salt with him to toss over his shoulder if he senses evil intent, he figured naming his horse Salt might keep the bad spirits at bay. With that and her horseshoes, they’re covered with both evil spirits and bad luck, so it’s a pretty damn good deal, if he does say so himself. But today, he thinks Salt deserves a little extra love for how patient she was. After all, she was standing right by Jim and Izzy’s horses when they left town ahead of Frenchie, so she had to watch her friends ride off without her. It makes Frenchie a little sad to think about. 

 

“Hello, darling,” Frenchie croons, rubbing at Salt’s velvet nose. “You back with your buddies, you feel better?” 

 

She nudges his hand. 

 

“I will take that as a yes,” Frenchie says, unlatching her door and heading into her stall. John’s left him all the grooming equipment, so he picks up the brush and gets to work. 

 

“Down in the valley, the valley so low, 

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow, 

Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow, 

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow. 

 

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew, 

Angels in heaven, know i love you,

If you don’t love me, love who you please,

Put your arms around me, give my heart ease.”

 

“Not just the yearlings you sing to, then?” Izzy’s voice breaks in. 

 

“Nah, you’re never too old for good music,” Frenchie says. “Isn’t that right, Salt?”

 

Salt whinnies. 

 

“See? She likes it.” 

 

He can just see Izzy out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the wall opposite Salt’s stall. He shakes his head. 

 

“You were worried about me,” Frenchie says. He says it very matter of fact, he thinks, much as he’d like to tease Izzy about it.

 

“No I wasn’t.” 

 

“Yes you were. I saw you.” 

 

“You didn’t see shit.” 

 

“I did. You practically fell to your knees in relief when you saw me ride up.” 

 

“No I fucking-” Izzy stops, taking a deep breath. “You’re trying to get under my skin.” 

 

“Is it working?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Shame.” 

 

Izzy moves in a bit closer, leaning against the stall door now. 

 

“So. Anne Bonny?” 

 

“Ah, that’s why you’re here,” Frenchie says. He pretends to be hurt. “Not worried about my well-being after my absolutely terrifying run in with Jackie? After my heroic, valiant, and highly successful effort to save yours and Jim’s lives?”

 

“Shut up. You never finished. How the fuck did you end up with Bonny’s crew?” 

 

Frenchie shrugs. “Helped Mary Read out of a bit of a tight spot, when I was just getting started with the outlaw stuff. She was getting hassled by some over-confident lawmen. I made ‘em leave. She took a liking to me and vouched for me with Anne.” 

 

“How long did you run with them?”

 

“Few years? Somewhere between four and five, I guess,” Frenchie says. 

 

“And you did… what, exactly?” Izzy asks. He’s still skeptical, Frenchie can tell. 

 

“I was a bit of a saboteur, wasn’t I? Espionage and the like.” 

 

“Espionage,” Izzy says, uncomprehending.

 

“Yeah, you know, like before she’d hit a town she’d send me in, get the lay of the land, or I’d be a passenger on a train she was gonna hit, play it up a bit for the others, keep the officers occupied, that sort of thing. Sometimes I’d just talk at passengers on rich trains and they’d hand me their money. Didn’t even have to threaten ‘em half the time. Just had to tell them I had an investment opportunity. Rich people are absolute suckers for an investment opportunity.”

 

“I know what fucking espionage is,” Izzy says. 

 

“Figured you did,” Frenchie says. “I’m good at it. Really good.”

 

He shifts a bit under Izzy’s scrutiny. Why he adds that bit in, he’s not entirely sure, but it seems important that Izzy knows that. It feels like this is a test, sort of, like Frenchie has to prove himself here. 

 

“Man of a thousand faces, Anne called me. I’ve just got the one face, really, but I’m good at slipping under the radar. Good with people, not too intimidating and whatnot. I don’t draw attention and I’m good at coming up with aliases. My wanted posters all got different names on ‘em, different faces, like I showed you. I’ve had bounty hunters come looking for me, look me right in the eyes, and they never know it's me.” 

 

“So, what, is all this,” Izzy says, gesturing to Frenchie and the horses and the ranch in general, “all this an act too, then? One of your aliases?” 

 

“Nope, this is pretty much me,” Frenchie replies with a shrug. “Pretending to be someone you’re not is exhausting, you know.”

 

Izzy frowns, clearly pondering this. 

 

“Then again, maybe it is an act. After all, Iz-” 

 

Frenchie pats Salt’s neck, which just so happens to be quite close to where Izzy is standing. He leans in, taking no small amount of pride in the way Izzy’s pupils dilate at his proximity. 

 

“-you don’t even know my real name.” 

 

Izzy’s throat bobs as he swallows. 

 

“Yes, I do,” he says, and his voice is rougher than normal. 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Carlos Hernandez.” 

 

Frenchie blinks, a wide, incredulous smile spreading across his face.

 

“Was that a joke?” 

 

Izzy keeps his expression carefully blank.

 

“That was a joke,” Frenchie says, pulling back a bit, letting a chuckle run through his chest. “You told a joke.” 

 

Izzy rolls his eyes. “Don’t piss your fucking pants over it.” 

 

And Frenchie laughs harder, because that one was actually kind of funny. Izzy glares at him like he thinks Frenchie might be making fun of him, but when it becomes apparent he isn't, he lets it drop, and even lets out a small laugh himself. A genuine one, Frenchie thinks, and he lets himself revel in that. 

 

Izzy’s eyes sparkle when he laughs, like the flecks of dust in the sunlight streaming into the stable.  It takes years off his face, some of the deep-set lines on his forehead smoothing, even just momentarily, some of the years of worry dropping away- though Frenchie is thrilled to see that the laughter only emphasizes the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, as he’s got a particular fondness for those crow’s-feet lines. 

 

He wonders, for a moment, if Izzy is younger than he thinks, if he’s been weathered by the life he leads like an oceanside bluff with waves slowly carving into the rocks.  

 

“Do you still want to learn how to break horses?” Izzy asks when Frenchie’s laughter has subsided. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Frenchie answers. 

 

“Good. We’ll start tomorrow,” Izzy says. 



EDWARD

 

“Great shot, boss!” 

 

“Good effort!” 

 

“Nearly there!” 

 

In Ed’s spur of the moment offer to teach Stede how to shoot, he hadn’t exactly expected to be doing it with an audience. But evidently, the idea of Stede shooting was so fascinating to the rest of the crew that they’d all decided to take an hour or so off to watch him learn. A voice that sounds an awful lot like Izzy’s grumbles that they don't work anyway, so what’s there to take off?

 

“Bugger,” Stede mutters, smoke coming off his pistol. Despite the crew’s cheers, the shot had been nowhere close to the target. Ed tries to stifle a smile. Fuck it all, he wants to be angry with Stede for keeping information from him, he really does, but it’s very difficult when Stede has a smudge of gunpowder on his cheek and a very cute frown on his face. 

 

He’ll be angry later. 

 

“Not bad, mate,” he says, stepping back up to Stede’s side. “Pistols are fickle bastards, you know. You could try a rifle.” 

 

Stede shakes his head. “They take too long to reload, and they’re harder to use on horseback.” 

 

He glances to Pete for confirmation, who gives him a thumbs up. 

 

“You plan on shooting from horseback?” Ed asks. 

 

“If I have to,” Stede replies primly. 

 

“That’s well tricky, mate. Even Iz misses on horseback.” 

 

“I fucking do not,” Izzy says from the sidelines. Ed’s roped him into observing, but he draws the line at giving Stede direct advice. So far, he’s just been muttering sarcastic comments to Frenchie, who’s lounging upside down on the porch steps, feet kicked up on the steps above him.

 

“I’ve seen you miss,” Ed shoots back. 

 

“When?” 

 

“Calico,” Ivan supplies, a little too quickly. He shrinks back when Izzy looks at him. “Sorry, Izzy. You sorta did miss the last time Calico was riding off and you were chasing him.”

 

“Calico?” Stede asks. 

 

“Calico Jack,” Fang says. “Annoying fucker.” 

 

Ed winces. The last thing he wants to talk about right now is fucking Calico Jack, the last thing he wants to think about are the circumsances under which Jack took off and Izzy gave chase, not when Stede’s standing this close to him, looking a bit too curious. 

 

He’d sort of thought he’d loved Calico Jack once, before he’d realized it was lust at best, bed-warming out of convenience, more realistically. 

 

“You know Calico Jack?” Frenchie asks, sitting up. 

 

Izzy exchanges a look with Ed, and then tosses a glare Fang and Ivan’s way. “Not fucking important right now. And I didn’t fucking miss. Bonnet, you’re letting the recoil control your aim. It’s throwing you off.” 

 

Izzy looks down at Frenchie, who’s waiting expectantly, and Ed just catches the hissed “later” Izzy gives him. 

 

“Is that what’s happening?” Stede murmurs to Ed. 

 

“Yeah, Izzy knows his shit,” Ed says. “You just have to account for it when you’re aiming. Like this-” 

 

And yeah, maybe he’s showing off a bit when he takes his own pistol out in one smooth motion, cocking it and firing with a held and released breath. The bullet shatters the glass bottle they’ve been using for target practice. 

 

“Oh, I see,” Stede says, and if it were anyone else Ed would think he’s bluffing, but Stede actually does see. He’s observant like that, wicked sharp, like Ed said last night. He may not be blessed with Izzy’s eye or Ed’s learned motor skills, but when he mimics Ed’s stance and breathing, the shot is much closer. 

 

“All right, Stede!” Oluwande hollers. 

 

“Stede, Stede, Stede!” Frenchie whoops. 

 

Stede grins. “Better?”

 

“Much,” Ed says, and he can’t help smiling back. Stede’s own grin softens, from something triumphant to something grateful, and Ed is suddenly very aware of the fact that every single person on this ranch is watching them. 

 

“All right, you lot, don’t you have shit to do?” he calls. Stede chuckles softly. 

 

“Not really,” Jim says with a shrug. 

 

“Yeah, this is much more entertaining,” Lucius agrees. 

 

Ed gives Izzy a look. He sighs. 

 

“All right, you fuckers!” he says, clapping his hands together. Frenchie jumps slightly. “Back to it! How you people keep this ranch running is beyond me-”

 

“Literally none of us have to listen to you,” Lucius says. 

 

“He’s right, lads, I’m sure there’s work to do,” Stede calls. They grumble about it, but they leave, and it's much easier for Ed to breathe. 

 

“Figured they were crowding you, a bit,” he says, by way of explanation, and it's easier than admitting that he just wants Stede to himself for a moment. 

 

“They were, a bit,” Stede admits. “It’s difficult to keep up the fearless leader image when I’m  missing shots so badly.”

 

“Ah, you’re doing fine,” Ed says. “Better n’ me when I first started.”

 

“Well, now that’s just flattery.” 

 

“Nah, I’m not joking. You shoulda seen me. I couldn’t shoot properly till Iz taught me. Hornigold had to keep me out of firefights for ages-”

 

Ed freezes. Fuck. That wasn’t supposed to slip out. Stede, of course, doesn’t miss his slip of the tongue. 

 

“Hornigold? The…bounty hunter?” he asks carefully. “The one with the vendetta against you?”

 

Fuck. Izzy’s gonna fucking kill him. 

 

“Uh, yeah, well,” he stammers out. “Wasn’t always a bounty hunter, was he?” 

 

Stede lets out a small huff. “Ed, if there’s something I should know-”

 

“What, I should tell you? Like you told me about Badminton and Spanish Jackie? Different when you’re the one keeping secrets, is that it?” 

 

He curses the words the moment they slip off his tongue, because he’d just been starting to feel like he and Stede were back in rhythm, the way they had been since the moment they met, and he doesn’t want to be angry about Stede keeping information from him, especially since Ed is doing the same, but Stede had been so adamant that Ed could trust him-

 

-and he still does, despite it all, despite every better instinct he has-

 

-so this secret keeping still feels like a betrayal of that trust. 

 

Stede takes a step back. “I was going to tell you. I was waiting until it was confirmed.”

 

“And if they just hadn’t heard anything? Would you have told me then?” 

 

Stede hesitates. “I don’t know.” 

 

Ed lets out a harsh chuckle. “Course you don’t. Cause that’s not the only thing you’re not telling me, right?”

 

He takes a step forward. Then another. Then another, until he’s toe-to-toe with Stede, close enough that he can smell the gunsmoke lingering on his clothes and on his skin. Stede has plenty of room to back away, but he doesn’t, just lifts his chin slightly and meets Ed’s gaze straight on, though Ed can see a hint of fear in his eyes- and fuck if that doesn’t sting too. 

 

“How does Badminton know you?” 

 

“Does it matter?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Why is Hornigold after you?” Stede says, less of a question and more of a challenge. 

 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

 

“Oh, yes it does,” Stede says. 

 

“You first.” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“No,” Stede says again, and he shifts, bringing him just a little closer, and Ed’s breath hitches, because that little movement makes Stede’s whiskey-warm eyes larger than life, and Ed feels like he’s drowning in them. 

 

Stede swallows, and Ed thinks he hears a similar catch in Stede’s breath, and fuck, it would be so easy to move just a little closer now, to close that final gap, to grab Stede (grab his face, around his back, grab his shoulders, anywhere, it doesn’t matter as long as Ed can touch him), to rub that gunpowder smear on his cheek with his thumb until it smudges-

 

-but Izzy’s voice in his head pulls him back. 

 

I’m worried about your judgment. 

 

Ed’s fucking compromised, he knows that, and he knows that if he takes that final plunge and closes that gap that he’ll be well and truely fucked in a way that he can’t come back from, because he wants Stede, wants him in a way that makes his blood burn, wants him so bad that it frightens him, because he’s never wanted anyone quite like this before, not in this way, not this intensely. 

 

He’s not like Izzy, he doesn’t forgo attachment because of past tragedy (though he supposes he’s had enough tragedy in his life, if not in the same way Izzy has), he’s just never really felt that pull with someone before. The closest he ever came was with Calico Jack, and now that he’s had a taste of this, had a taste of warmth and kindness and intrigue and understanding and Stede, his dalliance with Jack feels bitter and meager in comparison. 

 

And that’s what makes him pull back, really, because he remembers how badly it hurt when Jack left him, in the dead of night with saddlebags packed full of stolen goods and Ed’s favorite horse, remembers how Izzy chased him down and how Ed wished him dead and alive at the same time, how long it took him to get over that betrayal. 

 

How long would it take him to get over Stede’s? Because Stede is still keeping secrets and Ed has no way of knowing the man won’t fuck him over aside from a gut feeling, but his gut’s been wrong before. 

 

Izzy had known about Jack. He’d warned Ed about Jack. And he’s warned Ed about Stede, too, in a more roundabout way. 

 

If he can’t trust himself, he can trust Izzy. 

 

So he pulls back. And he turns. 

 

And he stalks away, best he can with his fucked up knee, and he pretends he doesn’t hear Stede call after him. 




STEDE

 

Oh no. Oh, absolutely not. Ed is walking away again, and Stede is not letting that happen, not when they’d been so close to finally talking. Stede’s well aware that their lack of communication is in large part  his own fault, that he’s been closed off and secretive, but they had been on the verge of something just then, and Stede is not letting this chance slip out of his  grasp, even if it means spilling his guts about Badminton and Mary and all of it, if he must. 

 

He’s not sure what flipped the switch, not entirely, not certain what makes him so willing to risk this now as opposed to only hours ago, when he’d been determined to keep this secret no matter the cost. Maybe it’s Ed’s willingness to teach him even when Stede knows he’s hurt the man’s feelings. Maybe it's the fact that this threat of Badminton is very, very real now, and it's starting to weigh on Stede like an anchor dragging him to the bottom of the sea, and if he doesn't tell someone he might just drown, and maybe he thinks that Ed can be the one to haul him up from the depths. Or maybe it;’ the way Ed was looking at him only moments ago, all heavy and heated and half-lidded eyes. Maybe it's that Stede wants more of that, even though it frightens him, and if his secret is risking that, well, Stede will spill it all. 

 

Of course, there’s always the risk that this could all blow up in his face. That Ed could take one look at Stede and curl his lip in disgust and shoot him with a single practiced motion, that he could pack up and leave, that he could turn Stede in, but to hell with it, what else is he supposed to do?

 

“Edward!” he calls. Ed, like a child, pretends he doesn’t hear him, so Stede is forced to move his feet, to give chase, though his legs feel a bit wobbly, and he nearly trips in his first few steps. 

 

“Edward!” he calls again, but Ed rounds to the back of the house. Stede just manages to catch him, and only then because he doesn’t think Ed expected him to follow. He grabs Ed’s wrist, and Ed, as if on instinct, tugs away, twisting Stede’s own arm behind his back. Stede yelps. 

 

“Oh, fuck,” Ed says, releasing instantly, backing up. “Fuck, Stede, I’m sorry-”

 

What was it that Jim once said, on the very few occasions they’d convinced Stede to let them teach him a bit of the old hand-to-hand?

 

If you have an advantage, press it. You won’t get many, so don’t let one slip away from you. 

 

So Stede lets out a gasp, as if Ed’s truly injured him, and maybe it's a bit cruel, but the panic that flashes over Ed’s face is a bit of a sight. 

 

“Shit, shit, Stede, I didn’t mean-”

 

Then Stede turns, pressing his forearm against Ed’s chest and shoving him back against the wall of the house. Ed’s eyes widen, and he goes very, very still. 

 

“Are you going to let me speak now?” Stede asks, cocking his head. Ed gives a single nod. His heart is beating unreasonably fast against Stede’s arm, his eyes dark in a way Stede hasn’t really seen before, not even when they were so close moments ago. Is he afraid? No, Ed could easily get out of this hold, he’s stronger than Stede by a mile, even wounded, so that can’t be it. 

 

It’s a different kind of fear, maybe, one that Stede is all too familiar with, one that he can feel start to pool in his own gut the longer they stay like this, one that makes his pulse pick up and his mouth go dry. 

 

“You gonna talk?” Ed says, voice husky like it was last night in Ed’s bedroom, Stede’s hands on his knee and heart-shattering relief on his face-

 

Stede clears his throat, backing away. Ed remains where Stede had shoved him, against the wall. 

 

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Stede says, trying to regain some of the momentum that he’d lost. “I’m not keeping secrets from you on purpose, Ed. I should have told you about Jackie, but it wasn’t my information, it was Jim and Oluwande’s. I wanted to give them the chance to explore it before worrying you unnecessarily.”

 

Ed nods slowly, but doesn’t answer. 

 

“And Badminton…” Stede trails off. “Badminton is someone from my life before all of this. He’s part of the reason this life began for me.”

 

“You said he didn’t know you.”

 

“He doesn’t. It-” Stede sighs. “The way I got into this life isn’t a pretty story, Ed, and it's not one I like to tell. Can you trust me when I say Badminton knows who I am, that he has a vendetta against me, and leave it at that?” 

 

God, he hopes Ed can accept that, that Stede won’t be forced to spill the whole awful thing now. He’s not sure if he can take it, because despite his earlier bravado, authentic and desperate as it was, this doesn’t seem like a secret to tell in the harsh light of day, with the sun beating down on them and the looming threat of Jackie and Badminton and what he’s discovered about Mary and the children-

 

“All right.” 

 

Stede’s entire body relaxes. 

 

“Oh Ed, do you mean it?” 

 

“Yeah, suppose so,” Ed mumbles, sliding down the wall, propping his bad leg out in front of him. “One condition, though.” 

 

“Of course,” Stede says, and he thinks he’d agree to almost anything Ed asked of him now. 

 

“Who was the package from?”

 

“Package?” 

 

“One from town. One you took with you and opened in the feed shed.”

 

Stede frowns. “However did you know that?” 

 

“Followed you,” Ed says matter of factly. “Worried you were sneaking off.”

 

Stede snorts. “I’m not particularly sneaky, I’m afraid.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Ed agrees, and something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

 

Stede cautiously moves closer, settling down about a foot from Ed. “It was from Mary. The woman who did that lighthouse painting you asked about.”

 

“The dear friend,” Ed says, and if Stede didn’t know better, he’d say that’s jealousy in Ed’s voice. 

 

“Yes, a dear friend.” Stede takes a deep breath. He can tell Ed this much. If he can avoid Badminton, the circumstances of his leaving, he thinks he’d like Ed to know about Mary, actually. 

 

“Mary was my wife. Back east.” 

 

Ed’s head snaps around at that. “Wife?” 

 

“Former wife,” Stede corrects. 

 

“You’re fucking married?” 

 

“Was married,” Stede says. “Suppose perhaps we still are, in the eyes of God, but neither of us put much stock in that sort of thing.”

 

Ed’s fingers tap restlessly on his knee. “Fuck are you doing out here, then, if you’ve got a wife back east?” 

 

“I don’t,” Stede says. “Have a wife, anymore. It was an arranged marriage. Very unhappy, until both of us stopped pretending like we weren't miserable. We were able to move past it. Become friends, become better parents for the children.” 

 

“Children?” Ed demands. 

 

“Yes, I have two,” Stede says. “Alma and Louis.” 

 

“Fucking hell, Stede, warn a guy before you drop this shit on him,” Ed mumbles, and Stede laughs. 

 

“Well, you asked.”

 

“Guess I did. Didn’t fucking know what I was asking, did I?” 

 

“I suppose not. But Mary and I are much happier now, with me west and her back east. She’s fallen in love. I believe she’ll be remarried soon,” Stede says, a soft smile crossing his face. “Neither of us were happy with our old life, so we found new ones.” 

 

“That why you left, then?” 

 

“In a way,” Stede says, and it's the truth, a bit. 

 

Ed frowns, and Stede knows he’s trying to piece together how Badminton factors into any of this.

 

“I’ll tell you the rest, someday,” Stede says, and Ed’s eyes flick back to him. “But not now. It won’t make a difference, and… well, Ed, I’m afraid I’m quite tired.”

 

He laughs again, this time a bit helplessly. “I have no idea what I’m meant to do here. This is the happiest I’ve ever been, here with these people, and it may all be ripped away, and I can’t do anything about it.”

 

Ed is silent for a moment. 

 

“Maybe there’s something,” he says slowly. “Something I can do.” 

 

“Like what?” 

 

Ed’s face goes smooth, looking off into the distance. “If Izzy finds out I told you this, he’ll kill me.” 

 

“I’m sworn to silence,” Stede says. 

 

“I may be able to work something out with Hornigold.”

 

“Ed, I won’t have you sacrificing yourself for me,” Stede says at once. 

 

“Yeah, mate, I don’t have a death wish, don’t worry,” Ed says, amused. It drops off his face quickly. 

 

“Hornigold was my old boss,” he says slowly. “My first boss, really. Worked under him for… fuck, I don’t know. Years. Started when I was 15.”

 

“He turned bounty hunter?” Stede asks. Ed nods. 

 

“Yeah, while back. But I still know the bloke. If I can- fuck, I don’t know, if I can get in contact with him, maybe I can work something out. This is all Hornigold, you know, it’s not just Jackie and Badminton mixed up in this. Hornigold’s got it out for me, and-”

 

Ed lets out a sharp sigh. “They wouldn't be on you if it wasn’t for me. Wouldn't have had a reason to come out here.”

 

“Now Ed, you don’t know that,” Stede reassures him. 

 

“Yeah, I do. That Redwood Route? It was a trap. A fucking obvious one, but we fell for it. I fell for it. Hornigold’s trap. That's why Badminton’s here. Hornigold’s tryin’ not to tip me off by showing up himself. And, fuck, now you’re up the creek because of my mistake.”

 

“What sort of trap?” Stede wonders. 

 

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday,” Ed says, a bit of banter back in his tone. He nudges Stede. 

 

“I won’t have you putting yourself in danger, Ed,” Stede says. The very thought of it makes his stomach turn.

 

“I’m always in danger. Comes with the name,” Ed says, and it's so matter of fact that it makes Stede’s heart hurt. 

 

“All the same. I’d rather not exacerbate that, if it's all the same to you. I quite like you whole, Ed, preferably with no more bullet holes than the one you already have.” 

 

Ed looks up at him then, wary, hesitant. 

 

“I’ll do what I have to do.” 

 

Stede purses his lips in though, then straightens. “Let’s make a pact, shall we? Neither of us makes a move before consulting the other. I think we make quite a good team when we aren’t keeping things from each other.” 

 

He holds out his hand. “Deal?” 

 

Ed regards the proffered hand for a moment, then wraps his own around it. Ed’s hand is calloused, scars from rope burn and stray sparks from his gun littering his palm.

 

“Deal.”




Notes:

Me? Opening on an Izzy POV? Who could have guessed it. This chapter’s timeline was a bitch to work out, so hopefully it makes enough sense to everyone lol. It was a lot of fun to write though, and I am very excited about some of the things that have been put into play here! I think I’ve almost got the whole story mapped out, if not entirely written yet, and man oh man do we have some fun scenes and some heavy, heavy angst coming into play soon. Be prepared.

The song Frenchie sings to his horse is called “Down in the Valley”. All of Frenchie’s songs are very specifically chosen from a big catalog of old western ballads, and may or may not contain hints about where the story is going ;)

Speaking of songs, I do have a playlist for this story that I listen to when I write, so if anyone is looking for some general vibes (aka lots of orville peck, other country/folksy stuff, and any renditions of Frenchie’s songs that I can find) I can definitely link it.

Thank you all for the very sweet reception to this story, I’m having so much fun writing it so I’m really happy you guys are having fun reading it as well. Your comments are always loved and cherished, they keep me motivated to keep this story going, even though it's turned into so much more of a beast than I had planned lol.

Up next, Stede and Ed formulate a plan. Frenchie and Izzy bond over the horses, and Izzy reaches a breaking point. Oluwande has a surprise for Jim, but first, he must enlist the crew’s help with a distraction. Until next time!

Chapter 4

Summary:

Ed ponders a dilemma, and makes a drastic decision. Stede makes a confession, and deals with a rogue group of horses. Izzy and Frenchie are growing closer, but old pain threatens to break them apart. Oluwande has a surprise for Jim, and stages a distraction with Roach, the Swede, and Buttons. It doesn’t quite go as planned.

 

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH BABY WE GOT RENEWED!! I AM EUPHORIC OVER THIS. My cows? Fed. My crops? Watered. My skin? Glowing. Have an incredibly angsty and long as hell chapter as a late celebration.

Frenchie has two songs in this chapter. In order, they are “Night Herding Song” and “Bucking Bronco (My Love is a Rider). Both are on the playlist (there are two versions of night herding song, actually lol) if anyone wants to hear what they sound like!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

EDWARD

 

“So. Kids.” 

 

“Yes, Ed. Two of them.” 

 

“You have kids.” 

 

“As I’ve told you multiple times a day for the last week, yes,” Stede says. He doesn’t look irritated by the question, which Ed has admittedly asked an embarrassing number of times, he just looks amused. 

 

“How’s that work, then?”

 

“Well, my father gave me a rather ineffectual explanation about birds and bees-”

 

“I don't need a lesson,” Ed says quickly, trying to cover the way his cheeks heat, trying very very hard not to think about Stede’s face inches, centimeters from his own, strong arms pushing him against the wall, breath fanning his face-

 

“Good, I’m probably not qualified to give one,” Stede says, and Ed can’t quite tell if Stede’s blushing or if he’s just been in the sun too long. 

 

It’s been a week since Ed and Stede agreed to work together against the threat of Hornigold and Badminton, a week since Ed decided that he trusted Stede in spite of the information he’s withholding, since he realized that it doesn’t matter to him what secrets linger in Stede Bonnet’s past so long as he knows enough to keep Stede safe, and they’re no closer to a plan than they were on day one. 

 

Stede thinks they are, Ed knows that much, and maybe if they were facing anyone other than Hornigold, Stede’s ideas might work. They’re good ideas, for any situation other than this. Stede has an instinct for this, an eye for it that you can only be born with, that you can’t develop even with the years of experience Ed has under his belt. 

 

But Stede doesn't know Hornigold. Ed does. He’s seen first-hand the man’s ruthlessness, and he’s been on both sides of it. He’s been on Hornigold’s crew, fought alongside him, seen the protection and the dedication he levels towards his men. And he’s been chased by Hornigold for years, so he knows the unrelenting nature of Hornigold’s pursuit. The man won’t bend, and the man won’t break. This only ends one way. Either Blackbeard goes, or Hornigold goes. 

 

And Ed doesn’t think Hornigold is going to go. 

 

Which really only leaves one option. The option that he’s been trying to nudge Stede towards for the past week. Unfortunately, Stede is horribly and incredibly stubborn. It makes Ed’s heart thump traitorously in his chest, that Stede’s stubbornness is being directed towards Ed’s own well-being, but it's making things difficult.

 

“So, about that plan-” Ed starts. 

 

“Edward,” Stede says, clear warning in his tone, “I haven't changed my mind about you contacting Hornigold. It’s too dangerous, you know it is. Why you’re so insistent on it, I’ve no idea.” 

 

“Come on, mate, I really think I’ve got an idea this time,” Ed says, pulling Stede to a stop in the middle of the dirt trail. Stede cocks his head, looking curious. 

 

“Very well, go on.” 

 

“We’ve got an advantage here. I know Hornigold. He’s got his whole past, you know, as an outlaw. He’s already got to prove himself to the other lawmen and shit, right? And he’s spent his whole career hunting me n’ Iz, and if he fails right now, that's fuckin’ embarassing for him. I can convince him he’ll lose. And if he thinks he’ll lose, he might call the whole thing off.” 

 

For a moment, Ed thinks Stede might actually be listening to this idea, flimsy and feeble as it is. Hornigold won't just tuck his tail between his legs and run home, not now. It’s embarrassing for him either way. But it's something. 

 

Then again, he’s thought Stede might accept every single one of his plans so far, because Stede always listens to him with an attentive, thoughtful look on his face. No matter how stupid the idea is, there’s never any judgement from Stede, and Ed, who grew up hearing even good ideas dismissed as foolish because they came from his mouth, hasn’t quite figured out the difference between thoughtfulness and acquiescence. 

 

But, just like every other time, Stede just hums. 

 

“Hmm. No. No, I don't think so.”

 

“Come on.” 

 

“I’m serious, Ed. Even if you, miraculously, sent Hornigold packing on that alone, which I rather doubt, I’m afraid that only takes care of one problem.”

 

“How’s that, then?” 

 

Stede sighs, his body tensing up like it always does when their conversations take this turn. “Hornigold may have brought Chauncey into this, but now that he’s here, he won't just leave me alone.”

 

“Why not?” Ed says, pushing, just slightly. Stede’s eyes dart up to meet his, and then back down. 

 

Stede wants to fucking tell him. He can tell Stede wants to tell him. Every single time the issue of Badminton has come up over the last week, Stede has looked just on the verge of spilling whatever secret he and Chauncey share, whatever haunts him so badly that Ed finds him wandering the house at night (Ed has his own demons that keep him up, but he’s far more interested in Stede’s). But something always stops him, right before the words come out. 

 

He’s starting to wonder just how bad it was. Stede is competent, he knows that much, with a bent towards unruly, in fact, but he’s clearly not a violent man. But whatever it is that connects him and Chauncey scares him. 

 

“Nevermind, then,” Ed says, trying to hide the disappointment. He fails, like he’s failed every time. “Look, if we deal with Hornigold, Badminton will follow. Or we can fucking deal with Badminton separately, you know? He’s manageable. Less of a threat on his own. Especially with both of us against him.” 

 

Stede’s shoulders sag. “Do you really think so?” 

 

“Mate, I know so,” Ed says, his heart suddenly soaring. Stede rounds on him, a line between those lovely, lovely eyebrows. 

 

“Swear to me that this is all you’re doing. Swear to me that you’re convincing Hornigold to leave, and that you’re staying. And swear to me that whatever precautions I deem necessary to ensure your safety in the matter, you’ll acquiesce to.” 

 

He holds out a hand. “Gentleman’s agreement.” 

 

Ed has no fucking clue what that means, but he slides his own hand into Stede’s in an echo of the gesture they used to seal their partnership only a week ago. He’s always struck by just how soft Stede’s hands are, slightly roughened around the pads of his fingers and with callouses from riding. Even if Stede’s hands were more like his own, rough and cracked like the hands of an outlaw, Ed still thinks he’d describe Stede’s hands as soft, if only for the gentleness with which they touch him. 

 

“I swear it,” he says, and Stede relaxes. 

 

“Very well. We’ll work out the finer details, and bring the men in on it, agreed?”

 

“Agreed,” Ed says. Stede smiles at him, eyes crinkling around the corners, and he begins to walk again. Ed pauses a moment, and then jogs to catch up. 

 

He only feels a little bit guilty about the lie. 

 

***

 

Ed’s not a particularly good liar. He thinks the only reason he was really able to convince Stede that his plan is the right one is because it’s close enough to the truth, and because Stede, despite everything, seems to trust Ed. That fact sits heavy in his gut as the day wears on, as he and Stede work out details and agree on safety precautions- none of which, Ed knows, will have any effect on the outcome of his discussion with Hornigold. 

 

He’s not a good liar. And he’s never been able to lie to Izzy. He thinks that’s why he's avoiding him, really, because he knows Izzy will shake the truth out of him in moments, likely without Ed even having to say a word. Because Izzy is blessed with knowledge that Stede is not. He’s really the only person on earth who knows the extent of Ed’s strange relationship with Hornigold, who knows the hero worship that Ed still carries for the man. 

 

Ed’s own father was a monster. To his core. It's one of the most crucial facts of Ed’s world, one of the most crucial pieces of his development. His father was a bad, bad man. 

 

Hornigold was meant to be a bad man. All the stories said so. But he was kind to Ed. He saved him from starving, lifted him up, gave him access to a whole new world when Ed needed it most. Everything he’s accomplished, he owes, in some way, to Hornigold. And Izzy knows that. 

 

Izzy never had that same tie, not to Hornigold. Ed wonders sometimes if Izzy has that tie to him, but he thinks Izzy questions him too much to really worship him the way Ed worshiped Hornigold. Izzy came to Ed and Hornigold injured, he came to them heartbroken, but most importantly he came to them angry, and with experience. He admired Hornigold, respected him as a leader, but he never depended on Hornigold for his self-worth the way that Ed did. The way part of him still does. 

 

And Izzy wasn’t surprised by Hornigold’s turn to the law. Not the way Ed was. 

 

So, putting all of that together, he really doesn’t want to tell Izzy about this plan. Because Izzy will see it for what it is. But he has to, and better to do it in private, where Izzy can yell and shout and rage at him without Stede and the others around. 

 

Besides… well, it wouldn’t be fair to Izzy, to do this without warning. And he knows, if he orders it, that Izzy won’t go against him here. It’s no risk to the plan.  So he tells him the day before Stede plans to tell the rest of the crew. 

 

“You’re going to fucking what?” 

 

Izzy’s voice isn’t angry, it’s deadly and cold. 

 

“You heard me,” Ed says, avoiding Izzy’s eyes. 

 

“In what fucking world- god give me strength ,” Izzy mutters, casting his eyes up to the heavens. “Ed, you realize that’s suicide.”

 

“Maybe not,” Ed protests weakly.

 

“Sure, why fucking not, you’ll just talk to fucking Hornigold and he’ll let bygones be bygones, is that it?” Izzy says scathingly. “Jesus wept , Ed, what the fuck are you thinking?” 

 

 All of his previous resolve about owing Izzy the truth, the full truth, flees in the face of Izzy’s rage, of his look of betrayal.

 

“It’s not like I’m giving myself up,” Ed says instead, falling back on what he told Stede, even though Izzy will see right through it.  “I’m working out a deal.” 

 

“What deal is that? Tell me, Edward, because I’m at a fucking loss here,” Izzy says. He’s pacing now. “What deal could you possibly suggest that doesn't end in your arrest? What could you possibly offer Hornigold besides yourself?” 

 

“What would you do, then?” Ed demands. “What’s your brilliant idea?” 

 

“Maybe I’d have one if you fucking let me in on this earlier!” Izzy snaps. “But you kept me out, Edward. You kept me in the fucking dark, and I think you did it on purpose.” 

 

“Why the fuck would I-”

 

“Shut up and let me speak,” Izzy says. He advances on Ed, iron on his hip and steel in his eyes. “I think you knew I wouldn’t like this fucking plan, but you’ve already made up your fucking mind, so you shut me out. You’ve got fucking blinders on when it comes to Hornigold, Ed, you know that. And now you’ve got blinders on with Bonnet. I-” 

 

He cuts off, letting out a short breath through his nose. “Ed, tell me you aren’t doing this for Bonnet. Tell me you’re not giving yourself up for that man. I’m fucking begging you.” 

 

Ed wishes he had an answer to that question. He hesitates just a little too long, and something in Izzy crumples, Ed can see it in his eyes, in the way his face slacks. 

 

“I knew we should have fucking left,” he says, running a hand over his face. “I told you a thousand times-”

 

 “D’you still think we should?” 

 

He’s really asking, genuinely, but he knows the answer. Izzy may think they should leave, but he won’t leave now. Ed’s not blind, and even though he’s got tunnel vision for Stede right now, he can see that Izzy’s got a pull to this ranch as well in the form of a highly superstitious musician. He knows Izzy’s loved, and he knows Izzy’s lost, and he’s willing to bet that Izzy won’t run if it means putting Frenchie in the line of fire, not now. 

 

He’s right. 

 

“Fuck it all, Edward” Izzy mutters. “It’s too late for that now. You know it's too late for that now.” 

 

And it is too late. Time is not on their side, not anymore, and the noose is tightening, one way or another.  It’s too late to change the plan, too late to run. Too late for Izzy to break free, of this ranch, of his loyalty to Ed. Too late for Ed to come to his senses, too late for him to untangle himself from the brilliant, beautiful force of nature that is Stede Bonnet. 

 

He wonders if it would have been different if they had left when Izzy first suggested. If they left before Badminton showed up, if Izzy had shot Stede on sight that first day, when Ed was bleeding out on the dirt and Stede was all golden and sunlit and breathtaking. 

 

He doesn’t think so. Ed was doomed the moment he laid eyes on Stede Bonnet. Even if Izzy had shot Stede that day, Ed’s pretty sure he would have bled out and followed him into the ground not long after. From the moment he woke up to Stede’s whiskey eyes and his strange, whimsical, incredible life, Ed would have have risked it all to keep this ranch, to keep Stede, whole, intact, happy. 

 

It was always too late for Ed. Now all he can do is try to mitigate the damage. 

 

And if that means the end of Blackbeard, if that means the end of Edward Teach- well, Ed’s been tired of the game for a long time now. So be it. 

 

“I’m not giving up, Iz,” he says, and he’s not, really, because Ed still wants to fight for Stede Bonnet, wants to fight for a life he’s never had a chance to know. 

 

But Izzy just stares at him, jaw tight, eyes sad, and that look says what Izzy can’t bring himself to say out loud. 

 

Ed may fight. He may even put up a good fight. 

 

But he’ll lose. 





STEDE

 

Stede doesn’t really like Ed’s plan, if he’s being completely honest. He thinks it's risky, and the idea of Ed in the line of fire makes every inch of his skin crawl. But who is he to question Ed on this? Stede’s just a ranch owner. He’s never even been in a firefight. And Ed does know Hornigold, so he very likely does know what the man’s weaknesses are. 

 

But all the same… it doesn’t sit right. If anyone other than Ed were suggesting it, Stede would shoot it down without a second thought, but Ed has been so insistent that he must think this is the right move, and Stede has always prided himself on being able to bow to the expertise of others. There’s no way his ranch would run if he wasn’t able to do that. So he’ll bow to Ed’s expertise here, and hope that he knows what he’s doing. 

 

The plan’s simple. Ed will contact Hornigold the following day, arrange a meeting for four days from now, and Stede and the others will create a safety net for him. They’ve decided on Santiago’s bar in town, as Stede knows they’ll be able to convince him to clear out for the day (with the aid of a very, very generous tip from Stede), and Ed thinks that  in a public place Hornigold will be less likely to cause a scene, since he’s a lawman now. 

 

Stede’s mind is filled with ways to keep Ed safe in this. So far, he has Israel and Jim in various places around the bar, with sightlines directly to Hornigold’s head if they need to take a shot. He’ll talk to Wee John about rigging some kind of explosive contraption, maybe around Jackie’s bar, so they can keep that as leverage during the negotiation. Oluwande knows Jackie, so he wants him close as well, Frenchie, more than likely,  given his ability to think on his feet and improvise, and certainly Pete, who Stede knows has been itching for a fight as it is. And he’ll keep Buttons and Swede on standby with the horses, Roach on standby for medical care if things go awry.

 

It could work. 

 

His crew, however, has their own misgivings- especially when the name Hornigold is thrown into the mix. 

 

“Hornigold?” John nearly bellows out. “When did fecking Hornigold get involved in this?” 

 

“Well, he’s been involved from the beginning-”

 

That causes a full-on uproar. Stede winces. At his side, Ed is shifting uncomfortably. 

 

“John’s right, Stede,” Frenchie’s voice rises above the din. “Hornigold’s bad news, Anne had some run-ins.” 

 

“All right, all right!” Stede says, calling them all back to attention. “I understand your misgivings. But Hornigold is involved now, there's no denying that, so all we can do is move forward, yes?” 

 

There’s a general mutter of discontent, but no one argues. That discontent only grows as Stede outlines the plan. 

 

It’s Pete who speaks up in its defense. 

 

“Guys, come on, this is Blackbeard we’re talking about,” he says. “He’s a genius.” 

 

He risks a glance at Ed. “I mean, you’re a genius, sir, so I’m sure this is the right plan.” 

 

“Thank you, Pete,” Stede says. “Ed has expertise in this particular matter, so we will all be deferring to him. But I will need to confer with all of you today, to discuss your various roles. Jim and Oluwande, I’d like to speak with you first. Everyone else, back to your duties.” 

 

***

 

By the time Stede has the finer details of the plan ironed out, and he’s spoken with the crew -Wee John is far, far too enthusiastic about the explosive trap he’ll be engineering, and Stede just hopes he doesn't get trigger happy with it- night has fallen, and he has a pounding headache. Ed had been present for most of it, but ducked out about an hour ago, so it's not surprising when Stede goes to get some air on the porch and finds him there. 

 

“Hey,” Ed says, turning his head slightly. “How’d it go?” 

 

“Oh, as well as we could have expected,” Stede says with a sigh. “Once we got past the Hornigold issue, I think many of them are actually a bit excited about getting back to their roots of illicit activities.” 

 

“Mmm,” Ed murmurs. “Can’t take the outlaw out of some of ‘em, I guess.” 

 

There’s something in his tone, something about the way he’s holding himself, that makes Stede frown. 

 

“Are you quite all right, Ed?” he asks. 

 

“Hm? Yeah, sure,” Ed replies. 

 

“Yes, that was certainly convincing,” Stede says. The night air is warm, with just a hint of chill creeping in. The clouds cast a stark outline against the dark of the sky. 

 

“I am,” Ed insists. 

 

“Of course. That’s what I said. Convincing,” Stede says with a pointed look. It's only a matter of time before Ed relents. 

 

“You said you’re happy here,” Ed says finally, face drawn and serious. 

 

“I am,” Stede answers, studying Ed’s profile in the flickering lamplight. 

 

“And you weren't back east. With Mary.” 

 

“Correct. “

 

“How’d you know?” Ed asks. “That you weren't happy?” 

 

Stede hums thoughtfully. “I suppose I just didn’t feel it.” 

 

“Yeah, but what does that mean?” Ed insists. “How d’you know what makes you happy and what doesn’t?” 

 

Stede pauses, giving that one some more thought. This topic is touching a bit close to ones he'd rather avoid altogether, but Ed looks so…bothered by something, something that Stede can’t puzzle out, that Stede can’t do anything but answer. 

 

“Well,” he begins. “I’m by no means an expert. But I suppose, back east, I didn’t… well, I didn’t quite fit.” 

 

He makes a motion with his hands, fingers interlocking. Ed follows it. 

 

“Like a puzzle piece in the wrong spot. It almost fits, but it’s not quite there.”

 

 

“This isn’t working, Stede,” Mary says. “We don’t-” 

 

She makes a frustrated mashing gesture with her hands. “Fit. We don’t fit. We never have.” 

 

Stede nods slowly, sinking down on the couch. “Do you think I don’t know that, Mary?” 

 

“I don’t know. There’s a lot you don’t know.” 

 

“You mean like Doug?” Stede asks, and that’s a bit of a petty comment. The blood drains from Mary’s face. 

 

“Nothing’s happened,” she says quietly. “I swear.” 

 

“I know that,” Stede says. Some of the fire gone out of her, Mary sits next to him, flopping her head back on the cushion. 

 

“You like him,” Stede says. Mary winces. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Do you love him?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Mary admits. “I think maybe I could.” 

 

“I’m not mad, you know,” Stede says softly. He pats the back of her hand. 

 

“Really?” 

 

“No,” Stede admits, and it’s a weight off his chest, at least, not to have to pretend to be bothered. “You’re right, Mary. We’ve never fit together. Not like that. If you like Doug- well, let’s figure something out.” 

 

Mary sits up, incredulous. “You mean it? You want me to-”

 

“I want you to be happy,” Stede says. “One of us should get to be, don’t you think?” 

 

Mary’s face softens. “Maybe we both could be. We could have a more, I don’t know, modern marriage. You could find someone, too, I wouldn’t mind.” 

 

Stede shakes his head. “No, no I don’t think so.” 

 

“Why not?” 

 

“It’s not quite so easy for me, I’m afraid,” Stede says. Even this small admission here, in his own home, with his wife, who he trusts, despite their failed romance, is difficult to force out. He can’t quite look at her. He knows Mary has had her suspicions about his… proclivities, his preferences, she’s certainly hinted at it often enough after a glass or two of wine, but to confirm it-

 

“Oh, Stede,” Mary sighs. She taps the side of his face, moving his chin so he faces her. There’s none of the disgust he expects, none of the condemnation or the shame. On the contrary, she’s smiling. 

 

“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “We can both be happy. We just have to find a way.” 

 

And god, Stede wants to believe that. He wants to believe it desperately, that there’s a way for this to work, a way that doesn’t end in a lifetime of misery, and Mary says it with such surety, like she’s no doubts in the world. 

 

So he nods, and attempts a smile. Mary presses a kiss to his forehead, and for a moment, Stede lets himself think that she’s right. 

 

 

“That’s it, then?” Ed asks skeptically. “You just didn’t fit?” 

 

“Well, it's part of it,” Stede says. “It’s difficult to describe, really. I should have been happy, back east, with Mary. I was raised in that life, after all. It was the natural next step, for me. And I think there were moments when I was happy.”

 

He pauses for a moment, risking a glance at Ed. He half expects him to be bored, even though Ed was the one who asked the question. After all, what about Stede’s mediocre little life could possibly be interesting to someone like Ed, who’s lived such a rough and tumble, exciting life?

 

But Ed has fully turned to face Stede, perched on the porch railing with long legs dangling over the edge, listening with such attentiveness that Stede’s not sure what to make of it. 

 

“With the children mostly,” he says quickly, diverting his eyes again. “I was quite happy being a father to my children, I think. And Mary and I had occasional happy moments, though, looking back, it was always when we were being friends, instead of being husband and wife.”

 

He clears his throat, not wanting to delve too deeply into that subject. “Why do you ask?” 

 

Ed shrugs, turning his face back out into the night. His hair is half pulled back from his face, his beard freshly trimmed that morning, and he looks... Peaceful, like this, dressed in a linen shirt, leather boots tapping against the wood of the porch. Stede’s heart twists in his chest. It’s easy to forget, in times like this, who Ed really is. It’s not such a wonder anymore that Stede didn’t guess who he was on their first meeting. Blackbeard is meant to be a figure of smoke and fire, with a horse as tall as three men, who casts a shadow longer than the mountains surrounding them. And maybe Blackbeard is all that and more. But Ed… Ed is something different. Someone different. 

 

“Dunno,” he says. “Just been wondering, I guess. About happiness and shit like that.” 

 

Stede smiles. “Are you happy, Ed?” 

 

Ed ponders that for a moment. “You know, I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been, to be honest with you. Bein’ here. With you.” 

 

He waves a hand. “You know. You and all your weird shit.” 

 

Stede’s laugh is more of an exhale, but it’s all he can really manage without giving away the way his entire being seems to be glowing at that admission. 

 

“Me too,” he says quietly, and fuck, but isn’t that a risky thing to say, here in the dark, where words are heavier, where words are something more than words. Stede always thought it was easier to hide in the dark, but he’s finding it’s much, much harder than in the stark light of day.

 

“Yeah?” Ed asks, and it's soft, so soft it’s almost a tangible thing. Stede can nearly reach out and touch the word, hanging in the air between them.

 

“Yes,” he confirms. As if of its own accord, his body has shifted slightly, just enough that he’s standing next to Ed now, Ed’s knee brushing his against his hip when he swings his leg. 

 

Ed glances down, and Stede can’t help but be confused. Ed just said he’s the happiest he's ever been, and yet there’s something still so sad in his face, something in the twist of his mouth and the way his eyes aren’t quite so bright. It looks like he’s lost something, like he’s mourning, but Stede can’t for the life of him imagine what that might be. 

 

He could ask. And maybe he should. But selfishly, he doesn’t want to break this moment, doesn’t want to push further than he’s already pushed tonight, doesn’t want to risk Ed bolting like a wild horse. He doesn’t know that Ed would tell him, anyway. Ed’s fallen into these moods, every so often over their time together, these bouts of melancholy, and more times than not he doesn't want to discuss it.

 

So he just stays quiet instead, inching just a bit closer so Ed’s knee is more firmly lodged against him, disguising the motion as a yawn. Judging by the quirk of Ed’s lips, he’s not fooled, and to be honest, Stede didn’t really expect him to be. 

 

Stede has never been a brave man. He’s always wished that he was. He’d hoped, when he came West, that he could become one. 

 

Maybe if he was a brave man, he would press Ed just a little more. Maybe, if he was a brave man, he would reach for Ed’s hand. Maybe, if he was a very, very brave man, he would take Ed’s face in his hands and tell him everything, tell him that he is beautiful and striking and deserving of happiness and all the lovely things the world has to give him, and if he was braver than Stede can ever imagine being, maybe he would kiss him. 

 

Maybe someday he could be a brave man. Maybe someday, he will be, because Ed deserves his bravery, his honesty. 

 

But today, he’s a coward. Like he always has been. 

 

 

It’s late morning on a Sunday. By all accounts, Stede and his family should be in church, but Mary and Doug had a late night at an art exhibit and Stede thinks they deserve a lie in. It’s a beautiful morning, all sunshine and puffy white clouds. Stede almost feels happy. His children are playing in the dining room, Alma is creating an elaborate tale about an outlaw and a sheriff, and Stede is pretending to read but really he’s listening to them. 

 

“Stick ‘em up!” Alma cries, and Louis obediently raises his hands above his head, spilling his glass of juice as he does. Stede stifles a laugh. 

 

When there’s a knock at the door, Stede is surprised. He goes to answer it himself- he and Mary don’t keep a staff on during the weekends. 

 

“My god, it really is you, isn’t it, Stede? I couldn’t believe my ears when they told me you were living here, of all places.” 

 

Nigel Badminton’s face leers on his doorstep, and Stede Bonnet’s world comes crashing down around his ears. 

 

“Now, Baby Bonnet, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to invite an old friend in?”




IZZY

 

“You remember what to do here?”

 

“‘Course I do, Iz, don’t get your pants in a twist. I was listening.” 

 

“Really?” Izzy raises an eyebrow. “When we were saddle training her and you tried to put her bridle  on backwards,  do you call that listening?” 

 

Frenchie grimaces. “In my defense, I slept fucking terrible that night. Threw my hat on the bed without thinking.” 

 

Izzy gives him a blank stare. 

 

“Hat on the bed? Bad luck?”

 

“What are you talking about?” 

 

“You grew up on a ranch and you never heard that? Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never heard about the butter-stealing witches.” 

 

“The fucking what?” Izzy asks, entirely perplexed. 

 

“Oh, Izzy. I don’t even want to think about how much butter the witches have stolen from you in your lifetime.” 

 

“Do you actually hear these things, or do you make them up just to vex me?” Izzy demands. 

 

“Butter stealing witches are real, mate,” Frenchie insists. He’s patting Monarch’s mane while she adjusts to her saddle.

 

Izzy and Frenchie have been working with a few different colts and fillies over the past week, getting them used to leads, getting them used to saddles, walking Frenchie through the different steps of gentling the horses. It’s been… Izzy is hesitant to say nice. Nothing in his life has really been particularly nice. But it's been, at the very least, a good distraction from the danger that plagues them at the moment. Usually Izzy would say it's pointless, or a waste of time, to be doing this now, but Frenchie’d been so enthusiastic about starting to learn, and Ed’s kept Izzy out of planning and strategizing anyway, so if it wasn't for this, Izzy would be sitting on his ass, doing nothing, and he’s not built for that. 

 

Of course, with teaching Frenchie about the horses, Izzy is also learning a lot about the man’s idiosyncrasies. He’s spent a decent amount of time amongst superstitious men, cowboys tend to be a superstitious bunch, but some of the things Frenchie spouts Izzy has never heard in his life. 

 

“You’re supposed to save old horseshoes to ward the witches off,” Frenchie continues. “I think they disguise themselves as barn cats, so they already have permission to be in the house or on the property. They’re sneaky like that.” 

 

“Is that a part of the superstition, or is that just you?” 

 

“That one’s just me,” Frenchie says with a grin. “But I’m definitely right. Cats are inherently evil, you know.” 

 

He says it with such surety that for a moment Izzy is tempted to believe it. Cats are a bit witch-like, he guesses, if you look closely enough. 

 

Fuck it all, Frenchie’s rubbing off on him. 

 

“Were you actually listening?” he says, switching back to the topic at hand. “Cause she’ll throw you if you weren't. Might fucking throw you anyway, just for the hell of it.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, I was listening,” Frenchie says. “Wait for you to get on Mr. Shadow of Death there-”

 

He gestures to Izzy’s own horse. 

 

“- just Shadow,” Izzy grumbles. 

 

“Right, of course, just Shadow,” Frenchie says placatingly. Izzy groans internally. The amount of ribbing he’s received since Frenchie learned his horse’s name was Shadow- it’s been astronomical. He’d tried insisting that Shadow came with the name. He hadn’t. Frenchie remains unconvinced. 

 

“I wait for you to get on Shadow, let Monarch here see it's not scary, let her calm down, and then hop on.” 

 

That’s not exactly how Izzy had said it, but it's close. He’s impressed. 

 

“No hopping,” he says, just to find something to nitpick. “Slower than that, otherwise she’ll balk.” 

 

“Figure of speech, Quickshot,” Frenchie says. “Go on, then, I’m ready when you are.” 

 

Izzy looks him up and down and checks Monarch’s saddle, just in case, before he mounts Shadow. Shadow barely reacts, munching on a mouthful of grass. It’s good for Monarch to see that, that it’s not painful, and she seems calm enough, but still, Izzy watches carefully as Frenchie places his foot in the stirrup and swings his leg over her back. Monarch snorts nervously, not used to the weight, side-stepping. 

 

“Woah, girl, it’s all right now,” Frenchie says, low and soothing, stroking her  neck. “Just me, darling, it’s ok-”

 

Monarch comes to a stop, but she’s stomping her front leg. 

 

“All right, that’s enough,” Izzy says, motioning for Frenchie to get down. If he doesn't, Monarch will likely try to throw him, she's getting up steam, and if they can get Frenchie off before she’s agitated enough to do that, the next attempt will be easier. 

 

Frenchie’s leg is halfway off when Monarch rears up. Frenchie goes flying, and hits the ground with an audible thump. 

 

“Ow,” he groans, resting his hand on his stomach. Shadow, who’s a bit spooked by the activity, snorts and shuffles his own hooves. Izzy’s able to get him back under control quickly, with a few hushed words. He dismounts, and is about to walk over to Frenchie when Monarch lopes back around, nudging Frenchie with her nose where he’s still laying. 

 

“Ah, that’s all right, isn’t it, I’m fine,” Frenchie reassures her. “Not your fault, was it? You just got spooked. Nothing to worry about.” 

 

For a moment, a hint of a smile touches Izzy’s face. He brushes it off quickly enough, but there's something about the sight that sticks with him, something about the kindness with which Frenchie speaks to a horse that just threw him, something about the way his nose wrinkles when Monarch nudges at his face. 

 

“Told you she might do that,” Izzy says, finally completing the few steps to where Frenchie is laying. He looks down at him, with his coat all askew and his hair speckled with dirt. 

 

“Yeah, well, you could have told me again,” Frenchie says. He sits up, rubbing the back of his head. 

 

“You hurt?” 

 

“Nah, might have a bruise, but nothing bad,” Frenchie says, stretching his limbs to test them, making sure nothing’s broken. 

 

“Good,” Izzy says, extending a hand. Frenchie takes it, and Izzy hauls him to his feet. 

 

“Because you’re going to try again.”

 

***

 

It’s well into evening by the time they’re through, by the time Monarch will willingly hold Frenchie’s weight for more than 30 seconds. They’ve made their way to the tack shed, saddles in hand or slung over shoulders. 

 

“Fucking hell, Iz, is it always like that?” Frenchie asks. He’s got his hands at the small of his back, stretching the muscles there. 

 

“First day, usually,” Izzy admits. “Monarch did well.”

 

“Gave me some nasty bruises, though.” 

 

“You’re young, you’ll be fine,” Izzy says dismissively.

 

“That's why you had me doin’ it then, huh?” Frenchie asks, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Can’t hack it anymore, old man?” 

 

Izzy surprises himself by letting out a snort. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

 

“Oh, I’ll sleep like the fucking dead, I think,” Frenchie says. He leans up against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets. “What about you? How are you sleeping these days?” 

 

The pointed nature of the question tells Izzy that Frenchie’s taken notice of the circles under his eyes, of the copious amounts of Roach’s coffee that he’s been downing just to stay functional. Izzy would think it's strange, that Frenchie noticed that at all, but he’s just like that. He can tell when Lucius and Pete are in a fight just by the way they stand around each other, can tell when the Swede is about to burst into tears over something and can stop it with a single word, can tell whether Jim is pissed off or just annoyed by the way their eyebrow twitches. So it’s not strange that he notices things about Izzy as well. For instance, his last few sleepless nights.

 

The answer, obviously, is not well, but if he says that, he invites questions as to why, and he can’t very well tell Frenchie that Edward seems intent on throwing away everything that he and Izzy have built over the last decade because of Stede fucking Bonnet, now can he? Ed’s all but ordered him not to interfere, and Izzy will obey, like he always does, even when he hears Bonnet telling the crew a wildly inaccurate version of what Ed is planning, even when he can see in Ed’s eyes that he doesn't intend to come back from his meeting with Hornigold.

 

But what the fuck is Izzy supposed to do about that? What is he supposed to do about any of it?

 

He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. 

 

“Not well, then?” Frenchie asks, and to be entirely honest Izzy had forgotten that he asked a question in the first place. How long had he just been standing there, staring at the saddle in his hands while he pondered Ed’s imminent doom? Long enough for Frenchie to walk to his side, apparently, because there he is. 

 

He reaches over and takes the saddle from Izzy’s hands. There’s a pause, just long enough for Frenchie’s fingers to linger over his own, almost unnoticeable, but Izzy notices. Of course he notices. He’s been noticing things about Frenchie all fucking week. And he knows what this is, knows what’s about to happen, because there’s a shift in the air and Izzy knows that was a test of the waters, to see if Izzy would scald him at even that simple touch-

 

And Izzy doesn’t scald him. On the contrary, he lets out a breath of air like he’s been punched, more of an admission than any words that he could ever come up with. 

 

Frenchie places the saddle on a hook, twisting just slightly away to do so, then back. 

 

He moves slowly, like Izzy’s a wild horse himself, and suddenly Izzy can see just why Frenchie’s so good at gentling them, how he’s caught on so quick, why the horses trust him like they do. There's something safe in Frenchie, something fundamentally good, something that makes Izzy want to run towards him rather than away. 

 

Or perhaps Frenchie’s a witch himself, perhaps his songs hold magic in them, because snippets of the song Frenchie was humming earlier, a goodnight serenade to the horses, as he called it, seem to echo in Izzy’s head as Frenchie lowers himself onto a stack of hay bales, bringing him to eye level with Izzy. Izzy moves back slightly to make room for him-

 

-graze along darling, and move kinda slow, and don’t be forever out on the go-

 

Frenchie’s definitely got some kind of spell over him, because Izzy is frozen in his gravitational field, and he stays close enough for Frenchie to reach out, pressing his palm against Izzy’s, those clever, clever fingers dancing over Izzy’s own and tangling together, tugging him closer. 

 

Izzy’s not breathing right, and how can he be, with Frenchie’s face only centimeters from his own, eyes searching him for any hint of distaste or hesitancy?

 

He finds none. Izzy knows he’ll find none, because Izzy doesn’t want him to stop. He wants him closer, close as he can get, and so long as he doesn’t open his stupid fucking mouth he’s almost certain that’s where this will go-

 

But, of course, he opens his stupid fucking mouth, because Israel Hands has never been able to simply accept something good. 

 

“Don't you know what could fucking happen?” Izzy’s voice is low. The movement brushes his lips against Frenchie’s, and he shivers- and not from fear. 

 

“We could have fun?” Frenchie suggests, keeping a hair's-breadth of distance between their lips. “I know that’s a bit of a foreign concept to you-”

 

“We could die,” Izzy says bluntly. “We could be hanged. Hurt badly, at the very best.”

 

He can feel Frenchie pause, cool air replacing the space where his lips had been only a moment ago. Izzy feels like he’s made a misstep, but it’s said now, so he doubles down. 

 

“This fucking ranch, your fucking boss, it’s not normal,” he says, avoiding Frenchie’s gaze. “This isn't what it’s like out there, and I refuse to live in a fantasy-”

 

“You must think I’m an absolute idiot,” Frenchie says, with a wondering shake of his head. 

 

“No-”

 

“Yeah, you must,” Frenchie says. He rises, stepping around Izzy, not too far, but far enough that Izzy can no longer feel the warmth of him.  “You think I don’t know Stede’s strange? That this ranch is strange? You think I don’t know what can happen to men like us?”

 

“I didn’t say-”

 

“The fact that you thought you had to explain it at all, man, that-” Frenchie sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Well, kinda says it all, if I’m honest.”

 

Oh. Izzy fucked up. He fucked up monumentally, and Izzy is a breaker, not a fixer, he doesn’t know how to make this right, not when he’s faced with Frenchie’s sad eyes and hurt expression and all he can do is keep staring at him like a fucking imbecile. 

 

“I’m not stupid,” Frenchie says, a note of frustration in his voice. “I know I’m not  booksmart or whatever, but I’m not stupid. Maybe I’m here because it’s different. Maybe I work for Stede because he’s different. You ever think of that? You ever think that maybe I- that maybe the whole lot of us stay here because we like that it’s different here? You don’t see the appeal in that?” 

 

Izzy shakes his head, but it's a lie, because of course he sees the appeal in it, of course he sees the appeal in a place where he and Charles could have lived in peace, where maybe he could live in peace himself now- but if he admits that, he admits that he wants to stay, and they can’t. 

 

They can’t stay here, can’t stay in this strange little pocket of reality, so detached from the rest of the world, because if there's one thing Izzy has learned in his life its that being detached from reality, being ignorant, is fucking dangerous. It makes you lose your edge, and Izzy can’t afford that, because it's only a matter of time until the real world comes knocking on the door of the Lighthouse Ranch. Especially not when that time is growing closer and closer with each passing minute, the closer they get to enacting Ed’s plan, Ed’s stupid fucking plan that can only end in Ed’s death, in a death that Izzy knows will mean his own death as well, because all he’s ever done, for years, is follow Ed, and he’ll follow him into the grave, too. 

 

So as much as he wants to, as much as he yearns for this life, aches for this life, he knows he can never have it. That he never could have it, even under better circumstances. So there’s no use, is there, in wanting it now, when it’ll just slip out of his grasp the moment he tries to take it. 

 

Frenchie, as unexpectedly observant as he is, can see the lie, the conflict, written clearly across Izzy’s face. Something in him softens through the hurt, just for a moment. He reaches out, placing a hand on the side of Izzy’s face. A harsh breath leaves Izzy’s body, fighting not to lean into the touch. 

 

“I feel sorry for you,” Frenchie says quietly, and that makes Izzy’s hackles raise, at least, as well as they can raise when the slightest movement of Frenchie’s fingers on his face makes goosebumps erupt in their wake. 

 

“Sorry for me?” he manages to croak out. 

 

“Yeah. You’re so sad, man, all the time. When was the last time you let yourself be happy?” 

 

Sad? Is he sad? He’s never thought of himself as sad, never had someone describe him as such aside from the times Ed would find him on the anniversary of Charles’s death and get far too drunk with him, but even then he never said it, Izzy could just see it in his eyes. Angry, yes, he’s gotten that more times than he can count, it's the first word that comes to mind when people see him. But sad? He’s not sad. 

 

Or maybe he is. Because Frenchie’s struck a note of truth- Izzy can’t remember the last time he really let himself be happy. Happiness is so easily snatched away in the world Izzy lives in that it’s better to keep it close to your chest, better to hold on to the rage and the pain instead, to remember what you’re fighting for, what’s at stake. The only times that come to mind are times he doesn’t want Frenchie to know about, times he barely wants to remember himself because it makes his chest ache and his throat tighten. He remembers laughter in a crowded bar with Charles by his side, fighting side by side with Ed with gunfire ringing in his ears and adrenaline singing in his veins-

 

And above all of those, even above the small time he had with Charles, brightened by the tentative hope that’s begun to take root in him of a new beginning, he remembers Frenchie singing to the horses that first morning, remembers the way he transformed in town with the slightest twitch of an eyebrow, free and unconstrained in a way Izzy has never been in his life, his bright eyes and his expressive face and the way he pokes at Izzy like he isn’t scared of him, even though he should be, because Izzy is a fucking violent man, fundamentally, and Frenchie is not. Frenchie wouldn’t survive in Izzy’s world-at least, he wouldn’t survive and come out the same on the other side, and Izzy can’t do it again, he can’t, he can’t lose another person to the harshness of his own life. 

 

He's breathing too fast and he thinks something inside him is going to snap if Frenchie keeps touching him like this, keeps looking at him like he is- and it’s both a relief and possibly the worst loss of Izzy’s life when Frenchie pulls his hand back, tips of his fingers skimming over the rough bristles of Izzy’s beard. 

 

“I shouldn’t have pushed. That’s on me. I’m sorry,” Frenchie says.

 

Then he’s walking away, and Izzy wants to shout that there’s nothing for him to be fucking sorry for, that it’s on Izzy, not him, because Izzy is a broken mess of a man and he can’t put himself back together enough to do something like this, that he hurts everything he touches and that Frenchie must stay whole , because Frenchie sings to yearlings and stitches up strangers and laughs when Izzy isn’t even trying to be funny, so Izzy can’t do this, can’t ruin him, can’t doom him like he doomed Charles-

 

But instead, he stands like a statue, watching Frenchie’s lanky frame, illuminated by the lamplight that casts a soft glow over  the main path, vault over a fence and vanish into one of the pastures. 

 

He stands there for a long, long time. 



FRENCHIE

 

Frenchie stays out in the pastures all night. The air is warm, summer is coming quickly, and even with the small bite of the wind, his duster is enough to keep out the chill. He ends up in the eastern pasture, after walking and walking and walking, out towards the edge of the property, and it's only then that he allows himself to collapse, dropping onto the ground and stretching out, hands behind his head, looking up at the stars. 

 

He knows he doesn’t have to be alone right now. If he wanted, he could go to Lucius, he could go to Oluwande, he could even go to Jim, because he knows that they have a soft spot for him, though they’d never admit it out loud. But going to Lucius would mean him tearing Izzy apart verbally, because that’s how Lucius comforts people, and Frenchie doesn’t want that, not really, in spite of his own bruised ego, because Izzy clearly has hangups and Frenchie can’t blame him for that, really. Besides, Lucius is terrible at keeping secrets. Going to Olu would mean talking, and Frenchie doesn’t really want to do that, either. Doesn't know what he’d say. 

 

And of course, going to Jim would certainly mean a knife through Izzy’s eye. He definitely doesn’t want that. 

 

So instead, he stays outside, creating new patterns in the stars and humming bits of songs intermittently. He switches back and forth between melodies, eyes squinting as he tries to find the right song, because that’s how he deals with things, how he’s always dealt with things.

 

It’s how he got through the poorhouse as a child, how he got through the death of his brother during a cold city winter, coughing up his lungs in a shitty bunk at the workhouse, Frenchie wrapped around him to try and keep him warm. I t’s how he got through leaving the city, alone for the first time in his life, traveling west in an attempt to leave all the bad shit behind.  It’s how he got through those terrible first years on his own, working for some awful family in a way that wasn’t technically slave labor but felt enough like it to to drive Frenchie into a life of crime rather than continue working in a place that didn’t see him as human.

 

It’s how he dealt with leaving Anne’s crew behind, the only family he’d known since the death of his brother- at least, until he found Stede and this place. And it's how he’ll deal with this, too. 

 

He settles on one, finally, on an old ballad Mary used to sing about Anne when she got too deep in her cups. 

 

“My love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,” he murmurs, voice so low it's almost swept away in the breeze. 

 

“Though he’s promised to quit it just for my sake. 

He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,

With a swing and a jump he has mounted and gone.”

 

“My love has a gun and that gun he can use,

But he’s quit his gunfighting as well as his booze. 

And he’s sold him his saddle, his spurs and his rope,

And there’s no more cow-punching, and that’s what I hope.”

 

He trails off with a sigh. It's not the whole song, he knows that much- Mary tended to skip verses and slur her words when she was drunk enough to break into song, so it's all a little jumbled up in Frenchie’s mind. He’ll have to puzzle it out later, when he’s less distracted, maybe. 

 

The sun is rising over the mountain peaks, all soft pinks and yellows. Frenchie sits up, rolling his shoulders, cracking his back where the ground has put a kink in it. He’d stay out here longer, if he could, but he knows that if he doesn’t show up for Roach’s morning coffee, someone will send out a search party, and he doesn't want to cause any more trouble than he already has. So he makes his way back to the main building, eyes dry and blood-shot, and finds the one person he knows won’t ask too many questions. Luckily for him, John is already awake, and it's like he knew Frenchie was coming, because he’s already got a coffee in one of his large hands, steaming and bitter, just how Frenchie likes it. 

 

John raises an eyebrow as Frenchie collapses on the sofa next to him, noting the dirt covering his clothes. 

 

“What the hell happened to you?” he asks. 

 

Around them, the others are milling about. Fang is rubbing his eyes sleepily, sitting on the ground with Pete and Lucius. Roach is berating Ivan for daring to come into his kitchen for a midnight snack, and Ivan looks suitably chastised. Swede has trapped Jim and Olu in conversation, waving his hands about as he speaks, Olu’s eyebrows raised and Jim looking genuinely baffled. Ed and Stede are nowhere to be seen, and Buttons is likely having his morning commune with Livvy and Karl, the two vultures that follow him around like pets. Or omens, probably. Those birds give Frenchie the creeps. Bad luck, they are. Though he supposes it's not the bird’s fault. 

 

“Just couldn't sleep,” Frenchie mumbles, dropping his head onto John’s shoulder. 

 

“So you went and rolled around in dirt?” John asks. Frenchie lets out a half-hearted snort. 

 

“Something like that.” 

 

“You’re all right, though?” John presses, just a little bit. Frenchie shrugs. 

 

“Yeah, guess so. Just did something stupid. I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

 

John, bless him, takes that for what it is, and pats Frenchie’s leg companionably. But that word, stupid, lingers in Frenchie’s mind. 

 

You must think I’m an absolute idiot.

 

Frenchie knows how he comes off to people. A lot of it is on purpose, to be fair, but even when he’s just being himself, not playing a role, he knows he comes off as whimsical and lackadaisical and a bit air-headed. He’s superstitious and he says odd things sometimes, he knows that, but he didn’t think- well, he didn't think Izzy was put off by that. On the contrary, actually, he’d sort of thought Izzy found it funny. He'd nearly laughed at the butter-stealing witches, only the previous morning. God, has it really been a day since that happened? 

 

The point is that Frenchie isn’t stupid. He’s grown up with a lot of people calling him that, for his lack of literacy or his strange beliefs, but he’s always been quick, always been sharp- and he’d thought he proved that here. Thought he proved it to Izzy. He’s rethinking that now. It’s clear Izzy has his own issues, but if he thinks Frenchie’s foolish enough not to know the danger that comes with just existing, for men like them-

 

He really must not think very highly of Frenchie. Of his intelligence, or him as a person. 

 

Or maybe Frenchie misread things. He doesn’t think so, but he could have. Maybe Izzy just doesn’t like him all that much. 

 

As if thinking about Blackbeard’s right hand had summoned him, Izzy appears in the doorway. His eyes are dry and red-rimmed, too, like he hasn't slept either. They fall on Frenchie, still resting against John, and hold there for a second. Then Izzy is turning, walking away with quick steps. 

 

In any other circumstance, Izzy being afraid to be in the same room as him might have been funny. Big bad Israel ‘Quickshot’ Hands, scared of  little old Frenchie. 

 

But it's not funny, and Frenchie isn’t laughing. He just feels sad. Sad and sick to his stomach. 



EDWARD

 

Ed’s not great with writing, but he knows his letters. His father never bothered to teach him or send him to school, but Hornigold had made sure that he knew how to read and write, sat down with him at the ripe age of 15 and drilled him until Ed was decent at it. His penmanship is another story, it scrawls across the page like a child’s. He figures, though, that content is more important than presentation right now. 

 

It feels fitting, using a skill that Hornigold taught him when he gives himself up. Bit full circle, if he’s being honest. 

 

But what to say? How does he do this, communicate this, without hinting that Stede is someone he’s willing to give up everything for? Hornigold has a nose like a bloodhound for weakness, for Ed’s weaknesses specifically. If there’s anything that even alludes to Stede Bonnet, Hornigold will use it to snuff out not only Ed, but Izzy and Ivan and Fang, and then he’ll burn the Lighthouse Ranch and its enigmatic owner to the ground. And he’ll make Ed watch. 

 

So he has to be careful about this. Very careful. 

 

I know what you're doing, old man, he starts, scrawling across the page. Then he frowns, and crumples it up. No, that’s not right, that sounds like a kid yelling at his parents, and however similar the situations might be, that’s not how Ed needs to come off right now. 

 

He can’t be Edward Teach, not to Hornigold. He has to be Blackbeard. 

 

He tries a few more times before he finally comes up with it. 

 

You’ve been chasing me a long time. I’m done running. Let’s end this. You and me, like old times. Meet me in three days, high noon. The tracks. 

 

There’s an intersection of railways half a day's ride from here. It’s far enough that Ed can hope Stede won’t get dragged into it, but close enough to explain why Ed’s been staying at the ranch, since there’s no way Hornigold isn’t aware of that by now. 

 

Stede believes that their meeting is meant to take place in four days. He believes that this note is being sent to arrange a meeting in town, not at the tracks. Ed just hopes he doesn’t run into Stede before he can send it off with Ivan and Fang,. 

 

He folds the paper, tucking it into his pocket, before he’s off to find the men in question. It takes some searching. Ivan is the easiest to find, huddled in conversation with Izzy, who looks drawn and exhausted, like he hasn’t slept a wink. He looks up as Ed approaches, tired eyes running over his form, and he knows, Ed can tell he knows, that the plan is about to be set in motion. 

 

Izzy doesn’t say a word as Ed collects Ivan. Ed thinks he prefers it when Izzy screams at him, prefers it to those cold eyes that look at Ed like he’s already gone. 

 

Fang is more difficult to find, but they find him, reclining peacefully on a couch with Lucius and Pete, with a coffee held in his large hands. 

 

“Fang, with me,” Ed says. It takes a few tries to get him to pry himself up off the seat, drawn back in time and time again with a whispered comment from Pete or Lucius that has him guffawing. 

 

“Don’t be too long,” Lucius calls after him, fingers fluttering in a wave. 

 

“I need you boys to go somewhere for me,” Ed says, when he’s pulled them out of earshot. 

 

“Sure thing, boss, where?” Ivan says at once. Fang is nodding along. 

 

“Take this,” Ed says. “I need you to go to that pass, down south, Steerhead. You know it?” 

 

“Yeah, boss, sure, we know it,” Fang says. 

 

“You’re meeting Hornigold there, and delivering this.”

 

The effect of that name is instant. Ivan recoils visibly, and Fang blanches. 

 

“Yeah, so, boss,” Ivan says carefully, exchanging a look with Fang, “you sure about this plan, then, yeah?”

 

“I’m sure,” Ed says. 

 

“Not to question you, or anything, but- well, he’s a bounty hunter, and, well-” 

 

“We both got big-ass bounties on our heads,” Fang finishes. 

 

“Boys,” Ed says, clapping both of them on a shoulder. “Would I send you somewhere I didn’t think you’d come back from?” 

 

“No,” they both say at once. 

 

“Trust me. Give him that, and he’ll let you get back. And if anything feels fishy, you tell him that if he touches a hair on either of your heads, I’ll fucking rain hell on him. Understand?”

 

They both look hesitant still, but they nod.

 

“If you’re not back by sunrise, I’ll come for you,” Ed promises. “Me and Iz, we’ll come for you, you know we will.”

 

That relaxes them, and Ed silently thanks Izzy for the years he’s spent building up confidence, both in Ed and in himself, with their gang.

 

Ivan and Fang don’t ask questions. It’s one of the things Ed loves about them. Ivan takes the letter, Fang trots off to fetch their horses, and they're off within a quarter of an hour. 

 

No going back now, Ed thinks, watching their figures grow smaller and smaller. Whatever misgivings or doubts he might have about this plan, it's too late. It’s set in motion. In three days, maybe less, Blackbeard’s reign of terror will be finished, and a man named Edward Teach will die with him. 

 

Three days. 

 

Ed knows exactly where he wants to spend those three days, and it’s that knowledge that spurs him to find Stede. He should find Izzy, too, more than likely, but he can't face Izzy now, with his all too knowing eyes and his blame and his pain. He needs Stede, Stede of the bright smile and the whiskey brown eyes and the gentle hands. Maybe that’s what he’s always needed, and he just never knew it. 

 

***

 

When he finds Stede, he’s not alone. He’s in a back room of the main house, Ed thinks it’s an office, with floor to ceiling bookshelves obscuring the walls, with Oluwande and Lucius. He can’t catch much of the conversation when he creeps up, but he gets a bit. 

 

“I just don’t know about this,” Oluwande says quietly. 

 

“I know, I do, I understand,” Stede says. “But Ed does have expertise in these matters-”

 

“Yeah, so do we, though,” Oluwande says. 

 

“Not as much, maybe, but you combine all our experience and we’ve got loads,” Lucius adds on. “And almost all of us feel a bit weird about it.” 

 

“Lucius, I thought that with what Pete said-”

 

Lucius snorts. “Yeah, Pete worships Blackbeard. Doesn’t mean I do. We don’t share a brain, you know.” 

 

“What’s bothering you?” Stede asks. 

 

“Why are we meeting with him?” Oluwande asks. 

 

“Why are we giving him four days to prepare?” Lucius asks. 

 

“What if it’s a trap?” 

 

“What about Badminton?” 

 

“What about Jackie?” 

 

“There’s a lot of loose ends here, is what we’re saying,” Lucius finishes. Stede is nodding, from what Ed can see of him, and there seems to be a weight bearing down on his shoulders from the slump of them. He opens his mouth, but then Ed shifts his weight, and a floorboard squeaks. He winces, but the damage is done. The three of them turn in an eerily synchronized fashion. 

 

“Oh, Ed, good,” Stede says, waving him in. 

 

“I’m just gonna…” Oluwande starts. 

 

“-go,” Lucius completes. With a quick look at Stede, the two of them file out of the room. Ed watches them go before turning back to Stede. 

 

“Everything ok?” he asks. 

 

“I suppose,” Stede says. He sinks down into a chair, rubbing at his temples. “They have some concerns about the plan. Evidently, many of my men do.”

 

“Bit late for that,” Ed mutters. “Just send Ivan and Fang off with the note.” 

 

Stede blinks. “Did you? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

 

“It’s just the same thing we agreed on,” Ed says. “Didn’t think I needed to run it by you.” 

 

Stede sighs. “I wish you would have. But if it's done, it's done, I suppose.” 

 

Ed’s hackles raise a bit, as much as they can ever raise with Stede. Maybe it's the guilt bubbling in his stomach at the idea of keeping a secret like this from Stede, maybe it's nerves, maybe it’s fear of his impending arrest and subsequent death- whatever the reason, he snaps a bit. 

 

“My plan, isn’t it? Figure it's my business when things happen.” 

 

Stede frowns at him. “I wasn’t arguing, Ed. But we did agree to be partners in this, if you recall. And this doesn’t only affect you.” 

 

It’s hard to ignore that point. 

 

“Yeah, well,” he says ineffectually. Stede just looks at him, before shaking his head. 

 

“What's that about?” 

 

“Nothing.” 

 

“No, tell me,” Ed insists. 

 

“It’s nothing I have any place to speak on,” Stede says, sounding a bit frustrated, though whether it's with himself or with Ed, Ed can’t tell. 

 

“Already started, haven’t you?” 

 

“I-” Stede stops, looking down and letting out a breath. “I understand that you know Hornigold, and I don’t. It’s your business what's between you, and I won’t pry. But I’d ask you to remember that I have people to protect, people that I am responsible for.”

 

“Yeah, mate, I know, you've got your little crew and your little ranch-”

 

“Not just them.” 

 

Stede’s tone is so firm that Ed stops. Stede’s not looking directly at him, but there’s a clench to his jaw and a shakiness to his breathing that lets Ed know Stede’s on the verge of cracking before he even sees the shine of tears starting in Stede’s eyes. 

 

“Chauncey knows my family,” Stede says, still not looking at Ed. “If he doesn’t get what he wants here, he’ll go back east, and he’ll- I don’t know what he’ll do, but I must handle him here. I can’t give him the chance to go back, Ed. I can’t let him go back to Mary and my children.”

 

God, Ed wants to push. He wants to dig, to piece together this fucking puzzle of Stede’s connection to Badminton, because how in the fuck does Chauncy know Stede’s family? How does he know Stede?

 

He restrains himself to one question. 

 

“Why would he do that?” 

 

“Because-” Stede starts, then stops again, and Ed holds his breath, because something is close to breaking, he can feel it, and if he so much as blinks he worries the moment will dissipate. Instead of dissipating, the moment stretches tighter, and tighter, until Stede finally bursts. 

 

“Because I killed his brother.” 

 

The words are barely out of Stede before he’s weeping, quiet, constrained tears that don’t fit the normally expressive man. His shoulders shake, one hand fisting at his eyes. 

 

Ed has never been good at comforting people. The closest he’s ever come is getting drunk with Izzy once a year, when Charles’s death looms over Izzy like a cloud, but he’s not entirely sure that could be described as comfort in the first place. It’s not something he has an instinct for, but now, faced with Stede’s tears and his fear and the fact that Ed hasn’t seen him crack under the pressure once until now, he follows the one instinct he has. He drops to a knee in front of Stede and pulls him close, as close as he can with Stede’s legs in the way. 

 

It’s a tentative embrace, at first, though a large part of Ed wants to hold Stede so tightly their flesh melds together, but Stede leans into it with a choked gasp. His forehead rests against Ed’s shoulder, one of his hands just above his hip, touch so light Ed wonders if he might be imagining it. He keeps his own hand on Stede’s back, rubbing slow circles, the other just at the nape of his neck, those golden curls brushing the tips of his fingers. 

 

“I killed him,” Stede gasps out. “I killed him, and I put my family in danger, and now- now-”

 

“S’ok, I got you,” Ed says, not quite sure if it's the right thing to say here, but Stede doesn’t object. 

 

Stede pulls himself together after a little while, though his breath is still shaky as he pulls away from Ed. There’s a moment as he pulls back, where all Ed can see is his eyes, larger than life, where that lovely nose of his accidentally brushes against Ed’s cheek- and then the distance is back, and Stede is clearing his throat. 

 

“My apologies,” he says quietly.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ed says at once. 

 

There's a beat of silence. 

 

“So, Badminton’s brother?” Ed asks, as carefully as he can. Stede nods once. 

 

“What happened?” 

 

Stede shakes his head. “It doesn't matter. Not to the outcome. He’s dead. I left home to keep the consequences from reaching my family, and it's catching up all the same.”

 

“Does Chauncey know?” 

 

“That his brother is dead? Yes. That I was involved? I don’t know. But he went to my home- well, Mary’s home, now. Before coming out here. He suspects, I think, at the very least.”

 

A few things click then. Stede’s reluctance to divulge the story, his concern over the plan and Badminton’s involvement, the tight way he’s been carrying himself  since Mary’s letter arrived, the self loathing expression on his face now-

 

Ed’s willing to bet this Badminton brother is the only person Stede’s ever killed. 

 

 “I’ve talked quite a big game about protecting people, Ed,” Stede says helplessly. “I swore to protect you. I'm afraid I’m very ill equipped to protect anyone.” 

 

Ed shrugs, shifting closer to Stede, knees bumping. “Maybe. But you’re not alone in this, mate. I’m here too. And I’ll fucking die before I let him touch you or your family.”

 

Stede looks surprised, soft and slightly disbelieving, at the vehemence behind that statement. 

 

“Why?” he asks. 

 

Ed swallows. 

 

“Dunno. Why’re you trying to protect me?”

 

Stede looks at him with that strange expression in his eyes, slightly narrowed, like he’s trying to puzzle Ed out- which is interesting, as Ed doesn’t think he’s a particularly complicated man- shoulders slightly tensed, as though he’s holding himself back from something, and he just shakes his head softly. 

 

“I’ll let that be a mystery for you, Ed,” he says softly, almost amused, and what’s Ed meant to make of that? 

 

“I’m sorry for keeping it from you,” Stede says, changing the subject. “I shouldn’t have. I’m used to carrying it alone, I suppose. It’s a bit of a relief to know I don't have to anymore.” 

 

Yep, that's guilt bubbling in Ed’s stomach, guilt at the very large secret he’s keeping from Stede now, but it's accompanied by something else- surety. Any misgivings he may have had about his decision, about his sacrifice- they’re gone, gone completely, because if Ed’s sacrifice can ensure Stede’ safety, his happiness, the safety of his children- 

 

Well, Ed’s no one. Not really, not in the grand scheme of things, not compared to someone who’s done as much good as Stede has. Ed’s done a lot of harm in this world, caused a lot of pain. If Ed’s sacrifice can do some good for Stede, then he’ll do it, and he’ll walk to his end gladly. 

 

Three days. He has three days left. And he’ll be damned if he leaves Stede’s side for a single second of that time. 

 

“Y’know, I smelled something fuckin’ delicious coming from the kitchen,” Ed says, standing up. He holds a hand out to Stede. “You hungry?” 

 

Stede smiles, and Ed decides in that moment that this will be his goal, for as much time as he has left, to make Stede Bonnet smile just as much as he possibly can, because he knows, somewhere deep in his soul, that that smile will be the last thing he sees when he leaves this earth. 

 

“I could eat,” Stede says, and he takes Ed’s hand. 




OLUWANDE

 

“I need you three to help me cause a distraction,” Olu says. He’s gathered Roach, Swede, and Buttons for the task. Roach is a chaotic force even on his good days, Swede’s lackadaisical nature allows for total deniability, and Buttons- well, who the hell knows what’s going on with Buttons at any given point? He’s half convinced that Buttons can command those vultures of his telepathically, and that could probably come in handy here. 

 

“Why do you need a distraction?” Swede asks, cocking his head. 

 

“I need to get off the ranch for a bit, but I don’t want Jim knowing where I’m going,” Oluwande says. 

 

“Hey!” Roach smacks his arm. “You’re cheating on Jim?” 

 

“What? No! What? Jim and I aren’t even together, and even if we were, no I wouldn’t ever cheat on Jim!” Oluwande protests. Roach glares at him, but looks slightly mollified. 

 

“I’m glad to hear that, laddie, cause if ye were, I’d have to hex ye,” Buttons says, and Oluwande thinks he should probably be very scared. 

 

“I thought you and Jim were together?” Swede asks. “Right?” 

 

“I thought so,” Roach says. 

 

“Aye,” Buttons agrees.

 

“Guys, this is so beside the point right now,” Olu says. “I’m doing something for Jim, that’s why I need to leave the ranch.”

 

“Like a surprise?” Swede says, brightening. 

 

“Yeah, like a surprise,” Olu says. 

 

“What’s the surprise?” Roach asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

 

“He can’t tell us that!” Swede exclaims, scandalized. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.” 

 

“It’s not a surprise for us, Swede, it’s a surprise for Jim,” Roach says. 

 

Oluwande is regretting this decision. He’s regretting it hard. 

 

“It’s a surprise for everyone!” he exclaims, exasperated. 

 

“Oh, well, in that case,” Roach says with a shrug. “Sure, we’ll help. What do you need?” 

 

“I need everyone to be occupied for, like, two hours or so?” Olu says. Roach exchanges a glance with  Buttons. 

 

“There’s a loose fence post out  by the northern pasture,” Roach says. 

 

“Livvy and Karl knocked it loose in a vigorous bout of love makin’,” Buttons says, nodding sagely. 

 

“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” Oluwande says. 

 

“I could knock it over,” Swede says, looking enthusiastic to be included at all. “Let the horses loose. That would keep everyone busy for a while.”

 

“That’s perfect,” Swede,” Olu says, and the man preens. 

 

“When are you thinking?” Roach asks. 

 

“Like, noonish?” Olu says. 

 

“Works for me,” Roach replies. “This better be a good surprise, you know.” 

 

If I’m right, Oluwande thinks, it should be. It should mean our survival. 

 

***

 

Of course, there’s always the possibility that he’s wrong. That possibility seems to be growing more and more probable the closer Oluwande gets to Geraldo’s bar. He doesn’t even know if Nicolás will be here, for fuck’s sake. And he’s running the risk of getting noticed, getting recognized. 

 

Oluwande is not exactly a sneaky man. That’s more Jim’s area of expertise. And usually, he would be more than happy to sit back and let Jim take care of this. 

 

But Jim won’t go. And Jim wouldn’t have let him go, if they knew what he was planning. And maybe they would have been right to keep him from going, but…

 

Jim had jumped nearly half a foot in the air when Frenchie said the name Nicolás. And how Frenchie had described him, with curly hair and a big hat like the one Jim wears- well, it sounds a hell of a lot like how Jim describes their brother, on the rare chance that Olu can get them to talk about their family. 

 

What Jim’s brother would be doing with Spanish Jackie, Oluwande has no idea, but Jim had ended up there, hadn’t they? Maybe Jackie just attracts Jimenez siblings. It’s a possibility. 

 

And if it's even a possibility that Nicolás is who Oluwande thinks he is, if there’s even a chance that a member of Jim’s family survived the massacre of their town- doesn’t Oluwande owe it to Jim to try to find him? To try to bring them back together? He owes Jim a lot. A hell of a lot. His life, his happiness, his heart, the list goes on. He’s in love with them, he knows that much, has known it for months, maybe longer, but his friendship with Jim is too important to risk over something as silly as feelings. Jim doesn't do feelings, really. 

 

Even apart from that, though, having a man on the inside of Jackie’s operation right now is probably a good idea. Especially now that Stede’s detailed their plan for handling Badminton, and considering the new information about Benjamin Hornigold.

 

Oluwande’s heard about Horigold before. He's never run into the man himself, thank god, but he knows his reputation. And it’s that reputation that makes him damn sure this plan Stede and Ed have concocted won’t work. What might work is information on Jackie. Badminton and Jackie are working together, they know that much, which means Hornigold is working with her, too. If they can take Jackie out of the equation- it might even the odds enough for them to stand a chance. So really, Oluwande is killing two birds with one stone, here. 

 

If it works. 

 

He’s taken a page out of Jim’s book, donning  a large hat and a long coat, even though it's making him sweat in the heat, and he pulls the brim low over his face as he leans against a post, taking in Geraldo’s. He’s not stupid enough to go in, but he figures this must be the gathering place for whatever dastardly deeds Jackie is planning, so if he waits long enough, someone should show their face. 

 

Of course, he’s operating on a limited timeline here, so he sends up a quick thank you to whatever deity is out there when Jackie emerges, Geraldo trotting behind her like the good dog he is. Oluwande looks as casual as he can, and it seems to work, as Jackie passes him without a second glance. Olu’s heart is nearly beating out of his chest, but he makes himself walk with purpose into the bar. 

 

It’s deserted, entirely, except for-

 

Yep, that’s Jim’s brother. That’s definitely Jim's brother. The resemblance is clear as day to Oluwande, who’s spent so much time memorizing the planes of Jim’s face. They’ve got the same chin, the same nose. They have different shades of brown in their eyes, but they’ve got that same dangerous glint to them that must be inherited, not earned by their years of hardship. 

 

Nicolás is standing behind the bar, muttering to himself in Spanish as he rifles through the liquor stores. 

 

Puta madre,” he hisses, and proceeds to cuss out Geraldo in very colorful terms. Oluwande suppresses a smile. Disliking Geraldo is also an inherited trait, it appears. 

 

“You open?” Oluwande asks, willing his voice not to crack. Nicolás spins on his heel, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“No.” 

 

“Good,” Oluwande says, walking to the counter with a steadiness that he does not feel inside. “Cause I was looking for you, not a drink. You’re Nicolás, yeah?” 

 

“Who’s asking?” 

 

“A friend.” I hope. 

 

“I don’t have friends.” 

 

“”Your name’s Nicolás Jimenez. You had a sister. Bonifacia.” 

 

That name sits wrong on his tongue, even though it's the only name Nicolás would know, because Jim is just Jim to him now, not Bonifacia. It tastes like old hurt and wrong-fitting clothes and anger. He shakes it away. 

 

Nicolás has stiffened, and before Oluwande can blink, he’s pulled his gun out of his holster and is holding it to Oluwande’s temple. 

 

“What did you say?” he asks, low and dangerous. 

 

“Yeah, you know, that’s on me, I should have seen that coming,” Oluwande says, nearly going cross-eyed at his attempt to keep the barrel of the gun in his sight. His throat is very, very dry. “I know your sist- Bonifacia- they go by Jim now, I’m just gonna call them Jim.” 

 

A flash of confusion crosses Nicolás’s face, quickly replaced by that same glare. “My sister is dead. Our family was killed by the Siete Gallos.” 

 

“Yeah, not all of them,” Oluwande says. “Jim’s alive. Doing really well, actually, all things considered.” 

 

Nicolás’s hand doesn’t waver. “You know who I am. You know who I work for, si ?” 

 

“Jackie,” Oluwande says. He risks a nod, the metal of the gun brushing his skin. 

 

“Close enough,” Nicolás says. “So you know Jackie's looking for a Bonifacia. I’m guessing now that’s Bonifacia Jimenez.”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“So why come to me? Who’s to say I wouldn’t just turn this Jim in?” 

 

“Because Jim’s been trying to avenge your family their whole life,” Oluwande says simply. “That’s why Jackie’s looking for them, because they killed one of the men responsible. I’ve got a feeling you won’t turn them in if it means losing the last member of your family.” 

 

And that's a damn risk, because Oluwande doesn’t know Nicolás from Adam, but after a moment of hesitation, Nicolás lowers the gun. 

 

“Yeah. You’re right,” he says quietly, and with that glare wiped from his face he looks so young it makes Oluwande’s heart hurt. 

 

“I can take you to them,” Oluwande says, letting out a breath of relief. “But they're sort of with some people Jackie might not be a big fan of. I need your word you won’t snitch. She’ll kill all of them, Jim included, and I can’t risk that.”

 

Nicolás shrugs. “That’s fine.  I don’t really work for Jackie, anyway. Just with her.” 

 

Oluwande frowns. That’s not quite what he or Frenchie had gathered from the situation, but Olu’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

 

“Ok. cool. Yeah, let’s uh, you wanna-” 

 

“Yeah, let's go,” Nicolás says, and before Oluwande can blink he’s striding out the door. 

 

Fuck, he hopes this isn’t a mistake. 



STEDE

 

“How on earth did this happen?” Stede asks, staring helplessly out at the horses roaming beyond the fence. 

 

“It’s my fault,” Swede says, teary eyed. “I saw that the fence was loose, but there's been so much going on I didn't fix it, I’m sorry-”

 

“Oh, nevermind that,” Stede says, never able to resist Swede’s puppy eyes. “How do we get them back in?” 

 

“Roach is out there already,” Buttons says, pointing. “Just do what he does.”

 

Stede frowns. Roach is certainly out there already, but whatever he’s doing almost looks to be driving the horses further away from the fence, rather than bringing them back. 

 

“Oh, Buttons,” Stede says, “can’t you just-”

 

He makes a vague gesture to Buttons’s head. 

 

“Just what?” 

 

“You know.”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t know.” 

 

“Use your animal speaking abilities?” Stede says weakly. Behind him, Ed muffles a snort. 

 

“I can only commune with birds, sir,” Buttons says, like it should be obvious. 

 

“Does it not extend to horses?” 

 

“Afraid no.” 

 

“Bugger.” Stede sighs. “Well, gather the others, I suppose. We’ve got some work to do.” 

 

He turns to Ed. “Up for a bit of a round-up?” 

 

“Mate, I’ve been waiting for a round-up,” Ed says with a grin. 

 

The fact that Ed’s smile is still directed at Stede, after what he confessed, is astounding to him. He doesn’t know the whole story, of course, but he know the grisly bit, the murder of Nigel Badminton, the secret Stede has held so close to his chest for so long- and he hasn’t flinched, or turned away. He supposes this shouldn’t be as surprising to him as it is, given Ed’s outlaw status- he’s certainly killed men before, Stede’s heard the stories- so one little murder likely isn’t a big deal to him. 

 

But it’s a big deal to Stede. And the weight off his chest that comes from Ed’s acceptance- it’s euphoric. 

 

“Then let’s get to it!” Stede says, clapping his hands together. 

 

Their own horses are fetched, and he and Ed are the first to join Roach in his round up attempts, which Stede still can’t puzzle out.

 

“Shouldn't we be driving them, well, back to the pasture?” Stede asks. 

 

“No, no,” Roach says. “That gap is too small to force them back through, we have to bring them around in a big circle.” 

 

He makes a circle with his hands as if to illustrate it. 

 

“If you say so,” Stede says, still skeptical. 

 

But, all things considered, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon. It's a good distraction, a good backdrop to the stress of the past week. The escaped horses don’t seem in a hurry to run off- on the contrary, they’re meandering, taking their time, so while it takes a while to get them back within the confines of the fence, it’s rather relaxing. 

 

“What’d you do back in polite society, then?” Ed asks him. They’re riding side by side, the way Ed’s been sticking close to him all day. 

 

“Nothing especially interesting, I’m afraid,” Stede says, clicking at a horse nearby to bring it back into line. “Much of my work was in investments, managing property, managing my estate. That sort of thing.” 

 

“That's not a real job,” Ed protests. “You’re making that up.” 

 

“Well, I agree that it isn’t a real job, but I’m not making it up,” Stede says. “My family is- well, there was a fair amount of money left to me-”

 

He’s stumbling over his words now, a bit embarrassed to say them in front of Ed, who’s so clearly lived a life of hardship. 

 

“Frenchie would have loved me back then,” he says to divert himself. “I would have been quite a patsy, I think.” 

 

He glances at Frenchie as he says this. The man’s subdued today, devoid of his usual spark. He’s slumped a bit as he rides, eyes downcast, despite Roach’s attempts to speak with him. On instinct, he looks around for Israel, and finds him riding alone, hands clenched tight in the reins. It’s unusual to see him and Frenchie separated, these days. 

 

“How fucking rich are you, mate?” Ed asks, drawing him back into the conversation. 

 

“Well, rather,” Stede says vaguely. 

 

“Yeah, figured that. How rich?”

 

“Not as rich anymore,” Stede says. “I left most of my wealth to Mary and the children-”

 

Ed’s eyes widen. “So this is just a bit of it?” 

 

Stede’s cheeks flush, but there’s no mockery in Ed’s voice, just humor. 

 

“Always heard fancy men like you use more than one fork,” Ed says. “That true?” 

 

Stede laughs. “It is. I know how to use a great number of forks.” 

 

“Fucking mental,” Ed says. “I’d be shit at that.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stede says, a smile playing on his lips. “Like I said, I think you’re quite sophisticated. I think you’d make a good- what was it? Fancy man?”

 

Ed cocks his head, thinking. “Maybe I would. I can do anything.” 

 

“You'd have to hold quite a few upper-crust dinners,” Stede says. 

 

“Would you be there?”

 

“Well, I suppose if you invited me, I would be. Would you invite me?” 

 

“Depends. Might be too high n’ mighty for you by then.” 

 

“You’d throw me aside so easily, Edward?” 

 

Ed looks at him then, his eyes so warm that Stede flushes. 

 

“Yeah, might do,” he says, but his tone betrays him. It's almost unbearably fond. 

 

“Damn, I suppose I'll have to resort to trickery. Bribery, perhaps,” Stede says. 

 

“Suppose you will,” Ed says, imitating an upper-crust accent. Stede snorts, and Ed snorts back, and then they’re both laughing. Lucius, who’s perched on the back of Pete’s horse, arms around the other man’s waist, looks back at them. 

 

“What on earth are you two talking about?” he asks. That sets them off again, and Stede has to regain his composure before the laughter spooks Halifax. 

 

It’s all so easy with Ed, he notes. Even the difficult things are easy, or easier than he’d thought they’d be. 

 

Stede’s never had that before. Not with anyone. He’s always so out of step with people, has been all his life. But with Ed, he’s perfectly in-step. 

 

He doesn’t entirely know what to make of it. 

 

It takes a few hours for them to round up all the horses, but they manage it. Before too many of them can slip off somewhere, Roach insists that they all gather at the main house, for a ‘surprise’ as he says. Stede’s a bit wary of the idea of surprises from this lot- the last time someone said anything about a surprise, Pete had mistaken a hornets’ nest for a honeybee’s hive. In his attempt to get something sweet for Lucius, they’d all ended up horribly stung. Stede had banned surprises for a while after that. He doesn’t actually remember unbanning them.

 

When Oluwande comes in from god knows where- Stede hadn’t seen him at the round-up, he realizes- it does little to ease his apprehension

 

“Hey, where’s Jim?” Roach hisses. 

 

“I’ll get them,” Lucius says, rising from his seat and exiting the room. Oluwande opens the door, and lets out a squeak of surprise. 

 

“Uh, what’s everyone doing here?” he asks. 

 

“You said you had a surprise for all of us,” Roach calls. 

 

“We wanted to see what it was!” Swede says, looking like a little kid on Christmas. 

 

“Oh, fuck me, I did say that, didn’t I?” Oluwande mutters. “Ok, if I could just maybe talk to Jim first-”

 

“It’s not a sex thing, is it?” John asks, startling a weak chuckle out of Frenchie. 

 

“Gross, man.” 

 

“I think it's a fair question,” John says. 

 

“No, it’s not a sex- you’re all perverts,” Oluwande says. 

 

“Oluwande, my good man, will you please tell me what’s going on here?” Stede asks. 

 

“Laddie, do nae be frightened,” Buttons says suddenly, raising a shaking hand, “but there’s a phantom behind ye. Move slowly. Dunnae make eye contact-”

 

“He’s not a phantom-.” 

 

A figure emerges from behind Oluwande, a tall, slender man with curly hair and shifty eyes. 

 

“I’m Nicolás,” the figure says in an accented voice, hand resting uncomfortably close to the gun on his hip. “I was told-” 

 

There’s a shattering sound. Stede whips around to see Jim, standing in the doorway, a glass something they’d been carrying in pieces on the floor around them. They look pale as a ghost, hands frozen in front of them, shaking. 

 

“Jim?” Stede asks, alarmed, but Jim doesn't even seem to hear him. 

 

“Nicky?” 

Notes:

Slamming my head into a wall in despair because these chapters just keep getting longer?? This one is 15k. What the hell. What am I supposed to do with that.

Once again, the timing of the different POVs is chewing me up and spitting me out. I tried to be as clear about them as I could, but if anything’s confusing please ask and I will clear it up lol Ed’s first POV is a day ahead of the others, Stede’s begins the following morning and then I think it’s pretty linear after that, aside from some small overlap with Oluwande’s POV and Stede’s final POV.

This chapter has some of my favorite moments that I’ve written for this so far. We are finally starting to unearth some trauma and i live for it. Hopefully some of the fun crew shenanigans can help ease a bit of the pain with this chapter. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed!

Your comments have been really filling my life with joy, some of them have been so kind I can’t even believe it, so thank you all so so much!

Up next: Jim's family reunion hits a snag. Frenchie gets mad. Izzy remembers a past love. Stede faces his fear and forms a new alliance. Ed takes matters in to his own hands. See y'all then!

Chapter 5

Summary:

Jim’s family reunion sparks new hope. Izzy and Stede have a moment of solidarity, and the tension between Ed and Stede finally snaps. Frenchie schemes. Frenchie and Izzy butt heads. Izzy reminisces. An ally makes herself known, and a drastic decision by Ed throws things off course.

In keeping with tradition so far, this chapter is somehow even longer than the last because I have no self control.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

JIM

 

Jim stares at Nicolás. He stares back at them. Oluwande shifts uncomfortably in the corner. 

 

The rest of the crew cleared out, when Stede, in an unprecedented move of social comprehension, realized that this might be a private affair. Oluwande is the only one who remains. 

 

Jim can’t decide if they want to kill Oluwande for putting himself in danger- because going to Jackie’s was dangerous, so fucking dangerous that even thinking about it makes their skin crawl, because the last thing they ever, ever want is Oluwande in danger- or kiss him for finding their brother. They think the latter urge will probably win out. Just not now. 

 

Not now, not with Nicolás just across the room, with their father’s curly hair and their mother’s eyes and the nose that they both share, a combination of the both of them that Jim sometimes thinks is the only reminder of their parents they still have on their body. Not now with Nicolás  staring at them, a confusing mixture of hope and pain and betrayal written across his face. Nicky was never good at hiding his feelings, not even as a child, and it sends a pang through Jim’s heart to realize that he never outgrew that trait.

 

But the longer Nicolás stares at them the more the guilt bubbles in their stomach, the more the nausea crawls up their throat, because Nicolás is alive , and it's such a miracle that Jim starts to reconsider their crisis of faith, considers crawling back to Nana and prostrating themself at her feet and begging for her forgiveness for ever doubting her God- but Nicolás being alive means that he’s been alive this whole time. He didn’t die like their parents, and Jim- what did Jim do? Go with Nana to plan a fruitless revenge, a revenge that didn’t bring their family back, because it couldn’t. They could have been looking for Nicolás  this whole time, they could have been doing something that would actually bring their family back-

 

It isn’t until Olwuande’s hand lands on their arm and Jim nearly jumps out of their skin that Jim realizes they’re hyperventilating. 

 

“You ok?” he murmurs, and Jim clutches at his hand for some sort of a lifeline, before remembering, once again, that they’re being watched. 

 

Si,” they say back, but they know it isn’t fooling him. Olu glances between them and Nicolás .

 

“I’m gonna give you two a minute, yeah?” he says. For a moment, Jim wants to grab him harder, because they aren’t quite sure how to do this without Olu there- but he’s right, this is a family matter, and while Oluwande is most certainly their family, Nicolás  doesn’t know him. He’s not Nicolás’s family. So they nod, and release his hand.  

 

Oluwande leaves, and then it’s just them and Nicolás, sizing each other up like alleycats going for the same bit of meat left out in the summer heat.

 

“So you’re alive,” Nicolás says. His voice is deeper than they remember. Which they guess makes sense, given how many years have passed. Fuck, how did they not know it was him, in that bar? How had they looked right at him, and not seen him?

 

“So are you,” Jim says. 

 

“I guess so. So here we both are. Alive.” 

 

“Yep.” 

 

Nicolás shifts, fingers fidgeting with something in his pocket. 

 

“How are you?” Jim asks. 

 

“How am I? Or how am I alive?” Nicolás says, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“Both. Either,” Jim mutters. 

 

“The Siete Gallos took me,” Nicolás  says. “That night.”

 

“Took you?” Jim echoes. 

 

“Yeah. You don’t remember?” 

 

They shake their head. 

 

“I don't remember anything after madre-” Jim cuts off. 

 

“After madre got shot?'' Nicolás  finishes with a kind of cold heartedness that Jim doesn't remember from him. “Yeah, it was after that. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. They had to pry me away from you. You got hit in the head.”

 

Jim kind of remembers a pain in their skull when Nana found them. 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“Yeah. I’ve been running with them ever since,” Nicolás  says. 

 

“You've been- what? Running with the Siete Gallos?” Jim says, eyes narrowing. 

 

“Yeah. Sort of leading them now, actually.” There's a glimmer of pride in his eyes, but Jim- Jim just feels sick. They don’t answer. 

 

“You’re the one who killed Señor Alfeo, then?” Nicolás says then, and there’s real anger in his eyes, real hurt. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Jackie’s pretty pissed about it.”

 

“I know. I’ve got a bounty.” 

 

“Why’d you do it?” 

 

“Why didn’t you?” Jim demands, their confusion turning to anger. “You’ve been working for that pendejo for how fucking long? Why wasn’t he dead before I could get to him?” 

 

“What'd you expect me to do?” he shoots back. “Alfeo basically raised me. I know he killed our parents, but his life is the only life I know.”

 

“No it’s not,” Jim growls. “You know the life we had before him. The life our parents gave us-”

 

“I barely remember it!” Nicolás cries. “Alfeo was a bastardo de rata , yes, of course he was, but I was a kid!” 

 

“So was I!” Jim yells. “That didn’t stop me from avenging our family-” 

 

“The Siete Gallos are my family!”

 

Jim stops dead.

 

“So, they’re your family,” they say slowly. “Am I not, then?” 

 

“Of course you are,” Nicolás says. “Of course you’re my family. You’ve always been my family and you’ll always be my family, I just-” 

 

He sighs. “I don’t know you, Jim. It’s been so goddamn long.” 

 

“Yes, you do,” Jim starts. “I’m still-”

 

They almost say I’m still Bonifacia, but that isn’t true, is it? They aren’t Bonifacia. They haven’t been Bonifacia for a long time, if they ever really were. No wonder Nicolás doesn’t know them. They don’t know him, either. They can’t begin to imagine what his life has looked like all these years, what could possibly have motivated him to stay with the Siete Gallos, what he could have possibly shared with Alfeo to look angry about his death, why he never killed the man who killed their family, who ripped Nicky out of Jim’s arms-

 

“I-” They’re crying now, actually crying like they haven’t in years, and Nicolás just stands there, looking unaffected, and that’s just too much to handle. 

 

Jim leaves the room, slamming the door so hard it shakes. They pass Oluwande, who looks up, alarmed, before following. Swede pokes his head out from behind a door and Jim throws a knife just close enough to stick in the frame. He yelps, and ducks his head back in. 

 

“Jim!” Oluwande calls, but they have to keep walking, they can’t slow, not even for him, so they keep going, dust billowing in their wake, until their legs almost give out underneath them and they rush into the nearest building. They’ve gone to Stede’s clotheshouse, of all places, a building they usually avoid because it's just so frivolous, but now they push themselves back into a hanging rack, letting the fabric close around them like a shield. 

 

The door opens, and they’d recognize Oluwande’s footsteps even if he hadn’t been following them already. He spots them, just the tips of their boots poking out, and eases himself down, shuffling back until he’s enclosed in the fabric with them. He doesn’t say a word, just reaches out, taking their hand and stroking the back of it with his thumb. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I should’ve talked to you first.” 

 

Jim shakes their head. “I’m not mad at you.” 

 

“Still. I shouldn’t have blindsided you.” 

 

“No, shut up. What you did-” they choke off. “Thank you. For finding him. For bringing him back.”

 

“Really? Cause you look pretty upset about it,” Oluwande says, using that tone he uses when he’s trying to coax something out of them. 

 

“I don't know him anymore,” Jim bursts out. “And he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t feel like my brother. He’s with the Siete Gallos, for fuck’s sake.” 

 

“Huh. I guess that’s what he meant when he said he doesn’t work for Jackie,” Oluwande says. 

 

“You don’t seem surprised by that,” Jim says. 

 

“I dunno. It feels like something I could see you doing, if you hadn’t been on your revenge quest.” 

 

“Working for the Siete Gallos?” Jim asks, raising their head, affronted. 

 

“Maybe not them, but I could have seen you rising up in Jackie’s ranks, or something,” Oluwande says. “You say Nicolás  doesn't seem like your brother, but- I don’t know, Jim, I knew who he was the second I saw him. You guys even wear the same hat.” 

 

Jim lets out a small snort at that.

 

“Seriously. Did you even look at him? He’s you, just younger and a dude, you know?” 

 

Oluwande’s smiling a bit, pressing into his cheeks, but Jim’s smile drops. 

 

“Then why didn’t I recognize him?” they whisper. “I saw him, Olu. And I didn’t know who he was.” 

 

“Oh, that’s an easy one,” Oluwande says. 

 

“Enlighten me, por favor.” 

 

“You convinced yourself he was dead,” Oluwande says simply. “Of course you didn’t expect to see him in Jackie’s bar. Even if you saw a resemblance, you would have shrugged it off as coincidence.” 

 

“I never said I thought he was dead.” 

 

“You didn’t have to, Jim,” Olu says. “The way you talked about him- he was always six years old, in your mind. He never grew up for you, because you told yourself he died that day so you could live with it. And now you’ve got a full grown man who’s back from the dead. It’s gonna be a bit of an adjustment.” 

 

Jim nods slowly. Oluwande slips an arm around their shoulders, and they lean into him, letting the warmth of him, the solidity, ground them. 

 

“What do I do?” 

 

“What do you want to do?” 

 

“I don’t know. Make the decision for me.” 

 

Oluwande chuckles, and the sound runs through them like a wave. “I think you should talk to him again. You said you don’t know him anymore, right? Get to know him. You’re still family.”

 

Jim grumbles a bit. “I was kinda hoping you’d say we should make a break for it.” 

 

“I mean, we could if you want,” Oluwande says. “I’d follow you anywhere, you know that. But I don’t think you really want to do that.” 

 

“I don’t like that you’re right about that.” 

 

“I know you too well, I guess,” Oluwande says. Jim presses their cheek into his shoulder, hard, and his hand squeezes their upper arm. 

 

“Don’t go anywhere, ok?” Jim asks. “If- I don’ t know, if I fuck this up-”

 

“I’m right here,” Oluwande reassures them. “I’m not going anywhere. Never.” 

 

***

Jim finds Nicolás with Roach and Frenchie, who seems to have shrugged off his melancholy to interrogate their brother about what they were like as a kid. 

 

“Stubborn,” they hear Nicky say. He’s placed himself in a corner with all the available exits in his sightline, a move Jim knows all too well, and they let themselves relax a little bit. Maybe Olu’s right, that they’ve got more in common than they think, even after all these years.

 

“Well, yeah, they’re still stubborn,” Frenchie says. 

 

“Really stubborn,” Nicolás clarifies. “They went on a hunger strike for a week once because our madre tried to stop them from climbing the orange trees. Jim was like a bird, or something, the way they could sit on the skinny branches towards the top, so our padre used them to get the oranges at the tops of the trees. Mama didn’t like it, but Jim loved it.”

 

Jim’s mouth quirks up at the corner in spite of themselves. Nicolás spots them, and a hint of a smile crosses his own face. 

 

“You two, out,” Jim says, gesturing to Frenchie and Roach. 

 

“Oh, come on,” Frenchie protests. 

 

“Yeah, we want to hear more little Jim stories,” Roach says. 

 

“Later. Vamos .” 

 

Frenchie pouts, and Jim reaches up to pat his shoulder as he passes. He smiles, but there’s still something in his eyes that makes Jim pause, some kind of pain that’s unfamiliar on Frenchie’s face. 

 

“You decided to come back, then?” Nicolás says. 

 

“Yeah, sorry,” Jim says. “This is just a bit-”

 

“Much?” Nicolás  finishes. “Yeah, it is a bit.” 

 

He pauses. 

 

“I really thought you were dead, you know.”

 

“Me too,” Jim says. “About you.” 

 

“The way they hit you, that night,” Nicky says, and his voice is a bit choked. “You just- collapsed. Like a rock, or something, just fell- like Papa.” 

 

Jim remembers that, at least, remembers the way their father fell like a puppet with his strings cut. Nicolás’s eyes are shining, and without thinking Jim crosses the room and pulls him into their arms, cradling his head against their shoulder. His arms come up around them, clutching like he used to do when their mother snapped at him after a long day. It was never malicious, but Nicky was a sensitive kid, and he’d always run to Jim with tears in his eyes. They’d have to grab him and hike him up on their hip to calm him down, until he got too big to do that. 

 

As if they’re thinking of the same thing, Nicolás gives them a watery chuckle. “I guess you can’t pick me up like you used to.” 

 

“I can try,” Jim says fiercely, and they do try, for a  moment, before he laughs and shoves them away. 

 

“I’m too big for you now,” he says. “What would my men say if they saw you trying to pick me up, huh? I’ve got a reputation.”

 

His hand goes back to his pocket, to the thing he’s been fiddling with, and Jim sees, with a jolt, that it's a rosary. 

 

“Where’d you get that?” they ask. 

 

“Hm?” Nicolás  looks down, like he’s forgotten it’s there. “Oh, uh, this old lady, Señora Anita, she was the one who raised me. I think she was Alfeo’s aunt, or one of the other guy’s mothers, one who died before I joined. I never found out for sure, but she gave me this. Just never bothered to let go of it.”

 

Jim pulls out their own rosary. “From the woman who raised me. A nun. I called her Nana.” 

 

“Huh. Weird coincidence,” Nicky says. 

 

“Yeah. Weird,” Jim says, but it's more than weird. It’s a sign, a promise, like they always thought it was- but for once in their life, the promise was something good. 



STEDE

 

“Well, this is certainly a development,” Stede says to Ed in a hushed voice. He’s ushered the rest of the men out of the room, to give Jim and their brother a chance to reunite, to catch up. He’s half considering eavesdropping (he loves a good reunion) but with Jim there’s always the chance that one of their knives will find its way to his brain if he crosses them, so he decides against it. Perhaps Oluwande can fill him in later. Not the same as seeing it, but it’ll have to do. 

 

“Yeah, it’s fucking crazy,” Ed says. 

 

“Jim’s thought their whole family was dead for years,” Stede explains, leaning in to keep his voice down. 

 

“And that’s definitely their brother? Not, like, an imposter?”

 

“The family resemblance is quite strong, don’t you think?” Stede asks. 

 

“Guess so, yeah,” Ed says. 

 

Stede frowns. That expression is back on Ed’s face again, though he’s clearly trying to hide it, something sad and mourning. 

 

“Are you certain you’re all right, Ed?” Stede asks, and it's all he can do to keep the frustration from creeping into his voice. Is this how Ed felt over the past week, dealing with Stede’s evasiveness over the Badminton subject? He doesn’t like it much. 

 

“Fine, mate. Just fine,” Ed says. He claps Stede on the shoulder, fingers squeezing just a moment too long, a touch too tight, before releasing. “I’m gonna take a stroll.”

 

He’s gone before Stede can even ask if he wants company. He watches his figure disappear over the crest of a hill. His lips purse, and he lets out a short breath through his nose. 

 

“He’s stubborn.” 

 

Stede whirls around. Israel, of all people, is standing a few feet away, arms crossed across his chest, watching Ed with an expression Stede doesn’t quite understand. 

 

“Always has been,” he continues. “Ever since I’ve known him.” 

 

“Yes, well,” Stede says ineffectually. 

 

He’s never quite certain what to say around Israel. It’s clear the man doesn’t like him, hasn't liked him since their first meeting. He gets the feeling that if Ed ever gave him the word, or if Israel just felt like it, he’d fire a shot into Stede’s skull and not feel a shred of remorse. Because Israel is, above all else, an outlaw. A real one. And he looks it, with his all-black ensemble, the kerchief he wears looped around his neck, the gloves and the lasso at his hip alongside his gun. It’s all rather intimidating, much as Stede hates to admit it. Ed is a real outlaw too, of course, but Ed likes Stede. Israel looks at him like something distasteful he’d wipe off the bottom of his boot.

 

But Ed trusts Israel. Maybe he has an inkling of what’s going on with Ed.

 

“He hasn’t seemed quite… himself,” Stede says carefully. “The last few days. The stress of the situation, perhaps?” 

 

“And you’d know all about what Ed’s really like, would you? Known him all of a bit more than a week, and you’re an expert, I suppose,” Israel says. He holds up a hand before Stede can respond. 

 

“Nevermind. Doesn't matter. You’re right.”

 

“I’d like to help,” Stede says. Israel regards him for a moment, looking him up and down. There’s a slight tick at his jaw, then he sighs, shoulders slumping. 

 

“He adores you, you know,” he says, looking like the words cause him physical pain to spit out. “I can’t say I understand it, but maybe you can talk some sense into him. I couldn’t.”

 

Stede frowns. “Talk some sense into him?” 

 

“He’s planning to give himself up.” 

 

Israel says the words matter of factly, but the pain, deep in those tired eyes, is clear. It takes a moment for the words to sink in, to make any sort of sense in Stede’s brain, and before he can respond Israel is talking again. 

 

“To Hornigold. He’s going to give himself up. He denies it, but I know Hornigold as well as he does, and he won’t just walk away from this. Not when he’s so close to getting what he wants. Ed knows that. He’d be stupid not to, and he’s not stupid. My guess is he’s making some kind of deal to keep you safe.”

 

Israel’s eyes are on him then, accusing. “He’s giving himself up for you, Bonnet. Let me make that very clear. If I thought taking you out of the equation right now would put a stop to this, I’d put a fucking bullet between your eyes and I’d dance over your grave. But if you died, Ed would do something even more stupid than he’s already planning.  You need to fix this.” 

 

Stede finds his words then. “Why? Why would he-I don’t understand. We had a plan-”

 

“A shit plan,” Israel interrupts. “You know it's a shit plan.”

 

“I suppose I’ve had my misgivings, but Ed-”

 

“Was adamant on it? I bet he fucking was. It let him contact Hornigold without suspicion, didn’t it? Did you see the note before he sent it off?”

 

“...no. I did think that was odd,” Stede allows. 

 

Israel takes a step closer. 

 

“He adores you,” he says again, fiercely, emphatically, as if there’s something Stede’s missing here. “He’s willing to die for you. Don’t let that fucking happen.” 

 

“I won’t,” Stede says at once, and he means it, means it with every fiber of his being. He’ll charge into gunfire if he must, he’d set himself ablaze if there was even a chance that it would keep Ed alive. 

 

“Good.” 

 

Having said what he needs to say, Israel turns on his heel.

 

“Israel,” Stede calls after him. He pauses. 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

Israel shakes his head and Stede can’t help thinking that he’s missed something again. 

 

“I’m not doing it for you.” 

 

***

If Stede could take off after Ed at once, he would, but moments after his conversation with Israel, Lucius comes to him with a concern, and by the time that’s done, Jim and Nicolás have emerged, and there’s new information to deal with. Nicolás is the head of the Siete Gallos, and with that comes the possibility of an alliance with Spanish Jackie- and with that, comes hope. Hope that perhaps this turn of fortune can change Ed’s mind, because, quite honestly, Stede has no idea how he’s meant to change Ed’s mind himself. 

 

He adores you. 

 

Israel’s words still ring in his mind, weaving throughout the different conversations he keeps having until he’s worried he might blurt the words to whoever he’s talking to. Horribly embarrassing concept. He manages to keep them in, but he’s distracted, and distracted at a very bad time, because he’s not at the top of his game and he needs to be. Ed returns about an hour after leaving, and that doesn’t help matters at all, because every time Stede looks at him he wants to grab him, to shake him until he confesses, until he tells Stede why. 

 

Ed’s pulled away again by the return of Ivan and Fang, and the secretive glance he shoots at Stede isn’t lost on the man, not now that he’s looking for it, not now that he knows the true purpose of Ivan and Fang’s mission. He wonders if the two men know it themselves. He’s not certain if they’re privy to the same information that Israel is, or if Israel and Ed’s bond is unique enough that Ed would share his plan with him and no one else. Then again, it didn’t sound like he shared his plan with Israel at all, just that Israel knows Ed well enough to parse it out. 

 

He’s willing to die for you. Ed had sworn, only that morning, that he wouldn’t let Chauncey touch Stede or Stede’s family. Why? He and Ed are friends, certainly, he thinks he can be sure of that much now, and Ed seems to be fond of him, but fond enough to give up his life, potentially the lives of his crew, to protect a man he’s known for less than a fortnight? It doesn’t make sense. 

 

Or maybe it does. Maybe it all comes down to that thing Stede’s been dancing around since the moment he met Ed, since the moment he saw him lying shot and tired on that bed and decided to shelter him. Maybe it’s all about the rapport he and Ed share, the lingering looks and the causal touches that just border on cautious, like they’re both afraid to cross a line-

 

They’ll come for you. They’ll string you up, they’ll come for your wife and children.

 

Stede manages to excuse himself hours later from the impromptu celebration that the others are throwing for Jim’s brother, though the man looks about as comfortable with attention as Jim themself is- which is to say, not at all. It’s on the pretense of planning, but really, Stede just needs air. Any other day, he would join in with relish, but tonight, he finds himself walking towards the south pasture, the one that overlooks a particularly lovely section of mountains. He can feel the weight of Ed’s gaze on his back. He wonders if he’ll follow. He’s not certain if he wants him to or not. 

 

Stede’s entire world has been turned on its head with Israel’s revelation. He can only recall an upheaval of this kind happening once before- when Nigel Badminton came back into his life.

 

Nigel Badminton was a cruel man. He’d been cruel since Stede first met him at boarding school, when he mocked Stede for his propensity for picking flowers and enjoying pretty things and for his evident lack of interest in girls. He’d pelted Stede with rocks, made him french kiss a horse, which Stede didn’t understand at the time. Now he thinks it was some awful comparison between himself and an animal. It was a cruelty beyond Nigel’s age at the time. He wonders where he got it from. From his father? Perhaps. He supposes it doesn't matter all that much, in the end.  

 

Stede had thought, foolishly, that when he left school, he’d be free of such mockery, but he never was. Not to the extent that Nigel did it, because little boys can get away with atrocities simply because they’re little boys, but he was never in step with the rest of the upper-crust society. 

 

And being out of step- well, when you’re out of step in a society that has nothing to do but gossip all day, one tends to be under scrutiny.

 

“You know, Stede,” Nigel says, lifting a clay figurine that one of his children had made with Doug’s assistance, “I’ve been hearing rumors about you.” 

 

“Have you?” Stede asks, trying not to sound too breathless. “Anything…interesting?”

 

“Very,” Nigel says, his eyes flashing up to meet Stede’s. There’s something playful in his countenance, but in those eyes Stede can still see that cruel little boy who tormented him all those years. “You see, Stede, in a community as close knit as ours- well, things get spotted. Things like, oh, I don’t know, men sneaking in and out of houses in the dead of night. Men below the station of the families who live in said houses. Servants dismissed at odd times. Servants talk, you know. They talk a lot.” 

 

Doug, Stede thinks wildly. Someone’s seen Doug. Someone's guessed. 

 

But what does Nigel know? If he knows about Mary and Doug, why is he looking at Stede the way he is, disgust curling at his lip?  He knows people don’t talk about infidelity, not openly, but having a mistress or a man on the side is surprisingly common in their circles. It’s certainly not something to react to with such… Vitriol. 

 

“I’m in a bit of a conundrum, Baby Bonnet,” Nigel says. “If there was something that I knew, say, about someone's husband- I’d be obligated to tell his wife, wouldn’t you think?” 

 

Stede’s stomach drops. “I suppose it depends on what you know.”

 

“What if I knew that someone’s husband was a filthy pervert?” Badminton says. The words are said in the same tone he always uses, almost jovial, but it doesn’t make them any less chilling. “An abomination against the Lord?”

 

And then it hits him. Nigel doesn’t know about Mary and Doug. He thinks- he thinks Doug and Stede-

 

“I’ve known for a long time, Stede,” Nigel says. He’s almost crooning now. “Ever since we were children, I suspected. The flowers. The way you dressed. The way you looked at the other boys. The way you never even glanced at the girls.  Did you really think I’d allow someone like you to-to taint our community? Your poor wife. Your poor children. Whatever will they say?” 

 

“You have it wrong,” Stede says, but it's anything less than convincing. Mary may already know about Stede’s predilections, so she won’t give the reaction that Nigel is expecting, Stede doesn't think she’ll turn on him, but if Nigel decides to share this information with anyone else- well, Stede knows exactly who’s side the community will take. 

 

“Do you know what they do to people like you?” Nigel says. “They’ll string you up. They’ll come for your wife and children.”

 

He expects those words to incapacitate Stede, Stede can tell- and maybe he’s right to think so. Stede has certainly never been a brave man, not in their acquaintance. But Nigel has made one vital mistake. 

 

He’s threatened Stede’s family.

 

“Shall we call your lovely wife down?” Nigel says, nearly bouncing with glee. He turns, he shouts Mary’s name up the stairs-

 

Mary’s face appears at the door just as Stede brings a vase down on Nigel’s head. He falls with a thud, directly into the fire poker. It slices through his head with a sickening squelch. 

 

The blood drains from Mary’s face. They stand there, Mary in the doorway, Stede with the vase still in his hands. It falls from his grasp, and he drops to his knees, shaking hands landing in the quickly forming pool of blood gushing from Nigel’s head. 

 

He hears footsteps, hears the door close, and Mary kneels next to him, her hand gripping his. Red stains her fingers.

 

“We’ll take care of it,” she says, and her voice is steel. 

 

“Stede?” 

 

Stede blinks. He hadn’t realized he’d reached the fence- multiple fences, actually, that he’s evidently vaulted over, but he’s stopped moving now, hands clenched on the wood in front of him. 

 

It’s Ed’s voice, because of course it is. He’s followed him out here, like he’s been following Stede all day, and with the light of the new information Stede has, his shadowing becomes much more concerning. All the melancholy expressions and the instant agreement to anything Stede suggests- it’s all very indicative of someone who doesn’t expect to live much longer. How had he not seen it before?

 

“Stede?” Ed says again, coming to stand a few feet away. He’s favoring his left leg again- had he vaulted the fences too, with his bad knee? 

 

It’s betrayal that he’s feeling, Stede realizes, at least in part. He hadn’t been able to identify it earlier in the day, just guilt and confusion and a whole mess of emotion that he couldn’t parse out, but betrayal is singing above the rest now, because he trusted Ed. He trusted Ed, Ed swore that he would be safe, and to find out that he's been preparing for his own death in a way that feels like a ritual sacrifice- it’s a knife in the back. 

 

He’s willing to die for you. Don’t let that happen.

 

“Hornigold agree to the terms?” Stede asks, as casually as he can. 

 

Ed shifts a bit. “He did, yeah. All set.” 

 

“Well, that's good, isn’t it.” 

 

Ed frowns. “Is it… not good?” 

 

“No, it's lovely,” Stede says. “That Hornigold has agreed to our terms. The terms we set and agreed upon. Together.” 

 

Realization dawns on Ed’s face, shadowing his features along with something that Stede can’t quite place. 

 

“Sure is,” he says, cagey. 

 

Stede closes his eyes briefly. “Why didn’t you let me see the note, Ed? Before you sent it?” 

 

“Didn’t think I needed to.” 

 

“Oh, stop it,” Stede snaps then, turning to face him. “I know, Edward. Israel told me.” 

 

Ed backs up a step. 

 

“Iz says a lot of things,” he says. 

 

“Not to me, he doesn’t,” Stede says. “So you understand that I’m rather inclined to believe what he does say.” 

 

“I fucking told him not to interfere,” Ed mutters, brows drawing together. 

 

“Well, I’m glad he did,” Stede says. His throat feels tight and choked now, faced with all of this. “What did the note say? What did you tell Hornigold?” 

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Ed says. 

 

“It does matter. It matters a great deal,” Stede says. He steps towards Ed again, his hand reaching out of its own accord. Ed flinches back, almost like he’s expecting Stede to hit him, but his fingers just close around Ed’s arm, the linen of his shirt soft against his palm. 

 

“It matters,” he says again. “I need to know so I can put a stop to this.” 

 

Ed blinks. “There’s no stopping it, Stede.”

 

“Of course there is,” Stede says. “It must be stopped. I can’t let you do this, Ed, I can’t let you sacrifice yourself. Not for me.” 

 

There’s something else beyond the betrayal, rising up in his chest, some wild, desperate urge to clutch Ed to him, to dig his fingers in so deeply that they break skin, so deep it would be impossible to pry them apart, so that if Hornigold comes for Ed he’ll have to take Stede with him, and it's so different to the usual gentleness he wants to treat Ed with that it frightens him. He grabs Ed’s other arm, forcing him to look at him. 

 

“Tell me why,” he demands, practically begging now. “Tell me. Please, Ed. Why would you do this?” 




EDWARD

 

“Tell me why. Tell me. Please, Ed. Why would you do this?” 

 

Stede’s fingers are digging into his skin, so tight that Ed thinks they might bruise, and he welcomes it, welcomes the physical reminder of Stede’s touch on his skin, hopes that they won’t fade before Hornigold has him hanged. He should die with Stede’s touch enshrined on his body. It would be only fitting. 

 

It was both easier than Ed thought and far, far more difficult to receive Hornigold’s answer. Fang had handed it to him some hours ago, and upon reflection, he should have realized something was wrong when Stede didn’t ask to see it. 

 

I look forward to it, Edward, Hornigold had written, and Ed had bristled, because of course the bastard had to use his real name, to remind him that the Blackbeard facade might fool everyone else but it has never fooled Hornigold. 

 

It was easier, in that the thing was settled. There’s no more questioning, no more uncertainty. Ed’s life is counted in days, hours really, instead of years now, and he thinks he could be ok with that. The problem will be solved, one way or another. Ed will be captured or dead, and Stede will be safe. On the off chance that he manages to shoot Hornigold before one of those two things happen, he can ride back to the Lighthouse Ranch a conquering hero, and he can kill Badminton before he ever has a chance to get close to Stede or his family. Ed hasn’t killed anyone since his father, in spite of the reputation that Izzy has worked so hard to maintain for Blackbeard, but he knows he would kill a thousand men to keep Stede safe. The lives of Hornigold and Badminton are meager payment in exchange for Stede. 

 

He’s pretty sure the first option will happen, not the second, but a man can hope. 

 

But it's difficult. Difficult to imagine riding away from this place when all he wants to do is stay here in Stede Bonnet’s orbit, in his world, within reach of those gentle hands, within earshot of the laugh that makes the very sky glow more beautifully than any sunset Ed’s ever seen. It’s difficult to let go of life when Ed’s never wanted to live more than he has in the past fortnight.

 

“Don’t you know?” he asks hoarsely. Does Stede really not know? Is he really so blind to what he means to Ed, so blind to the way Ed’s world has radically, irreversibly changed since the moment he heard that first howdy! hang in the air that day, blood pouring out of his body like a river?

 

Stede’s brow furrows, like he’s puzzling something out. 

 

“Don’t you know?” Ed asks again, more insistently this time. 

 

Stede shakes his head mutely. Ed can’t tell if he's surprised by that answer or not. 

 

Maybe he’s shooting in the dark here, maybe everything he and Stede have shared is just friendship on Stede’s part, but the way he’s holding Ed now, the distress clearly written across his face at the idea of Ed’s death- well, it gives Ed a flash of hope, a surge of courage. And fuck it, if he’s miscalculated now, he’ll just go to Hornigold and end it all a bit sooner than he’d planned.

 

Edward Teach is a rough man. Any gentleness that he ever possessed was beaten out of him by his father, by Hornigold, by the harshness of the plains and the life that he’s led ever since he was fifteen years old. He’s not like Stede, for whom gentleness comes as naturally as breathing. 

 

But Stede deserves gentleness. He deserves softness and care and tenderness, and Ed is not good at any of those things, but if there’s even an ounce of it left in him, he will unearth it for Stede.

 

So when he leans in and presses his lips to Stede’s, it’s not with the ferocity, the aggression that he would normally fall back on, the usual mash of too-sharp teeth and messy tongues and hands knotted so tightly in hair that it makes scalps bleed. No, this is slow, this is soft, this is mingled breath and fingers closing in the front of Stede’s shirt, a silverish, patterned thing that seems to glow in the low light of the sun dipping behind the mountains. This is the thrum of Stede’s pulse beneath his fingertips as his other hand comes up to rest on Stede’s jaw, this is Stede’s fingers clenching and releasing on his arms, this is the brim of Stede’s hat pushed back by Ed’s forehead and falling back with a soft thump against Stede’s shoulders. 

 

Stede is stiff at first, just for a moment, and Ed’s heart sinks, but then he lets out a low, choked noise, and Ed swallows that sound like it’s the fucking elixir of life. He thinks he could live the rest of his life on that sound alone, on the feeling of Stede’s hands clutching at him, dropping to his hip, to his back, pulling him in until there’s not even a centimeter separating them. 

 

Stede holds him tightly, like he’s trying to anchor him here, in this moment, and Ed lets him. Why would he want to go anywhere now? Why would he ever, ever leave? 

 

He thinks the face Stede makes as he pulls back to catch his breath is probably his favorite face. He’s got a catalog of his favorite faces on Stede, but this, soft and awestruck and almost disbelieving-he’s stunning. 

 

“That, uh, that answer your question?” Ed manages to ask. It’s a shock he can speak at all, with the way his head is reeling. 

 

“Um, yes, a little bit,” Stede says, and isn’t it wonderful that Stede sounds just as wrecked as Ed feels? His forehead presses into Ed’s, his nose bumps Ed’s own, and his thumb is moving in a slow back and forth over Ed’s hip, and he aches. Christ, he’s had fucks that haven’t left him as weak as this single, relatively chaste kiss has left him. He wants more, and more, and more, he wants anything and everything that Stede will give him, he will take anything -

 

“This doesn’t change my mind, Ed,” Stede says, and it takes a second for Ed to realize what Stede’s talking about. 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me.” 

 

“What if I want to?” Ed says. 

 

“Edward. It’s not a joking matter,” Stede says, managing to look reproachful even with his pupils blown so wide that the whisky color of his eyes is barely visible. 

 

“Sorry. It’s not,” Ed agrees. He thinks he’d agree to anything Stede said, right now. 

 

“We have a chance now,” Stede says, low and fervent. “Nicolás  thinks he can get Jackie on our side. You have another option.” 

 

He remembers something about that, vaguely, about Jim’s brother running the Siete Gallos. And there is something to that, something that sparks a vague hope in him that maybe, just maybe, he won't have to ride off alone to his doom. 

 

At the very least, it’s worth exploring, because Ed is willing to try fucking anything if it means he can keep Stede like this for just a while longer. 

 

“Ok,” he says, and Stede lights up. 

 

“Yes?” he asks. 

 

“Yeah,” Ed confirms. “Yeah, let’s try. Not like I was fucking thrilled to go off to Hornigold, anyway.” 

 

“Oh thank God,” Stede breathes. “Otherwise I was going to have to have Israel incapacitate you in some way, and I didn't really want to have to do that. I think his tolerance for me only extended to the one conversation.” 

 

Ed grins. Stede smiles back, and Ed wants to taste that smile-

 

So he does. He leans back in and he tastes Stede Bonnet’s smile, and it tastes like what he imagines sunlight would taste like. 

 

“You can’t distract me like that,” Stede says, but the way he follows Ed’s lips says otherwise.

 

“What, you got something else to say?” Ed asks. 

 

“No, you do. You’re going to tell me exactly what the plan was with Hornigold. And you’re leaving nothing out,” Stede says. There’s that tone again, the one that makes Ed fall in line like a seasoned soldier, even though it’s been years since Ed has obeyed a command. 

 

He tells Stede everything, the contents of the note he sent, the meeting place, the meeting time, Hornigold’s response, all of it. Stede nods along, face serious, thumb still stroking over Ed’s hip in a maddeningly light manner. 

 

“Well, this has thrown a bit of a wrench in things,” Stede admits. “But we’ll sort it.”

 

And he sounds so sure of it that Ed believes it. He lets himself believe it. 

 

“But Ed, we should talk about-”

 

“Later?” Ed asks, because he knows what Stede’s going to ask. He’s going to ask about Ed’s willingness to die, why he wouldn’t try to come up with another plan first, if he was ever going to tell Stede, and right now, Ed just wants to keep Stede like this, keep him smiling and happy and glowing. 

 

“Please?” he adds. “We can talk tomorrow, I’ll talk all fuckin’ day if you want me to, just- later?” 

 

Stede hesitates. “All right. If you promise me one thing.” 

 

“Anything.” 

 

“I’m not going to wake up and find that you’ve gone off to meet Hornigold on your own in the middle of the night, am I?” 

 

There’s a lightness to his voice, but a real note of fear that he can’t quite hide. 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ed says. “Promise.”

 

And he means it. He does. 



FRENCHIE

 

“Frenchie, I require your assistance.”

 

Frenchie sighs. He knows this is important, crucial, even, to their continued survival, but all he wants to do is wallow. He’s going on two sleepless nights now, because every time he tries to drift off all he can see is Izzy’s wide eyes and hear that stiff we could die. We could be hanged. Frenchie’s seen a scar poking out from under Izzy’s collar sometimes, when Izzy gets overheated and unbuttons the top button of his shirt, and it looks a hell of a lot like rope burn. It makes him sad and angry and heartbroken all at once, and he’s fucking tired of it. 

 

Everyone has a story, a past, something that makes them tick. One of the joys of Frenchie’s life is finding out what that might be. It can be any number of things, really- Stede’s tick is his desire for family and belonging, Pete’s tick is acceptance, Roach’s is survival, John’s stability, etc, etc. 

 

Frenchie has been trying to figure out Izzy since the second he stepped foot on the ranch. What the hell made someone like Izzy tick? What was his motivation? What made him the way he is? He thought it was loyalty, for a while, then he puzzled out the clue about Izzy’s time on one of those work ranches when he was a kid, and that clue brought him closer. But this, this fear, this pain, this loss, whatever caused that scar around his neck- he’s close to figuring it out, but now he’s not so sure he wants to. He thinks whatever it is will only make him sad, make him hurt for Izzy, and he has a strong feeling that whatever damage was done to Izzy to make him like this might not be fixable. At least, not by Frenchie. 

 

So he wants to wallow. He wants to feed Monarch and the Cassies some little carrot bits, sing them some horribly sad and lonesome songs, and then, very possibly, drink himself stupid with John so he can pass out peacefully for one goddamn night. Though drinking at the celebration for Jim’s brother last night didn’t help, really. Might’ve made things worse, actually, because after a couple drinks he had a lot more difficulty acting aloof towards Izzy, who’d spent most of the night in the corner with Ivan, drawn into an unwilling card game in which Jim and Ivan were both cheating. Roach managed to win against all odds, much to Jim and Ivan’s dismay.

 

But he’ll try anything twice. 

 

“Right now?” he says, and it probably sounds a little pathetic, going off the look Stede shoots him. 

 

“We are on a bit of a timeline, you know,” he says. It’s not reproachful, almost gentle, in fact, but it still makes Frenchie feel guilty, that he’s letting something as silly as heartbreak get the best of him while all this other shit is going on. 

 

“Yeah, right, sorry,” he says, and he stands, following Stede back to his office. Stede briefly rests a hand on his shoulder, and Frenchie leans into it before straightening as they enter. Ed’s already there, with Fang and Ivan, Lucius, Pete, Oluwande, Jim and Nicolás, and of course, Izzy. Frenchie resolutely avoids looking at that particular part of the room.

 

Jim and Nicolás are standing side by side, looking like some sort of siamese twins. Frenchie’s glad they aren’t twins, twins have always kind of freaked him out. The sight sends both happiness and grief through his veins, because he misses his own brother, suddenly and desperately. It’s been years since he died. The time between his death and now was longer than his brother's entire lifespan, actually. Frenchie’s mostly come to terms with it- but sometimes it hits him all over again, fresh and painful, and this is one of those times. 

 

“All right, let’s get started,” Stede says, closing the door behind the two of them. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, there’s been a development that changes things in our plan.”

 

Ed stiffens slightly, Frenchie notes, as does Izzy, but Stede barrels on. 

 

“Jim’s brother, Nicolás, is the head of the Siete Gallos. He works closely with Jackie, and he thinks- well, Nicolás, I’ll let you tell it, shall I?” 

 

Nicolás shifts in an exact mirror of the way Jim shifts when they’re under unwanted attention. 

 

“Not much to tell. I think I can get Jackie on your side. She doesn't really like Hornigold or Badminton. Hornigold's a fucking traitor since he turned to the law, and Badminton’s just a dick. She’s mostly doing this for the money, a couple pardons, and to get him out of the picture.” He nods towards Ed. “Less competition, you know. But I don’t think it’ll take much convincing to get her to turn.” 

 

“So, we have a potential new ally in the mix!” Stede says, clapping his hands excitedly. “Which really brings the odds in our favor, with Jackie’s people and the Siete Gallos.”

 

“It’s starting to look like we have an actual chance, you mean,” Jim says drily. 

 

“Well, we had a chance before, but I like this plan much better,” Stede says. 

 

Frenchie’s not looking at Izzy. Really, he’s not, but out of the corner of his eye he can see something like relief flash across the other man’s face. 

 

“Now, Nicolás  will be acting as our go-between to arrange a meeting with Jackie,” Stede continues. “So until we have a set time, we'll be working on a strategy here. Jackie is a woman who respects strength, I understand, so when we meet with her that’s what we need to project. Frenchie, this is where you come in. You are our official image consultant. Thoughts?” 

 

“We should lean into the whole Blackbeard thing more,” Frenchie says at once. “Blackbeard’s got the rep, he’s got the look, got the strength, more so than any of us. So you’re gonna have to look more Blackbeardy than you do now, no offense, mate.” 

 

This last bit is directed at Ed, who admittedly, doesn’t look particularly Blackbeardy, given the light blue shirt and trouser ensemble he’s wearing. 

 

“He’s got a point,” Ivan says. “You don’t look yourself, boss.” 

 

“Right, yeah,” Ed says. “I've still got the leather n’ shit, I’ll just put that back on.”

 

“You’re gonna need to not look hurt, too,” Frenchie says. “What’s with the limp?”

 

Ed looks startled. “Bum knee.”

 

“John can probably make you a brace,” Frenchie muses. “He usually works with fabrics but he’s not half bad with leather, can probably work some metal in. You ever had a brace before?”

 

“He left it behind before the raid,” Stede supplies. 

 

“You remember any of the, uh,” Frenchie waves a hand. “Mechanics?” 

 

“Schematics?” Oluwande offers. Frenchie snaps his fingers.

 

“Yeah, that.”

 

“Dunno. Iz was the one who got it for me,” Ed mutters, looking almost embarrassed. 

 

“I remember,” Izzy says, the first words he’s spoken since Frenchie entered the room. 

 

“You can handle that, then,” Frenchie says. He can feel Izzy’s eyes boring into the side of his face, but he refuses to turn, refuses to be thrown off course He’s here for his expertise. He’s not here for Izzy.

 

“Very well,” Izzy says. It doesn’t sound as harsh as Frenchie’s expecting it to, and Lucius seems to pick up on it, given the way his eyebrows draw together. 

 

“Could lean into the whole Black Skulls image, actually,” Frenchie says, snapping himself back to the task at hand. “Depends on where we’re meeting, I guess, but…” 

 

The ideas are flowing now, really flowing. It’s gonna involve a bit of showboating, but Frenchie’s never been opposed to that. 

 

“All right, here’s the gist of it.”

 

He leans in, and the plan starts to take form. 

 

Stede dismisses the lot of them after an hour, sending Nicolás off to arrange the meeting spot. Of course, all of this effort will be wasted if Nicolás doesn’t pull his weight here, or if he backstabs them, but regardless, Frenchie’s practically buzzing with the excitement of coming up with a scheme again. He’s missed it. He hasn’t created a plan of this magnitude since that time he and Anne pretended to haunt a town to scare off a more bloodthirsty gang bent on destroying the place. That was fun. 

 

He’s so buzzed, in fact, that he misses the others filing out entirely, too focused on small tweaks that could affect how this plays out- the location, in Geraldo’s bar or in some distance patch of desert, who Jackie brings, if the Siete Gallos are involved, how many of the Siete Gallos are involved- and when he looks up, the only person remaining is Izzy. 

 

They lock eyes across the desk for one long, long moment, and then Frenchie straightens, preparing to leave. 

 

“Wait. Please.”

 

It’s the please that stops him. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Izzy use the word please. 

 

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Izzy says. That’s not what Frenchie expected. It’s not an apology, though, and it's like he’s fighting the words even as they leave him. “I don’t.” 

 

“Ok then,” Frenchie says, scratching at the back of his neck. 

 

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I did.” 

 

“Yeah, whatever, mate,” Frenchie says.  He’d like to say he just doesn’t care if what he says hurts Izzy’s feelings or not, but he does, he’s just too fucking tired and too fucking hurt himself to try to edit himself in Izzy’s favor. “Not like that was the only issue with that conversation, though, was it?” 

 

Izzy takes a step back. “No. I suppose it wasn’t.” 

 

Frenchie turns to go, and Izzy’s hand flies out, catching him around the wrist. His fingers are just above Frenchie’s pulse point, and that’s fucking embarassing, because he can definitely feel the way his heart speeds up at the contact. 

 

“You should leave,” Izzy says. 

 

“That’s what I’m trying to do here,” Frenchie replies. 

 

“No, I mean-” Izzy stops, glancing around. “You should leave the ranch. Before whatever happens here happens.” 

 

And he kind of sounds sincere, like maybe he’s worried, but all Frenchie can hear is you can’t handle it,  like he’s some kind of sheltered kid and not an experienced outlaw who’s run with Anne fucking Bonny, and he kind of sees red. 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, pulling his wrist from Izzy’s grasp. “Make things easier on you, wouldn’t it, but I’m not. This is my home, Israel-”

 

He sees Izzy flinch a bit, at the use of his full name, and he almost flinches too, because it doesn’t sound quite right in his mouth, tastes cold and sharp like the steel of a blade.

 

“It’s been my home since a hell of a long time before you got here. Whatever happens here, these are my people, my family. I’m not turning tail and running.”

 

He almost stops there, and he’s not sure why he doesn’t, but the next words come out almost without his permission. 

 

“If anyone leaves, it should be you.” 

 

He leaves Izzy standing in the office, hand still slightly outstretched in front of him, like the ghost of Frenchie’s wrist is still there between his fingertips. 

 

***

“Ok, what’s going on with you?”

 

Frenchie blinks himself back to reality again. He has a needle and thread in his hands, courtesy of John, who’s sitting with his arms crossed and head tipped back in the porch swing. He’d assume he’s asleep, but John snores like nobody’s business, and there’s no snoring now, so he’s awake. Lucius is sitting cross legged in front of Frenchie, with a face that says he’s been trying to get Frenchie’s attention for a while. 

 

“Sorry, man, what’d you say?” Frenchie asks. He turns back to the coat he’s working on. It’s a character piece, one that he hasn’t used since his time with Anne and Mary, and it's more patchy than he’d like it to be, given that he plans to use it when they meet with Jackie. 

 

“Doesn't matter what I asked. What matters is what's wrong with you,” Lucius says. 

 

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

 

“Told you,” John interjects, eyes still closed, basking in the sun. “He won’t say.”

 

“Really? Not even to you?” Lucius asks.

 

“Nope. Hasn’t said a word.” 

 

Lucius narrows his eyes. “I have a theory. Shall I share it?” 

 

Frenchie sighs, placing his work down and meeting Lucius’s gaze. “Please don’t.” 

 

Lucius may not have all the information, but Frenchie thinks he’s probably pieced together enough to make trouble for Izzy, and as pissed off as Frenchie is, he doesn't want that, especially not now with a potential fight on the horizon. They need all the firepower they can get, and regardless of Frenchie’s feelings towards the man, Izzy’s as good a fighter as they’ve got.

 

“Why not?” Lucius demands. 

 

“Because I’m asking you not to,” Frenchie says. 

 

“It’s just me and John here,” Lucius protests. 

 

“Yeah, but you suck at keeping secrets.” 

 

“You do at that,” John agrees. 

 

“So there’s a secret to keep?” Lucius asks.

 

“Please, Lucius,” Frenchie says. “I don’t want to talk about him.” 

 

“I never said anything about a him,” Lucius says. 

 

“Fucking- I told you, I didn’t sleep well,” Frenchie says, burying his face in his coat. “Please drop it.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Lucius says. He rises to his feet. “I’ll just drag it out of the man himself, then.”

 

“Lucius, wait, no-” 

 

But Lucius is already gone, with a quick “can’t hear you!” called over his shoulder. Frenchie groans.

 

“Do I need to shove a stick of dynamite up his arse?” John asks. Frenchie’s not sure if he’s talking about Lucius or Izzy.

 

“No, man. Thanks, though.”

 

“Let me know if that changes,” John says, and he folds his arms again. 

 

Frenchie turns back to his task, but his heart’s not in it. He finds himself wondering what Anne and Mary would say about this whole thing. They’ve met Izzy once, apparently. Izzy’s got the scar to prove it, where Anne shot him in the shoulder.

 

He can almost hear their voices in his head. 

 

You’re getting worked up over a man? Mary’s dry voice sounds, and Frenchie can see her mouth twist in disdain. Mary holds a general distaste for men. She always said that Frenchie was the exception to the rule, but she doesn’t have much patience for men's troubles. 

 

Anne holds a similar disinterest in men, but Frenchie also knows that Anne tends to like the people she shoots- at least, the ones she doesn’t kill, so there’s a chance that there’s something in Izzy she would respect. 

 

That one’s got problems, my friend, her voice sounds, and Frenchie can almost see her eyes sparkle beneath the low brim of her hat, red hair bushing the top of a saloon table. Why get yourself mixed up in that? More trouble than he’s worth. 

 

“Could say the same about Mary,” Frenchie mutters under his breath. John, who’s used to the small conversations Frenchie holds with himself when his thoughts are too big to keep contained in his own mind, doesn’t comment. 

 

Mary’s worth it, though. Anne’s eyes roll. Is that one worth it? Israel Hands? I mean, come on. 

 

How had Anne known Mary was worth it? Frenchie remembers having a pretty similar conversation with her, once upon a time, when they were deep enough in their cups for Anne to actually discuss her feelings in a real way. 

 

“She’s just so-” Anne makes some large, all encompassing gesture with her hands. “You know?”

 

“I’ll take your word for it, mate,” Frenchie says, toasting the gesture with his cup. 

 

“I mean, yeah, she’s kinda standoffish and like, really mean-”

 

“So are you,” Frenchie points out. Anne sticks her tongue out at him. 

 

“Whatever. But she just makes me fucking light up, you know? She smiles and I just-” 

 

Anne claps a hand to her heart. “Ugh.”

 

Frenchie grins. “Very eloquent, boss.” 

 

“Nobody said I had to be eloquent. You’re the brains here.”

 

Frenchie thinks of the past week or so, about pulling up all those superstitions, even ones that he doesn’t necessarily believe in himself, in an attempt to get that quirk of Izzy’s lips to show, even for a second. He thinks about dragging him to town just to impress him, trying to guess his drink and stringing along the idea of Anne Bonny to see the way his mouth dropped open when he connected the dots. He thinks about the songs he chooses because he thinks Izzy might know them, about that expression on Izzy’s face when he’s soothing a particularly anxious yearling, about the rasp of his voice and the way he always smells like gunpowder-

 

“Ugh,” he says under his breath. So that’s what Anne meant. 

 

John starts snoring then, really asleep this time, and Frenchie lets the familiar noise drown out the buzzing of his own thoughts. 



IZZY

 

“What’s up your arse?” 

 

Izzy closes his eyes, letting his head thump back against the wood of the shed. He’s not hiding. He just happened to find his way to one of the many buildings in Bonnet’s property that aren’t in use, which just happens to be on the opposite side of the ranch from the paddocks, where he knows Frenchie will be, just happened to settle down at the back of it, out of sight unless someone was purposefully looking. He’s not hiding. Israel Hands does not fucking hide. 

 

“Why do you want to know?” he shoots back. Spriggs, standing a few feet away with a hand on his hip, snorts. 

 

“Dunno. I’m bored. We’ve got some waiting to do before things kick off. You mind?” 

 

Izzy cracks open an eye to see him gesturing to the ground. 

 

“Fuck if I care,” he mutters. Lucius takes that as a yes. 

 

“So I’ll ask again. What’s up your arse?” 

 

Izzy glares at him, but it's kind of half hearted, not with his usual force. He’s used to Lucius looking at him like a challenge, like he’s trying to get something from Izzy, but there’s none of that right now. He wonders what changed. 

 

“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything,” Lucius says, crossing his legs. “But I’ll warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”

 

Izzy frowns. “Why would that entice me to tell you anything?” 

 

“Because I think I have an idea of what’s going on with you. I have eyes. But I don't have all the information, so if I let something slip, it might not be in your favor,” Lucius says with a click of his tongue. “Better that I have all the information, don’t you think?”

 

“And what is it that you think you know?” 

 

Lucius cocks his head, and there’s a bit of steel now in his eyes. “I think something’s going on with you and Frenchie. And I think, right now, he’s hurt. Very likely because of you. He won’t talk to me about it, out of some unjustifiable loyalty to you, I imagine. So if I were you, I’d clear this situation up quick as you can. Otherwise things could get very ugly for you here, very quickly.”

 

Izzy grimaces. “You’re blackmailing me?” 

 

He would be more surprised if this wasn’t the second such warning he’d received today. When he’d gone to John Feeney, to give him the schematics for Ed’s brace, he’d received a glare that made him shiver in his boots, and given the closeness between John and Frenchie, he’s quite sure that’s what the whole thing was about. 

 

“Giving you fair warning, I call it,” Lucius says. “We all love Frenchie. If you’ve done something to hurt him-”

 

“I wouldn’t.” 

 

“So he’s moping around with an expression like a kicked puppy because of something entirely unrelated, that’s what you’re telling me?” 

 

His jaw clenches. “You wouldn’t understand-”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lucius says. “Don’t get fucking started on that. I understand better than you’d think.”

 

“How fucking could you?” Izzy snaps. “I’ve seen the way you are, with Pete, with Fang, I’ve seen the way you look at me, you aren’t even trying to fucking hide it-”

 

“Yeah, because I don’t have to here, you fucking lunatic,” Lucius snaps back. “That doesn't mean I’ve never had to. I wasn’t born on this ranch, you know, I didn’t spawn here. None of us did. We’ve all lived in the real world that you keep raving on about like you’re the only one who knows it.”

 

That silences Izzy, because Frenchie had said nearly the same thing. He takes a deep breath in through his nose. 

 

“Have you ever lost someone?” he says slowly. 

 

“How do you mean?” Lucius asks. “Like, a breakup, or-”

 

“Not a fucking breakup,” Izzy says. “Really lost someone.” 

 

Unbidden, his hand moves to his neck, thumb rubbing at the scar tissue there from where the noose had tightened around his neck. 

 

“No,” Lucius admits. “No, not like that.” 

 

“Then you can’t understand,” Izzy says. He’s not trying to be mean, here, for once, not trying to be condescending, but it's the truth. The boy can’t understand what it’s like to love and to lose someone, just because of what you are, if he hasn't gone through it himself. 

 

“I may have hurt him,” Izzy says. “But I need you to understand that stopping this now is the only way to keep him safe.” 

 

Lucius is silent for a moment. 

 

“God, your life is so sad,” Lucius says. “You just live in fear all the time, don’t you?” 

 

“You’d be afraid too, if you were me,” Izzy says, and it feels like some sort of admission. 

 

Lucius sighs. He pats Izzy on the shoulder. Izzy tenses, but doesn’t move away. 

 

“I’ll try to keep your secret,” Lucius says. “Can’t promise I won’t tell Pete, but Pete’s a vault, it won’t get past him. I don’t want to get in the way of you and Frenchie sorting things out.” 

 

“There’s nothing to sort out.” 

 

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Lucius says, standing up and dusting off his pants. He makes his way back towards the main house. 

 

Izzy doesn’t follow him for another hour. When he does, he takes the long way around. It’s not to pass the paddocks, he tells himself, because his route doesn’t take him directly past them, but it takes him close enough to make out Frenchie’s form, slumped in the pasture with one of the fillies, Izzy thinks it’s Monarch, lying next to him. And it's close enough that Izzy can just make out what he’s singing, carried on the wind. 

 

“My love has a gun that has gone to the bad, 

Which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;

For the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,

And it wobbles around like a bucking broncho.”

 

The scar around Izzy’s neck throbs, suddenly and painfully, the way it often does when he thinks about Charles, and the combination of Charles and Frenchie and this fucking song- it’s too fucking much, really, it’s painful in a way Izzy hasn’t felt pain in a long time. He’d much prefer a gunshot, he thinks, clean and quick, as opposed to the slow death he’s experiencing now. 

 

Because this song he knows. He knows a lot of the songs Frenchie sings (he’s starting to wonder, actually, if Frenchie chooses songs he thinks Izzy will know), but this one he knows better than he knows his own name, because this is the song that Charles used to request from musicians as a joke, one that is inseparably and intrinsically entwined with Charles’s memory in Izzy’s head. 

 

When Izzy met Charles, he was everything Izzy wasn’t. Izzy was younger than he is now by a good 15 years, Charles a bit older than that. You’d never know, though, that Charles was the older of the two of them, because he burned with life in a way that Izzy, who’s been beaten down since the day he was born, never has. 

 

The first time he sees Charles, he's at a rodeo. Izzy is poor and starving and skinny, and he’dentered into the mounted shooting event when he saw the prize money, some sort of desperate last attempt, and honestly, he thinks he could win, because if there’s one thing Izzy can do, one thing he’s always been able to do, it’s shoot. And his competition isn’t exactly stiff, not here, mostly try-hard ranchers who want a taste of glory. They won’t be thrilled when Izzy, all skin and bones, swoops in and takes their prize money, but he doesn’t really give a fuck about their hurt feelings.

 

And in the meantime, he wanders the grounds, sometimes slipping sticky fingers into a wealthy man’s pocket and pulling out a coin or a bill, not enough to miss, but enough to ensure that Izzy eats another day on the off chance he doesn’t win the money.

 

He stops as an announcer hollers out the name of a contestant in the saddle bronc riding event. 

 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, your reigning champ, hailing all the way from some po-dunk town down south, Charles Vane!” 

 

And there he is. Charles Vane, all wild hair and wild eyes and manic whooping and he’s mesmerizing as he rides, feet placed perfectly, body moving with the steed like they were one flesh, free hand gripping his hat to keep it on his head.

 

He lasts a long time. Long enough to win, that’s for certain, and when he hits the ground, he laughs, like some kind of maniac. 

 

Charles is clearly an unstable man. Izzy should avoid him, because no one but a lunatic laughs like that when their ankle has clearly been wrenched from its socket. 

 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he finds himself shadowing Charles as he downs a shot in an attempt to ease the pain of the doctor on call shoving his bones back into place. 

 

“Fuck are you looking at?” Charles calls, and Izzy is startled to realize he’s addressing him. 

 

“You’d last longer if you let go of your fucking hat.” 

 

Why that’s what he opens with, Izzy will never be sure. 

 

“What?” 

 

“In your event. You were holding your hat. It was fucking with your movement, keeping you stilted,” Izzy elaborates. 

 

“What are you, some kinda expert?”

 

“Just someone with eyes,” Izzy says drily. That makes Charles laugh. Izzy has never really made someone laugh before. Charles buys him a drink, asks his advice on his form, and later, when Izzy wins his own event by a goddamn mile, Charles is leaning on the rail, and he winks. 

 

Frenchie’s voice filters through the air again.

 

“Now all you young maidens, where’er you reside, 

Beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;

He’ll court you and pet you and leave you and go

In the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.”

 

Izzy thinks of Charles hitting the ground with laughter bubbling from his chest, thinks of Frenchie getting thrown from Monarch yesterday and how his first instinct was to reassure the horse, thinks about making Charles laugh and about how Frenchie laughs at him when he isn’t even trying to be funny, and fuck, Frenchie and Charles are very different people but there are just enough common threads to make Izzy’s head spin. 

 

Frenchie could stop it spinning. He knows that. He’s never felt more in control and more out of control simultaneously than when he’s around Frenchie, but he knows that if he just went to the paddock, just listened, that his mind would calm and he could breathe again. 

 

But he’s also aware that if he goes there now, he’s giving Frenchie more power over him than he should, because yes, Charles and Frenchie are very different people, but Charles had the ability to shatter Izzy with a word or a touch and it's becoming very clear very quickly that Frenchie can do that too. And right now Izzy needs to be unshatterable. 

 

Israel Hands is not glass. He is steel. And there is no place for superstitious musicians in his world. There can’t be.

 

STEDE

 

“I do not like this. I do not like this. I do not like this I do not like this,” Lucius hisses, a running mantra he’s kept up under his breath since they started getting closer to the meeting point with Jackie. “Have I mentioned I do not like this?” 

 

“Come now, Lucius, there’s nothing to fear!” Stede assures him. “I’m certain that, despite the hostility of our previous acquaintance, Jackie will prove herself to be a reasonable woman-”

 

Stede’s sentence is cut off with a sharp ring of gunfire. Dust poofs out from the ground where a bullet has embedded itself only a yard from Stede’s foot. 

 

Stede is not especially proud of the yelp that escapes him, but- well, he’s not really used to being shot at. To be fair, the bloodcurdling scream Lucius lets out probably covers up his own surprise.

 

“Just so we all know where we stand.” 

 

Jackie’s voice floats out from the brush, and she rounds a corner, gun still smoking from the shot. She cocks her head, looks Stede up and down. Even from this distance, she’s a towering figure, looming over Stede by a good six inches. One thing Stede has to appreciate about Jackie is her dedication to flair. With knee-high leather boots, flowing black pants, white shirt and a red vest adorned with Otomi embroidery, a matching hat sitting on top of a pile of braids, Jackie certainly stands out from the dusty wasteland that surrounds them. 

 

Jackie waves a finger, and Geraldo slinks out after her. Nicolás follows, along with a few members of the Siete Gallos. 

 

“That was fairly badass,” Stede hears Frenchie mutter to Lucius, who’s very possibly hyperventilating. If it weren't for the familiar voice, Stede wouldn’t recognize Frenchie at all. He’s assumed one of the personas he used with Bonny’s crew, a silent-but-deadly type of chap named Francesco. The name is purposeful, according to Frenchie. There’s no chance that Jackie hasn’t been doing some kind of surveillance on them, so if she’s heard of a Frenchie, Francesco is an easy name to substitute. Francesco also has the highest bounty of any of Frenchie’s aliases, which he’d thought could come in handy. 

 

Stede had wanted to bring more of his men along, but he had to settle for a small group of Lucius, Frenchie, Oluwande, Jim, and Roach, who he’d insisted on accompanying them in case anything went horribly wrong and someone needed medical attention. Pete hadn’t been happy about the arrangement- the idea of letting Lucius out of his sight while Lucius went into a dangerous situation was not one Pete stomached willingly, but Stede had come to a compromise. 

 

A compromise that should be arriving any minute now. 

 

“I hear you’re going by Jim now,” Jackie calls when her eyes land on Jim. 

 

“Sure am.” 

 

“I’m still pissed at you about my hubby.” 

 

“You’ve got more,” Jim says. Something akin to a smile quirks at Jackie’s lips. 

 

“So do you, seems like,” she drawls, looking between Jim and Oluwande. She lifts her fingers in a little wave. “Hi, Olu.” 

 

“Hello Jackie,” Oluwande says, all in one breath, sidling closer to Jim.

 

“So where’s your man?” Jackie says, turning back to Stede. 

 

“Oh, he’ll be along,” Stede says, ignoring the way his stomach rolls at that question. Jackie couldn’t know the double meaning of her words, of course, but given the new development in their relationship- was that what he would call Ed, now? His man?

 

He likes it, he thinks. Likes it a lot. 

 

“I don’t like to wait, Bonnet,” Jackie says. “I wouldn’t be here at all if Nicolás hadn’t insisted on it.” 

 

“I appreciate your patience,” Stede says. “And your willingness to meet. I believe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” 

 

“Yeah, a lot of people seem to think that, nowadays. Jackie’s a hot commodity.” 

 

“You sure are, baby,” Geraldo says reverently. Jackie closes her eyes in exasperation. 

 

“What. Did I. Say. About. Calling. Me. That?” she hisses between clenched teeth. Geraldo is about to respond when his eyes widen, and he points a finger towards a cloud of dust approaching them. 

 

“This some kind of fucking trap?” Jackie shouts, cocking her gun. 

 

“No, no,” Stede says, suppressing a smile. “I told you he’d be along.”

 

Before his words can really sink in, they’ve arrived. And oh, what a sight they are. 

 

Stede’s never seen the Black Skulls in action, but he understands instantly the terror they strike. Israel and Ivan lead the charge, and Ivan’s glare and the curl of Israel’s lip speak to promised atrocities. They’re followed by Fang, who cuts an intimidating figure on his horse, and Pete, an honorary Black Skull for the day. 

 

As foreboding as this group is, they’re nothing compared to the sight of Ed. If they are the gusts of wind that forecast a tornado, Ed is the cyclone itself, all dark hair and dark clothes and wicked glint of an eye that reminds Stede of lightning. This is the Blackbeard that makes sheriffs cower and train conductors give up their cargo without a fight. This is the Blackbeard that women tell stories of to their children to keep them from going out in the dark, because Blackbeard might be there lurking, with his gun and his crew and his bloodthirst. 

 

He’s so different from the Ed who woke Stede up that morning with a cup of tea, excited eyes and a grin on his face, that they might as well be two separate people. 

 

They circle the group, for a moment, horse’s hooves thumping in the dirt. Israel’s horse actually rears, in a move that must be practiced, with a deafening whinny, before Blackbeard finally holds a hand up and they halt. He dismounts with a casual swing. The leg brace John has whipped up seems to hold well, though Stede can still see the smallest give of Ed’s bad knee. 

 

“You took your time,” Jackie says coolly, holstering her pistol. 

 

“Got busy,” Ed says brusquely. He motions to Fang, who takes the reins of Blackbeard’s horse. Israel dismounts and is at Ed’s side in a flash, though he makes it look as though it's no hurry at all. They’re a pair, the two of them, outlaws through and through. They move with a precision that can only come from years of practice, years of relying on one another in life or death situations. Stede would be jealous, and for a moment he is, a hot, ugly flash of something in his gut, until he sees the way Israel’s eyes flash to Frenchie to see if he’s watching, and the way Ed angles himself to keep Stede in his sightline. 

 

“Jackie,” Israel greets. 

 

“Hands,” she all but growls back. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

 

“Would I be anywhere else?”

 

“Let’s get fucking down to business, then,” Ed says, cutting the conversation off. “We hear you’re interested in a partnership.” 

 

Jackie’s eyebrows raise nearly off her head. “You heard I’m interested in a partnership? You’re up the fucking creek without my help, Blackbeard. You’re not stupid enough to not know that.”

 

“Mmm,” Ed hums with a shrug. “Dunno. I’ve gotten out of worse scraps before, haven't I?”

 

If this was anyone else, that would be an empty statement, showboating at its worst- but Ed’s reputation is such that it rings true. 

 

“Then you don’t need me, do you?” Jackie says. 

 

“Well, we would still be very appreciative of your assistance,” Stede interjects. “We’d like to do this with the least possible loss of life or limb. I’m sure you understand that.” 

 

Jackie studies him, tearing her eyes away from Ed and Israel for a moment to do so. “Look, I’ve got no love for either of those motherfuckers. Hornigold’s a son of a bitch, and Badminton’s the most annoying dude I’ve ever met in my life. I don’t like their kind. But they’ve made me promises.”

 

“And you think they’ll hold to those promises?” Stede asks. “If I may, it seems as though once this team-up of yours is complete, the three of you have rather incompatible agendas.”

 

Jackie just barely tilts her head, but it's an acknowledgement. “I can deal with them. If it comes to that.” 

 

“Be easier to deal with them with us on your side, though,” Ed says, nonchalantly. He’s barely looking at her, instead rolling a bullet between his fingers, watching the movement. 

 

“Can’t argue with that,” Jackie agrees. “But I’m sticking my neck out, here. I want assurances. And I want payment.” 

 

“You’ll have them both,” Stede says. 

 

“And I want them.” 

 

Jackie points to Oluwande and Jim. Behind her, Nicolás tenses, just slightly. Ed’s eyebrow raises. 

 

“Want them how?” 

 

“That one killed my husband,” Jackie says. “How do you think?” 

 

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” Stede says, as firmly as he can when a woman like Jackie is staring him down. “Oluwande and Jim are under my protection, you see. I can’t break that oath.”

 

“Then maybe I take you down too,” Jackie says with a shrug. 

 

Ed’s eyes flash, and both his and Israel’s pistols are pointed at Jackie. 

 

“Try it. I dare you. See how far you get,” Ed says, low and dangerous. 

 

Jackie looks entirely unfazed- in fact, there’s a sparkle of humor in her eyes. 

 

“Jackie,” Oluwande groans. “Come on. Not cool.” 

 

Stede looks back, and then Jackie bursts out laughing. 

 

“Oh, come on, I’m not doing that shit,” she says, cackling. “I kill Jim, I lose Nicky and the Gallos. I just wanted to see you sweat. I gotta have a little fun.” 

 

“Oh,” Stede says faintly. “Oh, well, then.”

 

He lets out a small chuckle of his own, though it’s pretty weak, since Ed’s pistol hasn’t wavered from Jackie’s head. It takes a moment and a hushed word from Israel to get him to lower it. 

 

“Let’s talk logistics,” Jackie says, back to business in an instant. 

 

It takes a second for them all to recalibrate, for Oluwande, who’s assumed the role of spokesperson for Frenchie’s plan, to start talking. As he does, Ed all but saunters to Stede’s side, placing himself just in front of him, eyes still fixed on Jackie. The gesture sends a burst of warmth through Stede’s body, despite the tense circumstances. 

 

Jackie’s eyebrows raise slightly as Oluwande fills her in. It's a good plan, they’ve all agreed on that unanimously, and Jackie seems to think so too. They hash out some details- the addition of Jackie’s men changes things, with the added numbers of the Siete Gallos, and Jackie has a few requests of her own, as well as payment, which Stede is more than happy to provide. 

 

“So, tomorrow. Sunrise, yeah?” Jackie says as they wrap up.

 

“Yes, and remember-” Olu starts.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, stealth and all that. Element of surprise,” Jackie says, waving a hand. “This ain’t my first rodeo.” 

 

She extends a hand to Stede, surprisingly, not Ed, and he shakes it.

 

“You’re a fucking lunatic for trying this, you know,” she says. Ed chuckles from his side. 

 

“That seems to be the consensus,” Stede sighs. “But we all have our faults.” 

 

“I like that. Just don’t get any crazy ideas about double crossing me. Jackie always gets what she’s owed.”

 

Her eyes flit to Jim, just for a moment. “You’re lucky you’ve got your brother here.”

 

“Ah, you wouldn’t have killed me anyway,” Jim says. “You like me too much.” 

 

Jackie snorts. Then, with a whistle, she and her men move out, Nicolás sending a short nod back their direction. 

 

There’s a moment of silence. 

 

“I think that went quite well!” 

 

***

 

Ed’s eyes are narrowed the whole ride back to the ranch, something sitting heavy on his shoulders. Stede rides next to him, watching him. 

 

“I didn’t fucking like that,” Ed says finally. They’re both making an effort, Stede thinks, to be more communicative. They hadn’t, admittedly, done much talking the previous night, being…rather otherwise occupied. Nothing particularly untoward, which Stede is partly thankful for, as he thinks his head might explode if they move any faster than they are, but Ed had been very unwilling to let go of him, and Stede had been equally unwilling to let Ed out of his grasp, for fear that he’d run off to Hornigold anyway, despite their agreement. 

 

“What didn’t you like? I thought it went well. Did I miss something?” Stede asks. 

 

“Nah, meeting was fine,” Ed says. “Didn't like that she threatened you.” 

 

Stede lets out a surprised laugh. “Is that all? It seemed to be a joke, mostly.”

 

“Not a fucking funny one,” Ed mutters fiercely. A fond smile creeps across Stede’s face. 

 

“Well, you were so quick on the draw I don’t think she would have gotten anywhere close to me,” he says. “It was quite impressive.”

 

Ed glances sideways at him. “Yeah?” 

 

“Oh, yes. I hadn’t seen your whole-” Stede waves a hand. “-Blackbeard persona before, really. Not in all its glory.” 

 

“What’s the verdict, then?” Ed asks. He seems… nervous, which is such a strange, strange idea to Stede, that Ed would care at all about Stede’s input or approval. 

 

“Very intimidating,” Stede says, trying very hard to ignore the warmth pooling in his stomach. “Quite dashing, actually.” 

 

Ed ducks his head in a futile attempt to hide the smile pressing at his cheeks. “Dashing.” 

 

“Quite,” Stede confirms, staring steadfastly forward. “With the all black, you know, I imagine the beard would be an impressive sight indeed.”

 

“You'd like to see that, would you?” 

 

“I think I would. For the experience, you know. The whole idea of it.” 

 

“I’ll have to grow it out again, then,” Ed says. “Maybe in the winter. Keep my face warm.” 

 

Stede blinks, and he’s quite sure his face is flushed, because that he can picture, Ed with a full beard, small snowflakes settling in the strands of it, safe and happy with Stede. It’s the first time Ed’s referenced anything beyond the upcoming fight, and it's such a simple thing but Stede thinks he could just fly with the elation it brings. 

 

“You’ll still be around then, come winter?” he asks, trying for casual, but he’s never been able to fool Ed on that score. 

 

“Planning on it. Unless you get sick of me.” 

 

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Stede says quietly. He risks a glance at Ed, and Ed’s looking at him with that same warmth, that fondness that runs so much deeper now that they’re on the same page about everything, now that they’ve stopped dancing around each other. 

 

He can see Ed’s hand twitch, like he wants to reach out and touch Stede, but Ed’s being very considerate. He’s not pushing Stede on affection in front of the others, and not asking questions about it. 

 

Stede knows, logically, they don’t have to hide here. After all, just look at Pete and Lucius, no one says a word to them and they’re so open that Stede’s caught them engaged in illicit activities in every room of the house, including his own bedroom.

 

But things are still very new, with Ed. Very fresh. It feels like a misplaced word or a wrong move could shatter this, and Stede very much wants to keep this intact. And beyond that, on a deeper, more instinctive level, he can still hear Nigel in his head. 

 

An abomination against the Lord. Do you know what they do to people like you?

 

He’d believed Nigel, for a long time, about that first bit. The abomination bit. Even up until very recently, he’d believed it. But now, with Ed, seeing how natural things are between them, how right everything feels, in his body, in his mind, in his very soul- well, he’s not quite sure how that could be true. 

 

But the aftereffects of it still echo. He hopes, maybe, once they’ve dealt with all of this, he can begin to move past it. 

 

If only because not kissing Ed in this moment is so very, very difficult. 

 

Ed seems to be of the same mind, because even though it takes them a while when they get back to the ranch to find a moment to be alone, Ed is on him the second they are, all grasping hands and hungry lips. Ed kisses him like he could swallow him whole, and Stede is most certainly not complaining. Now that he’s got the beard in his mind, he wonders what it would be, what it will be like to kiss Ed with that beard. He thinks it’ll be softer, hair tends to soften as it grows longer, not as prickly as Ed’s shorter stubble is now (not that Stede minds that, not at all). 

 

Stede’s not the most experienced man, not by far, but he does have two children. He’s kissed Mary before, done…. other things, with Mary, but it was never, never like this. Was it always supposed to be like this? Even the smallest touch from Ed leaves his very blood singing, every whispered breath makes goosebumps erupt across his skin, the slightest tug of his hair leaves him fucking breathless. 

 

And the wonder of it all is that Ed is equally as wrecked as he is. It’s astounding, really, because Ed is… well, Ed. Stede isn’t especially self conscious about his own looks, never really bothered to be, looks seemed relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but god, Ed- Ed could have anyone. Men and women alike would swoon at his feet (Stede’s considering doing a bit of swooning himself), but Ed looks at Stede like he’s hung the moon and the stars. He holds Stede like he’s afraid he might dissolve into smoke, kisses him like he's starving for him. Stede’s never had anyone be starving for him before. 

 

He thinks, tentatively, and maybe he’s foolish to think it, but he thinks that this, this thing between them, might be new for Ed too. That it’s new for them both. And that thought burrows its way deep, deep into his chest, twining its way into his very being until Stede is nearly delirious. 

 

“Stede?” Lucius’s voice calls, breaking into their moment, and Stede is very forcibly thrust back into reality. 

 

“Yes, Lucius?” he calls back, a task made very difficult by Ed containing his laughter in the crook of Stede’s neck. 

 

“Just wanted to, um, check in, about… something. If this is an ok time?” Lucius asks on the other side of the office door. From the tone of his voice, he’s got an inkling of what’s happening in this room. Stede fights down the instinct that tells him to run, to deny, because this is his home, his family, and there is nothing to be afraid of here. If Lucius knows, Lucius knows. It's not the end of the world. 

 

“Um, yes, just a moment,” Stede says, wincing. He pushes on Ed’s shoulder, who is looking far, far too gleeful for the situation. 

 

“This is your fault,” he hisses.

 

“Mine? You were the one who pulled me in here, mate,” Ed says. 

 

“... I may have done,” Stede admits. He straightens out his clothes to the best of his ability. He barely manages to get through Lucius’s questions about the plan without losing it at the smirk Ed wears throughout the entire conversation, like a cat who’s caught  an especially fat mouse. 

 

God, this man is going to be the death of him. 




EDWARD

 

“Tell me something.” 

 

“What d’you want to know?” 

 

“Anything,” Stede says. “Something about you. Something I don’t know.” 

 

“Blackbeard story?” 

 

“Or an Ed story. Whatever you feel like telling.” 

 

Ed ponders that. It’s a bit difficult to think, with Stede’s hand under his shirt, resting on his stomach over a gunshot scar, his own hands moving in soft motions across Stede’s back. He could tell a Blackbeard story, he could make something impressive up- but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s the bump of Stede’s knee as he shifts against Ed’s own bad one, maybe it's that here, in the dark of Stede’s bedroom, doesn’t seem the place for showboating, maybe Ed doesn’t want to cheapen this moment with some tale of incredible violence and bloodshed. Regardless of the reason, Ed chooses a different story. 

 

“I grew up real poor,” he starts. “Dirt poor, really. I’m from this fuckin’ mining town, type where people die real young cause of all the shit they breathe in underground. There was one real rich family though-” 

 

He pokes Stede. “Bit like you, probably.” 

 

“Oh, hush,” Stede says, but Ed can feel his smile against his shoulder. 

 

“Anyway, that’s where my mum worked.” His voice softens at the mention of his mother. “She worked at the big house, did laundry, shit like that, took care of the kids. I’d go and wait for her to get off work, walk her back so we could talk before my dad got back from the mines. Piece of fucking work, my dad. But I’d get there early every day, ‘cause there was this big fuck-off horse the family had. Huge fucker, mean, too, he’d bite people. Never saw anyone ride him, think he was too mean for it, they just used him for breeding cause he was a fucking specimen.”

 

He pauses, waits for a sign that Stede’s bored with this, but he doesn’t get one. 

 

“Go on,” Stede says softly. 

 

“Uh, yeah, so I’d look at him when I was waiting for my mum, and I kept thinking, fuck me, if I had a horse like that I could go anywhere, you know? I could do anything, no one could stop me. Not with a horse like that. So I’d beg my mum to let me see him and she always said no, until one time the family was on some fancy trip, and they weren’t at the house. She brought me up, and then she had to go and work, and she said ‘Eddie, don’t you fucking touch that horse, I swear to god.” 

 

Stede chuckles. 

 

“So of course I did.” 

 

“Of course,” Stede says, and his tone is so fond Ed’s heart could fucking explode. 

 

“I slipped over the fence, and I got up on him, and he threw me right away, obviously, I didn’t know how to fucking ride, no one taught me. Fucked my knee up real bad.” 

 

“Ah. This knee?” Stede asks, sliding his hand down to tap at Ed’s left leg. 

 

“That’s the one. Mum came running out, people were screaming, we got fuckin’ lucky that she didn’t get fired over it, but it was one of the best days of my life, I think, for a long time. Most fun I’d ever had, even with the busted knee, cause I got a taste of it, you know? Taste of this.” 

 

He moves his free hand in a circle, as if to encompass the entirety of the west. “So when I had to leave, you know, leave home, I knew what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go, and I did.” 

 

“You needed an out,” Stede says. It’s not really a question, because Stede says it with an understanding that can only come of experiencing a similar need himself, but Ed nods anyway. 

 

“Yeah. I wasn’t gonna die in that town.”

 

“I’m quite glad you didn’t,” Stede says. “Even if the getting out did cost you a knee.” 

 

“Cost a bit more than that,” Ed says, and for a moment, his father’s face flashes before his eyes, red and choking, clawing at his throat. 

 

Stede must be able to feel his heart rate pick up, they’re lying so close together, because he hums, deep in his throat, and presses a kiss to the juncture of Ed’s shoulder and his neck. 

 

“You’ll tell me about that, some other time, won’t you?” 

 

“Course I will,” Ed says, voice thick. “Course. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.” 

 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Edward. I want to know quite a lot.”

 

A smile tugs at the corner of Ed’s mouth. “You better return the favor, then.” 

 

“I suppose that’s only fair.” 

 

Stede pauses a moment. “Ed.” 

 

“Stede.” 

 

“If-” Stede stops. “Nevermind.”

 

“Nah, none of that. Spit it out,” Ed says, propping himself up on an elbow. 

 

“It’s a bit stupid,” Stede says after a moment. “But- well, I’m not certain what Chauncey might say to or about me, tomorrow.”

 

“We do this right, he won’t get to say much of anything,” Ed points out. 

 

“All the same.”

 

“What would he say? I already know about Nigel, mate. You worried about the others finding out?” 

 

“Oh, no. I think it might actually raise me in their esteem,” Stede says with a shake of his head. “No, Ed, I confess I’m not quite free from the confines of how I grew up.” 

 

Ed stops, thinking that one over. “Not all of us have a fancy-man education here, Stede. You’re gonna have to spell that one out for me.”

 

Stede chuckles, and that’s better, because it relaxes him some, lets some of the tension release from his shoulders, Ed can feel it. 

 

“You never asked why I killed Nigel,” Stede says. 

 

“You seemed pretty cut up about it.” 

 

“Yes, I suppose I did,” Stede says. “But the truth of it is that Nigel had discovered the truth about me. That I- well, that I-”

 

Ed can feel a grin creeping over his face, and it’s probably not a great time for that, but for fuck’s sake, Stede’s such a proper gentleman, stumbling over his words while they’re literally in bed together. 

 

“Stop smiling like that,” Stede says with a huff. 

 

“Sorry,” Ed says, but he can’t quite contain the grin all the same. 

 

“I think you know what I’m trying to say. He found out where my preferences lie,” Stede says. “And in the community I grew up in, that’s something disastrous. He was threatening to out the truth, to tell my family and to tell our community, and he said- he said they’d come for my children, for Mary, because of what I am. I prevented that from occurring.”

 

“You were protecting your family,” Ed says with a shrug. “Nothing wrong with that.” 

 

“I don’t regret it,” Stede says slowly. “Not really. He was a bastard of a man, Nigel was. And his brother is much the same. I only say this because I don’t know what I’ll do if Chauncey- well, if he baits me. Whatever Nigel knew, I’m sure Chauncey knows the same. He may be able to provoke me.” 

 

“I’d pay good fucking money to see you shoot him,” Ed says bluntly. “Someone should, before all this is over.” 

 

“Maybe. But I rather think that would escalate things.” 

 

Ed has to concede that point. 

 

“I’m asking you to stop me if I try to do something rash at a bad time,” Stede says. 

 

“You’re probably asking the wrong person, you know. Iz is always talking about how reckless I am.” 

 

Stede grimaces. “Please don’t bring up Israel when we’re in bed together.” 

 

Ed chuckles, ducking his head to rest on Stede’s chest. “Fair enough. I’ll stop you. You’ve got my word.” 

 

“Thank you,” Stede says, and he relaxes all the more, sliding a hand into Ed’s hair. “We should sleep. Big day tomorrow.” 

 

“Sure. Just one more thing,” Ed says, lifting his head back up. He presses his lips to Stede’s, long and slow, until he hears Stede sigh happily into it. 

 

“You’re incorrigible,” Stede murmurs.

 

“And you’re too fucking much, you know,” Ed says. 

 

“I’ll try to tone it down,” Stede says, with a roll of his eyes. “Now sleep.” 

 

Ed tries. Stede is more successful, asleep in minutes, soft snores coming from his chest. Ed never thought he could like someone’s snores, but Stede’s he likes a lot. It’s a reminder, he thinks, a reminder that he’s there and solid and real next to Ed, that Ed hasn’t made him up in his imagination or in some fever haze of blood-loss. Sometimes he does wonder if maybe this is all happening in a split second while he bleeds out somewhere in the desert. 

 

But even with Stede’s soft snores reminding him, Ed doesn’t sleep. He lies next to Stede, watching the moon creep across the sky as the night wears on through the window of Stede’s room, and every tiny movement it makes is a reminder that the time is getting closer. Tomorrow morning, they will wake up. They will face Hornigold, and they will face Badminton, and one way or another, this will all be over. That would be a relief to Ed, really it would, to have all of this over with, if it wasn’t for-

 

Well, if it wasn’t for Stede. Because this time, it wouldn’t just be Ed and Izzy and his Black Skulls riding into battle, into danger. This time, Stede Bonnet would be next to him. Stede, beautiful, miraculous Stede, would be in the line of fire. 

 

Maybe I just take you out, too, Jackie’s voice rings in his mind, and Ed feels that flash again, that fear, that pain, that rage, feels the iron of his pistol in his hand before he even realizes it, pointing directly between her eyes, something snarling in his chest, begging to be released. He hears Izzy’s murmured he’s fine, Edward, stand down, feels the way he had to force himself, muscle by muscle, to lower that pistol. 

 

Jackie hadn’t even had a gun in her hand. It was barely a threat, but Ed’s entire world had been turned on its head. 

 

Tomorrow won’t just be a threat. Hornigold will have guns. Badminton will have guns. Badminton will be gunning for Stede directly, and so will Hornigold, because Ed knows that Hornigold will take one look at him and know exactly what Stede is to him. He’s good at sniffing out weakness, Hornigold is, and he knows Ed’s tells. 

 

If even one thing goes wrong, Stede will be the first to fall. Even if the rest of them survive, miraculously, if a single shot is fired it will be at Stede. Ed’s hand squeezes around Stede’s arm like a reflex. Stede shifts in his sleep, fingers trailing across Ed’s back, and then his breathing is steady again. 

 

Ed doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes the salt. 

 

He can’t do it. He can’t let Stede ride into danger, not when Ed can still do something to stop it. If Stede goes, his fate is in God’s hands, and Ed has never had much faith in God. What he does have is faith in himself. The only way to keep Stede safe, beyond a shadow of a doubt-

 

Ed presses his lips together, stifling a sob. Fuck, he doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t want to go, but he knows that whatever death Hornigold comes up with for him will hurt less than seeing Stede fall.

 

So he’ll do it. There was only ever one outcome here, only one that Ed could accept. All this, this extra time, this truth telling and openness between him and Stede, it was all just a glimpse, a look into what could have been under different circumstances. Borrowed time. 

 

At least he had that. At least Stede knows now, knows just how much he means to Ed, knows the lengths Ed will go to keep him safe. It won’t be as confusing now, Ed’s sacrifice. There will be no question of  why , now that they are firmly beyond the definition of friends. 

 

Stede will hate him for this. But he’ll be alive. 

 

Ed slips out of bed, out of Stede’s arms, wincing as his feet hit the ground, but Stede doesn’t wake. He’s a sound sleeper, and Ed is thankful for it. 

 

He can’t say goodbye. Not to Stede, not to Izzy, not to anyone, because they’d stop him, and he can’t be stopped, not this time, not if he’s going to save Stede, save them all. So instead, he crosses to Stede’s desk, to the paper and ink he keeps there, and he scrawls a note, leaving it for Stede to find. He gathers his clothes, his new brace- and, in a fit of sentimentality, takes one of Stede’s ascots, the light orange one that reminds him of sunshine, and ties it around his wrist. 

 

This next bit is a risk, but he can’t just walk out. Can’t bring himself to. He kneels next to Stede’s sleeping form, ignoring the protests of his knee, and presses his lips to the back of Stede’s hand, gentle enough not to wake him. 

 

“M’ sorry,” he mumbles, and then, before he can second guess himself, he walks out of the door. 

 

Everyone is asleep, or at least in their rooms, so Ed has a clear shot to the stables. He saddles his horse, patting her neck to keep her quiet, and then he’s leaving the Lighthouse Ranch behind. 

 

In the morning, Stede Bonnet will find a note. The note will say don’t follow me. I’m so sorry. The note will be signed Edward Teach. He can only hope that Stede will listen to those words, that Stede will understand, that he will not follow, that he will stay safe. 

 

Stede Bonnet will mourn him, he thinks, but Stede Bonnet will be alive. And a living Stede Bonnet is one that can recover from Ed’s death. Israel Hands may be another story. Israel Hands will rage and he will break, because Ed didn't do him the courtesy of allowing him to die by his side. Maybe Frenchie will be able to pick up the pieces, to configure Izzy back into something resembling a man. He hopes so. 

 

“You were right, Iz,” he murmurs into the night, the dark just beginning to fade to midnight blue. “It’s too late.”




Notes:

You know, I would apologize for this, but I am also in pain over it so I’m suffering right along with you guys lol

Most of Ed’s POV was inspired by me thinking way way too much about how in canon all of Ed’s big decisions are motivated by Stede. He was totally resigned to being in service to the crown until he kissed Stede and then he said there’s always a way out. He was always flirting with death until push came to shove and he was gonna lose Stede to the English, and then he’s all “better alive than dead”, like excuse me?? Stede is his prime motivator to continue surviving in a meaningful way and I just am breaking down over it.

On a lighter note, I don’t know if Anne Bonny and Mary Read will be in this story at all beyond flashbacks, but I am so in love with my two mean disaster lesbian cowgirls that I can’t even stand it, so you guys might have to indulge me in a few more references to them. If those two and Izzy ever met it would be peak mlm wlw hostility hours.

And finally, if any of you have read my other ofmd series, you know that I am constantly submitting applications to be Spanish Jackie’s new wife, and this is a continuation of that. She’s just so cool.

All of your comments are fueling me and giving me life, they mean more to me than I can say!

Up next: Ed and Hornigold come face to face. Stede scrambles to save his man. Izzy is faced with a choice. Things finally click for Frenchie.

Next chapter is a doozy, y’all. Hold on to your boots.

Chapter 6

Summary:

A showdown. A choice. A sacrifice.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

ED

 

Riding to his death isn’t as bad as Ed thinks it’s going to be. He’d expected it to be bad, really bad, expected to show a kind of weakness that Blackbeard just doesn’t show, because despite the times, ever increasing over the past few years, where the doldrum has gotten the best of him and he wonders if a gunshot might silence the noise in his head, or at least alleviate some of the tedium, he doesn’t actually want to die. 

 

At least, he doesn’t think he does. What he's doing now probably says something about that, but it’s not worth digging into.

 

But the ride itself… isn’t bad. The stars, bright and bold in the midnight blue of the sky, start to fade as the sky grows lighter around them.  The air is crisp, not too cold, not too warm. His horse, Elizabeth, moves in a smooth rhythm underneath him, the familiar clip-clop of hooves serving as a steady beat in the backdrop of his thoughts. 

 

He’d hesitate to call it peaceful. He has too much unfinished business for the idea of death to really hold that promise anymore, the way it once did. He thinks his grave will be uneasy, more than likely, like most of his life has been. But there is a finality in the idea. No more running, no more pain, a final quiet, a final dark that he assumes will overtake him. 

 

Ed’s never been a religious man. His father was, in word if not in deed, and that put him off the idea from a young age. Now, he wonders if there would be some comfort in belief, in knowing where he’ll be bound when this is all over.  He knows Izzy has some type of faith, not quite the faith Ed grew up with, but close, but he doesn’t think it brings him much comfort. Izzy doesn’t believe in a forgiving god, but a vengeful and cruel one, like Izzy himself. 

 

“There’s something out there, probably,” Izzy says. He’s sitting cross legged on an outcropping of rocks outside their mountain hideout, a bottle of gin held loosely in his fingers. Izzy’s not a big drinker, not usually, but the anniversary of Charles’s death is hovering on the horizon, and a drink is the only way Izzy knows how to cope with it. Ed joins him, more often than not. He’s younger, in this memory, only a few years after they met. He’s angrier, too. Izzy has always been angry. In later years he will mellow some, but this Izzy is an Izzy fresh with pain, fresh with grief, raging at the world. It’s that fire that drew Ed to him in the first place. 

 

“You think so?” Ed asks, swiping the bottle from him. Izzy shoots him a look, but lets him take a swig before snatching it back. 

 

“Sure, why the fuck not? Something had to have done all this,” he says. He waves his hand, loose movement in his shoulders from the liquor in his veins. 

 

“You believe in heaven, then?”

 

Izzy scoffs, and it's a harsh sound, deep in his throat. “No. If there’s a god, he’s not fucking looking out for us, here or in the afterlife.”

 

“Bit of a downer, Iz.” 

 

“It's the truth.”

 

“What d’you think happens then? When we die?” 

 

That’s a touchy question to ask, this time of year, when Izzy’s head is already filled with Charles. Ed asked him once if he wanted to visit Charles’s grave. He’d be unmarked, but Ed knows where most of those mass burial sites are, the ones where they dump outlaws like themselves, and he thinks he can guess where Charles might have been laid to whatever rest awaits him. Izzy had said no, that there was no point to it. Charles was gone, and visiting the remains of his body wouldn’t change that. That’s Izzy through and through. He’s not particularly sentimental about things like that, about keeping things. He’d rather face his grief for Charles by inflicting his pain on others, by wreaking a havoc on the world to make them understand his rage. The only thing he still has of Charles is the scar on his neck and the ring he wears on a silver chain. 

 

Ed only asked him about the ring once. Izzy never answered, same as Ed never explained the significance behind the red kerchief he carries with him, folded in an inner pocket of his vest, the last reminder he has of his mother. All he knows is that the ring was given to him by Charles, and that Izzy rubs it between his fingers when things go awry, the closest thing to prayer that Izzy ever indulges in.

 

“I think we sleep,” Izzy says, and there’s some sort of longing there that Ed understands. “If we’re lucky, we might even rest.”

 

For two men who have done as much bad as they have, that’s probably the best they can hope for. For two men who have been tired their entire lives, that’s as good as salvation. 

 

Izzy and Ed might share a similar sort of reverence for the grave, for the concept of a restful and final sleep, but that’s where the similarities end, because Izzy would never do what Ed’s doing now. Izzy will have to be dragged into death kicking and screaming. He’d never ride off in the dead of night, never go willingly to a certain doom, because Izzy is a fighter. Ed used to be. If he thought fighting would help, he’d become a fighter again. 

 

But as it is, he just rides. 

 

The sun peeks over the horizon. It’s nearly dawn. Stede will be waking about now. He’ll see that Ed is gone. Maybe he’ll find the note. Even if he disregards Ed’s final wishes, though, and comes after him, it’ll be too late. Ed’s nearly there now, and Stede will be hours behind him.

 

He’s not going to the railway tracks. Hornigold won’t be there, not yet, not when the meeting isn’t meant to take place until noon. He may have sent men to scout it out- Ed would be shocked if he hadn’t, actually, but Hornigold won’t be there himself. Ed’s not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that he knows where Hornigold will be, but he does. He supposes Hornigold isn’t hiding from him, though. If Ed comes to him, Hornigold will welcome it. Hiding would be counterproductive. 

 

The trail is familiar to him. It’s been years since he’s traveled it, of course, but it’s still familiar. It’s narrow and dirty, and purposefully treacherous to discourage travelers, leading up into the mountains, to an old mineshaft where Hornigold will have set up camp. It was Ed who found the place, actually, years ago. 

 

He doesn’t make it there. Hornigold finds him first. 

 

He sees them before they see him, a band of lawmen that Hornigold must have brought in on the plan, ready to step in if Hornigold falls in this confrontation with Ed. It’s a low fucking blow, Ed has to admit, and he hates that it stings a bit. He knows Hornigold lost whatever honor he had when he turned to the law, but there’s still a part of him that thought Hornigold might make it a fair fight. After all, he and Ed were supposed to meet alone. Clearly, though, Hornigold never planned on giving Ed a chance to survive. 

 

“Edward.” 

 

It’s been- what, five years since he last saw Hornigold? And the man hasn’t changed a bit. Every strand of graying hair is exactly in place underneath his wide-brimmed hat, the same pistol hangs from his hip, his handlebar mustache twisting in exactly the way Ed remembers. The only thing that’s changed is the horse he rides, and the badge that sits shining on his chest. 

 

“Benjamin,” Ed greets. Hornigold has drawn ahead of the others, holding up a hand to stop the procession. They’ve come across each other in a dip in the path, just before the valley really turns into mountainous territory, and there’s room enough on each side of the path for them to spread out, to surround him. He spots Chauncy, sticking close to Hornigold, and he narrows his eyes. He’ll kill him first. Hornigold will shoot him, certainly, after that, but Ed can get a shot into that fucker’s skull before he’s subdued or killed. Hornigold won’t have a reason to go after Stede with Badminton dead. He can secure Stede’s safety, at least, in his last moments. 

 

“Thought it was supposed to be the two of us,” Ed says. 

 

“It was also meant to be at noon, but I see you’ve taken matters into your own hands,” Hornigold points out. 

 

“Fair enough.” 

 

“You understand that I couldn’t risk your escape, don’t you, Edward?” 

 

“You really have changed,” Ed says. “You used to have some fuckin’ balls.” 

 

Hornigold doesn't rise to the bait. “Where’s Israel? I assumed he’d be with you, if no one else. Never seen him leave your side.”

 

“Izzy does what I tell him. I told him to stay behind.” A bit of a lie, but close enough to the truth.  “Where’s Jackie?”

 

Hornigold raises an eyebrow. “You've been watching us.” 

 

“Course I have. Knew all this shit was you ages ago.” 

 

“I wasn’t hiding, Edward.” 

 

“No? Then why’d you send your little lackey poking around instead of seeking me out yourself?” Ed asks, jutting his chin towards Chauncey. 

 

“We both know that if I’d shown up at that ranch Israel would have put a bullet between my eyes before I could so much as blink. Chauncey was my go-between. And it turns out, lucky he was. He has his own reasons for his continued involvement. Besides, I didn’t have to seek you out at all. I knew you’d come to me eventually. All I had to do-” 

 

He raises a hand, drawing something out of his bag. It’s nothing much to look at, just a slip of paper, but Ed knows exactly what it is. 

 

“-was plant this information, and then it was only a matter of time.” 

 

“Iz. You’ll never fucking guess.” 

 

Izzy sighs, long-suffering. “What?” 

 

Ed slams a piece of paper down on the table in front of him. Izzy frowns. 

 

“Fuck is this?” 

 

“What we’re owed.” 

 

Izzy looks up, then down again, then up, eyes widening and jaw slackening.

 

“You’re fucking joking. Hornigold’s stash?” 

 

“Yeah, mate. Everything he fucking took from us when he turned. All our shares, everything. He’s fucking transporting it.” 

 

“How do you-” 

 

“The fucking conductor’s in my pocket, Iz, you know that,” Ed says. “Look, the whole fucking thing’ll be on the Redwood Route in a week. We can take it all, Iz.  We can get everything back from that yellow-bellied fucker.” 

 

Izzy’s eyes narrow. “The Redwood Route? That’s barely guarded.”

 

“Maybe that’s why he chose it. Keep it under the radar or whatnot.”

 

“Maybe… “ Izzy says slowly. He’s suspicious, and maybe Ed should be too. This note, as neat and convenient as it is, is certainly something to be suspicious about. But he knows that he and Izzy are of one mind here. When he turned to the law, Hornigold took everything with him. All the money, all the valuables they’d collected over the years, everything that they were owed. He left them without a penny to their names. If they could take it back-

 

Well, the Black Skulls have made enough money for them to live like kings in their years together, but this- it’s about the principle of the thing, about striking a blow against the man who betrayed them, and that makes it more valuable than just the money the stash contains. 

 

“Let’s fucking do it,” Izzy says finally, and Ed grins. 

 

“You’re predictable, Edward,” Hornigold says, returning the very note that set them on this path to his pocket.

 

“Yeah? Then why’d it fucking take you so long to get me where you wanted me, huh? You’ve been chasing me for years,” Ed says with more bravado than he feels. That seems to strike a nerve though, from the slight twitch that Hornigold’s eyebrow gives. 

 

“I’ll admit, the ranch owner threw a wrench in things,” he says. It's casual, too casual, and Ed’s skin crawls. “What was his name? Stede Bonnet.”

 

Behind him, Chauncey sneers. 

 

“Of course, his taking you in did open the door for Sheriff Badminton. Bonnet’s made rather a mess of his family, you see.”

 

“Killed your brother, didn’t he?” Ed says, pointedly. Chauncey stiffens. “Sounds like he fucking deserved it. Bit of a dick.” 

 

“You do not know of what you speak,” Chauncey hisses, and his hand flies to his pistol before Hornigold stops him with a look. 

 

“All in good time,” he says. He looks Ed up and down, and he knows Hornigold can see the way Ed’s face pales at the idea. A smile creeps across his face. 

 

“Well. It’s almost a shame you won’t get to see it happen.”

 

Ed’s eyes flick to Chauncey, just briefly, but Hornigold catches it. 

 

“Rest assured, Edward,” he says. “I don’t leave loose ends. No matter who falls here today, Bonnet will be taken care of.” 

 

Ed can’t fucking breathe. 

 

“Bonnet. All those second-rate criminals at his ranch. Israel. Your crew. All of them, dead.” 

 

He tilts his head. “You didn't think you could stop it by coming here alone, did you?”

 

At Ed’s silence, he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “I thought you knew me better than that , Edward.”

 

“I do,” Ed says, though his tongue is dry and heavy in his mouth. “But you can’t do shit if you’re dead.” 

 

His hand twitches to his gun, but Hornigold is faster. His own gun is out in a flash, cocked and pointed between Ed’s eyes. Ed’s own trains on Badminton, though he knows now it will make no difference. He’s going to die here. He’s going to die here, and then Stede will die later, and Izzy and Fang and Ivan and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

 

Stupid Edward, stupid, foolish to think he could save anyone, to think he deserved to go out a hero after everything he’s done-

 

“It’s too bad,” Hornigold says, and there’s a real note of remorse in his voice. “I always liked you. You had gumption. Courage. Now… you’re just a dog crawling back with his tail between his legs. It’s disappointing.”

 

“You’re a disappointment, boy,” his father’s voice whispers, breath stinking like ale and something worse, something rotting, like the grave. “You’ve ruined me. And now you’ll join me.” 

 

There will be no peace for Ed in the afterlife. No rest, like he and Izzy talked about. He knows that now. He closes his eyes briefly, and tries to think of Stede’s smile.

 

“I would rethink that move, if I were you.” 

 

A voice rings across the clearing like a gunshot, solid and clear and authoritative, and Ed’s stomach drops but every cell in his body sings in response.

 

Stede. 

 

There’s a whinny, and the thundering of hooves, and figures pop up in the hills surrounding them. He sees Fang and Ivan, Pete and Frenchie and John, everyone, all of them- and then he sees Stede emerge, tall and radiant astride his horse, a gun in his hand and a fury in his eyes. He urges his horse forward, followed by Izzy, who looks downright murderous, Jackie, who’s clearly dressed for the occasion despite the early hour, and Nicolás and Jim, side by side, galloping down the path. Stede pulls to a stop next to Ed, eyes fixed on Hornigold. 

 

“Drop. Your. Gun.”




STEDE

 

Stede wakes up smiling. How could he not wake up smiling? Even despite the stress of the situation, this is the happiest he’s been in a long time. He fell asleep by Ed’s side last night, Ed’s head resting on his chest, his fingers in Ed’s hair. 

 

He remembers what it was like when he and Mary still shared a bed. They got the largest one they could, so there would be no possibility of the two of them touching during the night. What a difference, he thinks, to sleep next to someone you want to touch. He thinks that even if he and Ed were in that absurdly large bed, they would still wake up tangled around each other. There would be no more rolling over to find cold, empty sheets-

 

He sits bolt upright. The sheets are cold. And he is alone. 

 

He tries to remain calm, eyes darting around the room. Ed is not in the chair, not on the couch, not in the washroom given the lack of light. Perhaps he’s in the kitchen, getting coffee, but no, it’s still too early, far too early for anyone to be awake, even Roach, who rises before the roosters, and if Ed was trying to make coffee himself he’d be able to smell the burning from here. Ed is not gifted in the culinary arts. 

 

His clothes are gone. Ed’s clothes are gone. His brace is gone. He wouldn’t have taken his brace- unless-

 

Stede throws the covers off, shooting to his feet, tugging on his own pants and a loose shirt that lays discarded on the floor. There’s something out of place in the room, but it takes him a moment to find it- and then he sees it, the piece of paper propped up on his desk. He unfolds it with shaking  fingers. 

 

Don’t follow me. I’m so sorry. 

 

Edward Teach

 

Stede doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until it all rushes out of him at once, leaving him gasping. 

 

He promised. Ed promised, he swore he wouldn’t do this, he swore he wouldn’t leave like this, he promised-

 

The paper rips in his grasp, and it brings him back into his body. He forces himself to stop shaking. He can’t lose his head now, he can’t, he has to keep together, because if he loses his head then Ed has no chance at all, if he loses his head then Ed dies-

 

- he may already be dead-

 

No, Stede, he snaps at himself. His inner voice sounds a bit like Mary’s. He spares a glance out the window, at the position of the moon, and makes himself think. 

 

Even if Ed left the moment Stede fell asleep, which he doesn't think he did, because he remembers waking and rolling over once with Ed’s body heat still beside him, Ed would still have a couple hours to travel to reach the meeting point. If Stede gets himself together now, they can still catch him. 

 

He’s out and moving before he even has a chance to put on his boots, making a beeline directly towards the one person he knows for certain will move with the urgency required. 

 

Israel is already awake, smoking a pipe, staring out the window of his room.

 

“What the fuck-” 

 

“Ed’s gone,” Stede says, all in  one breath. “I woke up and he was gone, he left-” 

 

Stede shoves the note at him. Israel's expression morphs from confusion to understanding to fury to grief at a shocking pace. 

 

“Stupid fucking fucker ,” Israel swears vehemently. He slams the paper down. 

 

“How’d he fucking- how did you let him leave?” he demands. “You were in the same fucking bed-”

 

Well, he can count Israel on his list of people who know about him and Ed. Not the time to ruminate on that, though. 

 

“I’m a sound sleeper!” Stede protests. “It’s been a stressful few days! We have to-”

 

“Stede, what the hell?” Lucius’s voice sounds. His room is directly across from Israel’s, and he leans against the doorframe, blinking his eyes. A sleepy Pete and a sleepier Fang appear as well. 

 

“Get Jim and Oluwande,” Stede orders, and without question, Pete scurries off to wake them. It only takes moments, and then Jim, more disheveled than Stede has ever seen them, and a very irate Oluwande emerge from down the hall. 

 

“Fuck’s going on-”

 

“Ed’s gone,” Stede says, before anyone can waste anymore time. “I need you two to get Jackie, now. The plan is going forward as of this very moment.” 

 

“Ed’s gone?” Lucius asks. 

 

“What d’you mean, Ed’s gone?” Frenchie’s voice sounds, popping his head around the doorframe. 

 

“I mean he’s gone to meet Hornigold on his own. Get everyone up, get everyone ready, we have to go now .” 

 

“I’m on it,” Fang says, leaving to rouse the others. 

 

“Ed went on his own?” Frenchie whispers to Lucius, who just shrugs. 

 

“What do you need?” Lucius asks. 

 

“I need everyone ready!” Stede snaps. 

 

“Horses, we need to get the horses together,” Israel elaborates from behind him. His hands are shaking, running through his hair. “Get them saddled, get them- fuck it, I’ll just-” 

 

He goes to leave, but Frenchie moves in front of the door, blocking him. 

 

“I can handle it,” he says in a low voice, laying a tentative hand on Israel’s arm. “Let me and Buttons do it. Get yourself together.”

 

“I can-”

 

“You don’t even have shoes on,” Frenchie says with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve got it.”

 

Israel stares at him for a long moment, like he’s centering himself, then nods. 

 

“You need shoes too,” Lucius says, pressing a pair of Stede’s boots into his hand. “We’ll get everything together, ok? We’re on it. Jim and Olu are bringing Jackie our way-”

 

“No-” Israel says then, something dawning on his face. “They won’t be at the tracks. They’ll be-” 

 

He grabs a map from his desk, scribbling something down. 

 

“Get this to them. Have Jackie meet us here.”

 

“Where’s that?” 

 

“An old hideout of Hornigold’s. It’s too early for him to be at the tracks already,” Israel explains. “That’s where Ed’ll be going.” 

 

“Good thinking, Israel,” Stede says. The compliments come naturally to him, even to someone as openly hostile towards him as Izzy, a side effect of years of positive reinforcement with his own crew. Half the time, he’s not even aware he’s doing it. The only reason he’s aware now is because of the look Israel shoots him. 

 

“Then let’s fucking go,” he says. 

 

“I tried, you know,” Stede says, helplessly. “I tried to stop him. I thought I had.” 

 

Israel stops, back towards Stede. 

 

“I told you. He’s stubborn. If he set his mind to it-” 

 

Israel shakes his head. “There’s no changing that man’s mind. But we can stop him from doing something unbearably fucking stupid.” 

 

“We’re in agreement on that,” Stede says. 

 

Ed, you fool, he thinks. Why didn't you wake me? Why didn’t you wait for me?

 

***

“Drop. Your. Gun.” 

 

The words sound much more badass than Stede expects them to, given the shaking that started in his hands the second he saw Ed, surrounded by a virtual posse of lawmen, all with guns aimed at his head. He’d been meant to wait, at least, according to Jackie’s instruction, and the woman does have a hell of a lot of experience, but the only thing he’d been able to think of doing was putting himself between Ed and those guns. So he did. He can hear Jackie cursing under her breath as she pulls her horse, a truly majestic pinto beast, to a stop behind Ed. 

 

“None of you motherfuckers know how to stick to a plan, huh?” she hisses. 

 

“You think this is bad, try living with the guy,” Jim mutters. Stede steadfastly ignores them, gently urging Halifax forward, placing himself firmly between the man he assumes is Hornigold and Ed. 

 

“I’m not certain you heard me,” Stede says. “I said-”

 

He cocks his pistol. “Drop. Your. Guns.” 

 

“Or what? You’ll shoot us? I don’t think so, Baby Bonnet.” 

 

Chauncey’s voice hits him like a shot. He’d barely seen him in his mad dash down the path, so desperate to get there before Ed was riddled with bullet-holes, but he sees him now. 

 

It’s shocking, really, that Stede didn’t recognize him when he first came to the ranch. He’s an exact replica of Nigel, aside from the birthmark creeping down his scalp, and a litany of scars that Nigel, who led a far more comfortable life back east than his brother must have lived out west, didn’t have. Stede supposes he’s tried so hard to block Nigel’s face from his memory over the years that he’d only recognized a vague familiarity until it was too late. 

 

“He won’t shoot us,” Chauncey continues, coming forward. “He’s a coward. Always has been.” 

 

“Try me,” Stede says, directing his aim at Chauncey now. The man just frowns at him, bitter and spiteful and angry. 

 

He never met Chauncey, back when he and Nigel were in school together. Chauncey had been kept home for his studies, and no one was entirely certain why. Stede certainly wasn't about to ask and risk incurring Nigel’s wrath, because a child kept home in their circles usually meant that the child was slow or disfigured in some way, a way that wouldn’t allow him to keep up with his peers. Looking at Chauncey now, that wasn’t the case, which makes Stede think there must have been some other reason the boy was kept home. He can’t imagine it was anything good. 

 

“A coward,” Chauncey repeats. “A coward who stabs a man when his back is turned.” 

 

Stede swallows. “If you’re referring to your brother, I don’t believe there was any stabbing involved. His home burned down, if I recall.” 

 

“And you disappeared. Very shortly after that. Presumed dead. Strange, isn’t it? That a man who held such a grudge against my dear brother flees the city, assumes a new identity out west, so shortly after his death?”

 

“I suppose one could see that as strange. If one were so inclined.” 

 

“One is inclined,” Chauncey spits out. “One is very much inclined.” 

 

Hornigold lets out a sigh. “Are you two finished?” 

 

“Not quite. I want him to confess. Before I put him six feet under.” 

 

“For God’s sake, man, this isn’t really about Bonnet.” 

 

“It is to me!” Chauncey shouts, and Stede sees it then, why Chauncey had to be kept separate from the other children. There’s something nearly feral in his face, something furious and sadistic, something unstable. 

 

“No, no, he’s quite right,” Stede says. If Chauncey’s attention is on him, it means there’s less attention on Ed, and that’s what he wants. “This is between you and me, Chauncey. Say what you have to say.” 


‘What I have to say?” Chauncey laughs, harsh and biting. “What do you have to say, Bonnet? What is your justification for taking my dear brother’s life?” 

 

“I will remind you that Nigel’s home burned down with him inside it. A freak and tragic accident.” 

 

We’ll take care of it, Mary whispers in his mind, and he sees himself loading a body into his carriage, sees himself and Mary sneaking into the cellar through a back window, where no servants will be there to catch them, sees Mary dousing the wooden floors of the grand house with kerosene, sees himself lighting a match, hears one of the servants scream for everyone to get out- they started it at the lowest level to allow them time to flee, and they all had- feels Mary’s hand gripping his as they ride away, watching the house erupt into flames, and he feels a part of himself burn up with it. 

 

“Stop. Saying. That.” Chauncey says through gritted teeth. “Don’t you owe me the truth, Bonnet? Your friend Blackbeard here already confirmed it. But I want to hear it from your own lips. You deprived me of the only family I had-”

 

Then something quiets in his expression, and that’s more terrifying than the rage. “What of your family, Bonnet? I paid them a visit, you know. Your wife believes you dead.” 

 

That white-hot poker of anger is back, pressing at his chest. 

 

“Mary and the children have nothing to do with this.” 

 

“I have a hard time believing that. Though perhaps Mary didn’t know her husband was a murderer. A filthy murderer. A disgrace, a plague, an abomination-” 

 

Stede fires before he can think to stop himself, into the ground at Chauncey’s steed’s hooves. The horse rears, nearly toppling him with it. 

 

“Hold!” Hornigold roars at the rest, who are gearing up to shoot. Stede’s heart is pounding in his chest, and he aims again- 

 

Then a hand is on his wrist, lowering it, and he turns to look directly into Ed’s eyes, wide and terrified and pleading. 

 

“Don’t,” he murmurs, and it's only then that Stede remembers the situation. If he starts a shootout now, there’s no way all of his people are getting out of this alive. He has to salvage this. 

 

“A warning shot,” he says, hoping his voice is steadier than it feels. “To remind you all where we stand.” 

 

Jackie snorts behind him. “That’s my line, dumbass.” 

 

“And where, exactly, is it that you think we stand?” Hornigold says. His eyes are narrow, glaring, looking between Ed and Stede. 

 

“Way I see it, we’re at a standoff,” Stede says. “Now, I’d rather leave this place with as little bloodshed as possible. You let us walk away. You leave us be. And I don’t put a bullet into Badminton’s head here and now. Israel?” 

 

In a flash, Israel’s gun is out of its holster, aimed at Hornigold. 

 

“And Israel doesn't put a bullet in your head,” Stede continues, as though they're holding a pleasant conversation over an afternoon tea. 

 

There’s silence, and for a moment Stede thinks Hornigold is actually considering it. 

 

“I suppose there’s no convincing you back to the winning side, Jackie?” he asks. He looks less than surprised by Jackie’s betrayal. Stede supposes a man in his line of work must expect a certain amount of subterfuge. 

 

“Way I see it, this is the winning side. Cause I’m on it,” Jackie says. 

 

“So you have Jackie’s men. The Siete Gallos, I assume. And your little band of ragtag outlaws. Is that correct?” 

 

Stede frowns, but he nods. 

 

“It does even the odds, I must say. I’m almost impressed. But it’s not enough to ensure that you win.” 

 

“We outnumber you,” Jackie says. 

 

“Indeed. But my men are highly trained, and it’s close, in terms of numbers. Even if you win, many of you will fall. You say you want as little bloodshed as possible? So do I. But I didn't come all this way to leave empty handed.”

 

Stede’s heart sinks directly into his stomach. 

 

“Edward. You came to meet me alone. I assume you’ve made peace with your death. If you agree to come with me now, to stand trial, I will let the others walk free.” 

 

“What?” Badminton spits out. 

 

“Quiet. You’re here insofar as you are useful to me, you twat,” Hornigold says. “And as I see it, your usefulness has outlived itself. Bonnet isn’t enough of a prize to risk Blackbeard.” 

 

Stede’s gaze snaps to Ed, sitting hunched on his horse. There’s a line etched in his forehead like stone and something apologetic in his eyes, and Stede knows that he’ll take the deal-

 

So he prevents him from doing so. 

 

“No deal.” 

 

“That’s not your decision.” 

 

“Isn’t it? Even if Edward agrees, we aren’t letting him go without a fight.” 

 

“Stede-” Ed murmurs. 

 

“No. This isn’t a discussion,” Stede snaps. 

 

“It’s all right,” Ed says, low and pleading. “Please. Let me do this.” 

 

“Absolutely not.” 

 

“I’m giving you a chance, here,” Hornigold says. “I may have lived as an outlaw, Bonnet, but I’m a civilized man, like yourself. A man of my word. If Edward comes with me, you all walk free. Is the life of one man worth the lives of the men you will lose defending him?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

There’s no hesitation in his response, no uncertainty, and it takes both Ed and Hornigold aback. If he wasn’t certain that most of his crew would make the same choice, out of principle if not out of love for Ed, he would feel guilty about it, but he can hear murmurs of assent coming from the men surrounding him and from the hilltops where some of the others are scattered.

 

“Shame,” Hornigold says. “This could have been so much easier.” 

 

Stede takes a breath, looks to Ed, looks to his men surrounding him- 

 

And then a voice rings out through the air. 

 

“You’ll take me.”



IZZY

 

The words leave him like a punch to the gut, quick and rushed, and they hang in the morning air like something tangible. It’s silent, dead silent, and Jim is staring at him, and Jackie is staring at him, and he can feel eyes burning into the back of his head that he knows are Frenchie’s, so he speaks again. 

 

 “You’ll  take me,” he repeats. “I’ll go without a fucking fight. You leave Edward and the others. No one dies today.”

 

“Iz, no, what the fuck are you-”

 

“Shut it, Ed,” Izzy hisses. He can’t bring himself to look at Ed, can’t bring himself to look at Frenchie, because he knows what’s coming. He knows what happens if he does this- it's right back to the gallows for him, right back to the noose tightening around his neck. They’ll parade him around first, he’s sure, he won’t get the dignity of a quiet execution. They’ll walk him through town, wherever they decide to take him, let people throw rotten food at him and curse him out and they’ll relish in it, relish in the fact that Israel Hands went willingly to this fate. Only once they’ve gloated will they finally put the noose around his neck. 

 

Will it take as long for him to die as it took Charles? Will he kick like that? Choke like that? Or will his neck snap and end it quick? He hopes it does. The idea of a drawn out death, in front of the fuckers who took Charles from him, took his life from him, the idea of giving them that satisfaction, makes him sick to his stomach. 

 

Izzy had always hoped he’d go out in a gunfight. But maybe this is how it's supposed to go. Maybe the rope scar on his neck was less of a reminder than it was a promise, a brand, a curse to return one day and end it all. 

 

“And why would I settle for you, Israel?” Hornigold asks. 

 

Izzy shrugs. “Because if you don’t you’ll be the first to die. I’m a faster draw than you. Faster than any of these fuckers, I’m willing to bet.” 

 

“Five years ago, perhaps that was true.” 

 

Izzy rests his hand on his pistol. “You want to bet your life, be my guest. We’ll see whose brains end up on the dirt. I know which of us I’m betting on.” 

 

Hornigold stares him down. Izzy stares back. 

 

“Deal,” the man says reluctantly. 

 

There’s some protest from Badminton, but Izzy tunes it out. Badminton’s words don’t matter now. It’s done. Hornigold isn't happy about it. He’s a step down from Blackbeard, the prize Hornigold came here hoping to obtain, but Israel ‘Quickshot’ Hands is still a hell of a prize, even on his own. He’s got nearly as long a list of offenses as Ed, and if it weren’t for Hornigold’s personal vendetta against Blackbeard, it wouldn’t be a difficult decision to take Izzy in his stead. But as it is, his life is just enough to satisfy Hornigold’s hunt, at least for now. It’ll give Ed and the others enough time to run, to get somewhere beyond Hornigold’s reach. 

 

It’ll give Ed a chance with Bonnet. Because really, isn’t it Izzy who ties Ed to this life? Wasn’t it him who dug his teeth into Ed like a fucking mad dog, dragging him back into the fight time and time again when deep down he knew Ed was tired of it all? Isn’t that what he's been trying to do from the second they arrived on this ranch, drag Ed away from Stede, away from a chance at the happiness that Izzy has only ever known once in his life? 

 

Izzy isn’t built for that, for happiness. He’s too damaged, too broken, to have a chance at this kind of life. But maybe Ed isn’t. Maybe he can do it, really do it. 

 

“He’ll fucking hang you, Iz,” Ed says, and his voice is broken, jagged like shards of glass shoved down his throat, and he grabs Izzy’s arm, forcing him to face him. Izzy side-eyes Hornigold, wondering if this will be allowed, but he knows it will, because Ed’s pain is Hornigold’s favorite taste, it always has been, and this is a banquet on a silver platter, hearing Ed beg.

 

“I know,” Izzy says. His airway is tightening and he doesn’t think he’ll take a full breath before the chance to ever breathe again is stolen from him. 

 

“You can’t- fucking- don’t do this,” Ed pleads. “Come on, Iz, don’t do this. Please don’t. I can’t do this without you.”

 

“It’s already done, Ed,” Izzy mutters. He turns them just a bit, Ed following the motion. Izzy reaches up, hooking the silver chain around his neck and pulling it over his head. He holds the ring a moment, tests its familiar weight in his palm. It’s gleaming, polished by years and years of rubbing it with his fingers when times got tough. 

 

“Got you something.” 

 

They're coming off of a raid, him and Charles and their gang. A successful one, the boys are happy, sifting through the valuables and money they’d taken off the passengers of the train car. Izzy doesn’t keep much, he never does, he goes for the money over the jewelry, only taking things he thinks he can hawk, so his pockets are much lighter than the rest. 

 

“Stole me something, you mean?” he asks, glancing around, making sure none of the others are within earshot. 

 

“Course. What do you fuckin’ take me for, Iz?” Charles asks. He’s leaning up against a wall of the makeshift hideout they’ve taken up residence in for now, some old abandoned barn in the middle of the mountains. He’s limping, took a bullet in the thigh, but he’ll recover, Izzy made sure of it himself. His hair is long, pulled back from his face with a leather cord, and he’s grinning at Izzy in a way that makes his knees weak, even after nearly two years of being on the receiving end of that smile. 

 

“What’ve you got, then?” Izzy asks, feigning an air of exasperation. Charles pulls something from his pocket and tosses it Izzy’s way. Izzy catches it, as Charles knew he would. He holds the object out, rolling it between his fingers. It takes him a moment to realize what it is. He looks up at Charles, wide eyed. Charles’s smile softens from something daring to something almost… nervous, and he jerks his head back towards a makeshift room behind him, fashioned out of an old stall. Izzy follows him, shutting the door. 

 

“I know we can’t, really,” Charles says quietly, before Izzy has a chance to speak, like he thinks Izzy is going to refuse him, even though Izzy can’t refuse Charles anything. “I know we can’t, not for real, but I figured, just between us… maybe we could.” 

 

Izzy is stock still as Charles takes the ring from his hand, sliding it onto Izzy’s finger in a gesture so tender, so uncharacteristic of Charles, who is as rough and tumble as the day Izzy saw him fall from that horse and laugh as his ankle nearly snapped, that Izzy nearly stops breathing. His fingers trace over it, over the cold metal. 

 

“Thought it might fit,” he says, aiming for a smirk, but falling somewhat short. “I know your hands pretty well, Hands.” 

 

Izzy lets out something resembling a laugh. 

 

“You’re a fucking idiot.” 

 

“Probably. So will you?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Then Izzy is dragging him into a kiss, all clashing teeth and fierce possession, because he is Charles’s now, he has always been Charles’s but now he always will be, in their eyes if not the eyes of the law or the lord, and that’s more than enough for him. 

 

“Didn’t get one for you,” Izzy mutters as they pull away to catch their breath. 

 

“I’m always a few steps ahead of you,” Charles says. 

 

“I’ll get you one next time.” 

 

“You better. I want something fancy.” 

 

But there won’t be a next time. Charles was right, he always was two steps ahead of Izzy, and he’s more than two steps ahead of him in death. Because their private moment wasn’t as private as they thought, and a man Charles trusted with his life will betray him because of it, and Izzy will be left with nothing but a ring around his neck and a hole in his very soul to remind him of the man he thought he would spend forever with. 

 

Izzy presses the ring, chain and all, into Ed’s hand, so tightly it nearly cuts into his flesh. He grasps at it, at the ring, at Ed’s hand, trying to anchor himself to something. Ed grips back just as tight. 

 

“Give it to-” Izzy’s voice catches. Ed will know who he means, he doesn't have to say it. “Give it to him, will you? Tell him. I never did. He… deserves to know.” 

 

Ed’s fingers tighten on his arm, mouth opening as if to protest, and Izzy pulls away. He makes himself look at Stede, at the shock in his eyes, and he points at him. 

 

“You take care of him,” he says harshly. Hornigold and Badminton are just far enough away that they can’t hear him, and Izzy thanks the lord for that, because this is a softness he doesn’t want them to see. “You don’t let him- don’t let him do anything fucking stupid. Not for me.”

 

Stede nods wordlessly, but he comes towards Ed, taking Elizabeth’s reins and tugging them away with gentle hands- and Izzy gets it now, he does, knows that Ed needs gentleness in his life and Stede is the man to give it. Ed barely resists. He’s in a state of shock, clearly, wide-eyed and scared like a kid who’s been shoved over unexpectedly, but it still hurts a bit that he doesn't fight it. Even though Izzy doesn’t want him to fight.

 

He nods to Ivan and Fang, who look more cut up about this than he expects- but they’ll be fine, Stede’ll take the two of them in, he knows that much, can give the man that much credit-

 

And his eyes fall on Frenchie, in spite of himself. Frenchie is pale and his hands are shaking and he’s not even blinking as he holds Izzy’s gaze. He’s wearing the coat that Izzy saw him mending, a long thing that hits below his knees. Why that coat? Why is that coat so important that he had to mend it to wear today? He wants to ask, and maybe it’s a wild, desperate grasp at something, anything, that would make it seem like this isn’t happening, but he tells himself he’ll ask another time. 

 

There won’t be another time. Foolish thought. Izzy has never been one to deny reality. He’s not blessed with an imagination like Ed’s, certainly not like Frenchie’s, but suddenly and desperately he wishes he was, if only so he could live in a world where this isn’t the last time he sees Frenchie for a few minutes more.  

 

He starts to search for little things to hold onto, little things to remember in his last days, last hours, last minutes. The shape of Frenchie’s eyes, the mole on the left side of his neck, the way his beard climbs just slightly higher on one side of his face than the other because the maintenance of his facial hair is low on Frenchie’s list of priorities on any given day. He focuses on his eyebrows, finds himself wishing that Frenchie would twitch them and transform like he did that day in town, that he would transform back into himself, into the Frenchie with the easy smile and the quips and the Quickshot- fuck, he’d give anything to hear Frenchie call him Quickshot one more time, not Israel- wishes that he would become anyone other than this terrified, stricken man in front of him now. 

 

He gets it now, at least a little, why Ed came here alone. Why he would risk what he risked to keep Stede safe (Izzy would like to think it has something to do with him and Ivan and Fang, as well, but he’s no fool, he’s under no illusions as to where Ed’s priorities lie, where his head was when he made his midnight dash). He gets it, because looking at Frenchie now, surrounded by lawmen who’d shoot him without a second thought if they got the word, or one of them just got antsy, something final and sure settles in his stomach. Frenchie must stay whole. 

 

Izzy is giving himself up for Ed. But it's Frenchie who gives him the strength to follow through. 

 

He should say something. Anything. But what would that be? Thank you? I’m sorry? That Izzy feels like he’s been drowning for most of his life and Frenchie is the first desperate gasp of air he’s had in years, maybe ever?

 

He doesn’t say any of that. 

 

“Name one of the colts after me, will you?” he says instead, and it’s a meager fucking thing but it’s all he can manage without crumbling- 

 

But he nearly crumbles anyway at the awful noise that escapes Frenchie, tight and low and and pained, at the way Jim has to reach over and catch him by the arm before he falls off his horse, at the way he starts to reach for Izzy-

 

But he turns instead, turns to Badminton’s fury and Hornigold’s sneer. He urges Shadow forward and he doesn’t look back. 

 

He’s thirteen years younger than he is now, and there is blood on his clothes. His throat is swollen and tight, it hurts to breathe and he can’t speak, a combination of screaming himself hoarse as he watched Charles hang and the noose that fastened around his own neck after Charles’s body had been cut down. The blood is not his own. The blood is that of the people who took Charles from him, of the sheriff who arrested them, of the mole that ratted them out. The blood is that of the executioner, the blood of the bystanders who cheered as Charles’s face turned blue. 

 

The man who rescued him is by his side. He has a beard, not too long but one that he’d talked about growing out while Izzy was barely clinging to consciousness on the back of his horse, nattering on like some sort of madman. Edward Teach, he’d introduced himself. Edward Teach, born on a beach. Far from the ocean now. He doesn’t know Izzy’s name, not yet, but he will. 

 

Izzy has heard of the man staring him down now, Benjamin Hornigold. Charles had laughed at him before, saying he wasn't a real outlaw, too posh for it, but he looks enough like an outlaw to suit Izzy’s needs. 

 

“Can you ride?” Hornigold asks. Izzy nods. 

 

“Can you shoot?” 

 

Izzy nods again. 

 

Hornigold looks to Edward, who shifts under the scrutiny. 

 

“You vouch for him?”

 

“Seems tough,” Ed says. “You didn’t see what he left behind him. Fuckin’ massacre.” 

 

Hornigold looks back to Izzy, appraisingly.  Izzy knows what he sees, what everyone sees, a small-ish man with hard eyes and a tight set to his jaw. Not a threat, not really, not at first glance. Izzy always has to prove himself in that regard.

 

The blood likely speaks for itself though. That’s a point in his favor.

 

“Every man fights for something. What do you fight for?” 

 

It’s a strange fucking question, for a gang leader to ask. Who fucking cares about his motivation so long as he does his job? But Hornigold expects an answer. 

 

“I don’t think he can talk, boss,” Ed says, but Izzy opens his mouth. His voice is barely more than a squeak. His throat will heal eventually, but not completely. He’ll have a rasp to his voice for the rest of his life. 

 

“They took something from me.” Someone, not something, but he doesn’t know Edward or Hornigold yet, not enough to trust them with that information. One day, he will know Edward, he will trust Edward, trust him with every facet of his life and his past.  He will never trust Hornigold in the same way. 

 

“I want to make them bleed for it.” 

 

Neither Ed nor Hornigold has to ask who he means by ‘them’. 

 

Hornigold seems satisfied by his answer. Edward seems downright gleeful. Hornigold extends a hand, and Izzy takes it with a firm shake. 

 

“Welcome to the team,” Hornigold says. 

 

Hornigold extends a hand as Izzy reaches him, closing on his wrist, twisting it behind his back as he cuffs him. 

 

“Welcome back, Israel.” 



ED

 

Ed’s ears are ringing, a high pitched, whirring buzz of a sound. It’s like gunfire, like the reverb you hear when a gun goes off too close to your head, but no shots had been fired aside from Stede’s, and that was ages ago, at least it feels like it, so why are his ears ringing?

 

He can just hear, beyond the ringing, some sort of low, prolonged sound, like a wounded animal,  and for a moment he thinks it’s coming from him, but it’s not, it's coming from the collapsed figure a few feet away, who’s surrounded by the crew. He thinks maybe it's Frenchie, but he can’t turn his head far enough to check. 

 

He can’t move, he can’t speak, all he can do is stare after the cloud of dust where Izzy has disappeared. 

 

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. Hadn’t he, just this morning, been thinking about how Izzy would never go quietly to his death? And this had been quiet as anything. Had Ed even said goodbye? Had he said anything? 

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to be him, it was never supposed to be Izzy, Ed was supposed to die and no one else was supposed to get hurt, it was never supposed to be Izzy, he was supposed to keep everyone else safe, it was never supposed to be Izzy- 

 

“Ed. Edward.” 

 

It’s only Stede’s voice that can break through the ringing, only Stede’s hand on his face that allows him to release the tension in his chest in some kind of choked, pained, unintelligible sound, only Stede’s whisky-brown eyes drinking him in like he’d never thought he’d see Ed again- which, to be fair, had been the plan- that brings him back into his body. He must have dismounted his horse, because he’s on his own two feet now, but he has no recollection of doing it.

 

His knees buckle, and Stede catches him around the waist, keeping him upright, but only just. He clutches at Stede, fingers scrabbling at his back for some kind of purchase, for something to cling to when his entire world has been turned on its head. 

 

“I have you,” Stede murmurs into his ear, and it's only then that Ed feels the trembling of Stede’s hands as he holds him. 

 

Stede gives him exactly two minutes, which he seems to need as much as Ed himself does, before he pulls back, pressing a very gentle kiss to Ed’s forehead, which nearly shocks him back into his own body. Not quite, but it's a very close thing. 

 

“Now, we need to regroup, Ed, don’t we?” Stede says coaxingly. “We need to figure out what to do next.” 

 

“Next?” Ed echoes, uncomprehendingly. 

 

“Of course,” Stede says. “There's always a next.” 

 

Not for Izzy, Ed thinks. Very soon, there won’t be a next for Izzy. He’s shaking again. Stede looks him up and down, sees he’s not fit for any kind of leadership now, and bless him, he understands. Stede always understands. He doesn’t push Ed on his decision, on his stupid fucking decision that’s gotten Izzy fucking killed, even though Ed would deserve it if Stede put him six feet under right now. He’d deserve it. He’d almost welcome it. Instead, Stede keeps a firm grip on Ed, the only thing really anchoring him to the world, and leads him to Ivan and Fang, who seem almost as shell shocked as Ed himself feels. 

 

“Will you keep an eye on him, for a moment?” Stede asks quietly. Fang and Ivan nod, nearly in unison, and Ivan reaches out for Ed, putting a tentative hand on his elbow. 

 

“Thank you,” Stede says, before lifting Ed’s chin with a finger. “I’ll be back in a moment.” 

 

Ed nods, slowly, and Stede gives him a ghost of a smile. 

 

He walks off, leaving Ed with Ivan and Fang. 

 

“You ok, boss?” Ivan asks. 

 

Ed doesn't answer, and Fang smacks Ivan in the shoulder.

 

“Does he look ok?” he asks in a far too loud hiss. 

 

“No, but it's only polite to ask, innit?” Ivan hisses back. They try to draw Ed into conversation, but at his adamant refusal, they begin talking amongst themselves. 

 

“I didn’t see that one coming, mate, I’ll be honest,” Ivan says. 

 

“Me neither,” Fang says. “Izzy’s a loyal dude, you know, but still…” 

 

“That’s a big sacrifice to make,” Ivan murmurs. He looks sad, Ed notes. They both do, but Ivan slightly more. He forgets, sometimes, that it was Izzy who brought Ivan into this life. In many ways, Izzy is to Ivan what Hornigold is- was- to Ed. Except better, probably. Definitely better. 

 

Fang pats his head consolingly. “I’ll miss him, the little bastard.” 

 

“Yeah. Me too. Wish I could have said thanks,” Ivan murmurs. “For everything.” 

 

“He knows, I bet you anything.” 

 

Ed tunes it out, then, because they're talking about Izzy like he’s already dead. Which, for all intents and purposes, he is. Ed’s entire body feels brittle, like he might fucking snap in half at any given moment, and he closes his eyes.

 

He can’t picture Izzy hanging. He can’t picture Izzy dead at all, really,  but the only way he ever saw Izzy going out was in a firefight, taken down by some sonofabitch’s bullet. It almost happened, once, years ago. Ed’s fault. Like it always is.  

 

“Fuck, come on, Iz, stay with me here.” Ed’s babbling a bit, he can tell, but there is a truly alarming amount of blood spewing from Izzy’s side, and his face is whiter than usual. Ed has him propped in front of him on his horse. They’ve left their pursuers in the dust, but Ed can still hear shouts in the distance. Lucky it’s dark. If they had to pull a stupid stunt like this, at least they did it at night when escape was easier. 

 

Hornigold’s gonna have their asses for this one. 

 

“S’fine, Ed,” Izzy says. The familiar rasp of his voice is weak, almost trembling, and Ed blanches.

 

“Nah, nah, come on.” Ed taps his face. “We’re gonna stop here and get you patched up, huh?” 

 

“We out of range?” 

 

“Out of range enough. You know me, I’m faster than any of those fuckin’ lawmen.”

 

Izzy barks out a laugh that devolves into a very real groan. “All right, yeah, stopping is probably good.” 

 

Ed pulls on the reins, Maria snorting as she skids to a stop. Ed lowers Izzy down, shrugging off his jacket and removing his shirt to use as a makeshift bandage. 

 

“How bad?” 

 

“You’ve had worse,” Ed says. It might be true, he doesn’t know what kind of injuries Izzy got himself into with Charles, but he hasn’t had a shot this bad since Ed’s known him. 

 

“That’s a fucking lie.” 

 

“Yeah, it was.” 

 

He cuts at the fabric around the wound, grimacing at the blood that gushes from it. 

 

“Bullet still in there?” 

 

“Yep. “ 

 

“Fuck.” 

 

“Yep.” 

 

“Can you get it out? “

 

“Not here. We’ll have to make it back first. Just gotta stop the bleeding.” 

 

Ed’s heart is pounding, and his hands shake until Izzy grabs his wrist, surprisingly lucid for the amount of pain he must be in. 

 

“Take a breath,” he says drily. “You’re fine. I trust you.” 

 

And he does, and Ed trusts him right back. It’s been four years since he first met Izzy, and he thinks he’s never trusted anyone more in his life. That’s why his heart is pounding, probably, because Ed is no stranger to losing people but he thinks Izzy’s death might just snap him right in half. 

 

“Course you do,” he says instead. “I’m the most trustworthy guy I know.” 

 

He ties his shirt around Izzy’s middle, tight as he can without cutting off his breathing. Izzy nearly passes out from it, but Ed smacks his face until he comes back to himself. 

 

“Your bedside manner is horrible,” Izzy says. 

 

“Not bedside manner, cause you’re not gonna die, are you?”

 

“Sure, Ed,” Izzy says, tipping his head back. “Whatever you say.” 

 

“I do say. So listen to your superior.”

 

“Just because that ponce promoted you doesn't mean I’ll listen to you. I’ve got years more experience.” 

 

“But you don’t have the title, do you?” 

 

Izzy nearly loses consciousness a few times on the way back to Hornigold’s hideout. Ed manages to keep him awake with a stream of ramblings. He tells Izzy fucking anything he can think of to get him to stay awake, everything he hasn’t told him over the past four years. He tells him about his mother (dead now, fever, a year ago) and how she looked when she laughed. He tells him about his father, about his death, about how Ed still relives it on bad nights. He tells him about his early years with Hornigold, about how they first found Fang (Ivan will join them eventually, under Izzy’s tutelage, but not now, not until they break away from Hornigold and build names of their own). Izzy chuckles, every once in a while, or groans, or tells Ed he’s a fucking idiot. It takes them time, but they get him back. 

 

Izzy will be unconscious for three days. When he wakes up, Ed will be at his side, and Izzy will throw the closest object (a tin of water) directly at his head. 

 

“You’ll be the fucking death of me one day, Ed,” he’ll groan, but his eyes will be as fond as Izzy’s eyes ever get, and Ed will laugh at the notion. 

 

“I’ll be dead long before you get dragged down to hell,” Ed will say. 

 

Only one of them will be right. 

 

“Boss?” 

 

Ed shakes himself back to awareness, as much awareness as he’s able to muster. Fang is ducking his head a bit to meet Ed’s gaze, a worried look in his eyes. It’s not just the three of them anymore- Lucius and Pete have joined them, Lucius rubbing Fang’s back. Oluwande’s there too, having a hushed conversation with Ivan. 

 

“What?” Ed manages to get out. 

 

“Lucius and I were talking, and, well-” 

 

Fang sniffs, eyes tearing up, and he looks to Lucius, who finishes the sentence for him. 

 

“We were thinking we should have a funeral. For Izzy.” 

 

Lucius glances back over his shoulder at Frenchie, who’s still on the ground, John with an arm around him, propping him up, while Roach strokes his head, murmuring something in a language Ed doesn't know. He’s stopped that noise he was making, that low, wounded animal sound, and Ed’s glad of it, because that noise was unbearable, all the more unbearable because Ed can’t bring himself to make a similar one. 

 

“I think we could all use some closure,” Lucius says slowly, dragging his eyes back, and there’s something immeasurably sad in his expression. That’s strange, Ed thinks. Lucius barely knew Izzy.

 

“We were wondering if there was anything of his that you’d want to… well, to lay to rest.”

 

“Since we won't have a body,” Pete supplies when Ed doesn’t answer. Lucius reaches back and pinches him. 

 

“Ow, babe, I’m just saying,” Pete says.  

 

“Something to-” Ed starts, then stops. He squeezes Izzy’s ring, still clutched in his left hand. He shakes his head. 

 

“Ok, if you do think of anything, let us know,” Lucius says. It’s unbearably gentle, like Ed’s something fragile, which right now he supposes he is, but it’s not gentleness from Lucius he needs- 

 

It’s Stede. It’s always Stede. 

 

He finds him in conversation with Jackie, who has a frown on her face, but she’s nodding. Nicolás and Jim nod along with her, interjecting every once in a while. Stede looks… satisfied, almost, which is a strange expression given the circumstances. He moves, and Ed, almost unconsciously, unhooks himself from Ivan’s grip and follows him. 

 

“May I?” Stede asks, just before Ed reaches him. He’s knelt next to John, Roach, and Frenchie. 

 

“He’s a bit broken up,” John says. 

 

“More than a bit, I’m sure,” Stede says. He reaches out and takes Frenchie’s hand. Frenchie raises his head just enough to look at Stede with bloodshot eyes. 

 

“I have a question for you, Frenchie,” Stede says. “Do you know anything about prisoner transport in these regions?” 

 

Frenchie blinks at him a couple times, owlish. 

 

“A bit, yeah,” he croaks out. 

 

“If you had to guess, where would they be taking Israel?” 

 

Ed frowns. This seems uncharacteristically insensitive from Stede, almost cruel, to interrogate a distraught Frenchie about Izzy’s potential whereabouts when there’s nothing they can do.

 

“Uh, I guess-” Frenchie’s breath shudders, and John pats his back soothingly. 

 

“Maybe Prospector?” Frenchie finishes. Roach nods in agreement.

 

“You’d know it as Hope’s Spring, boss,” Roach chimes in. “It’s that old mining village that had that big population boom a few years back when they struck a gold vein. I used to make out like a bandit there. I mean, I was a bandit, but you get it.” 

 

“Anne always avoided it, cause there’s a lot of law enforcement there,” Frenchie continues. “I think it's a bit of a headquarters since there’s not a lot of big cities this far west.”

 

“And how would they get him there?” 

 

“Why’s that matter?” 

 

The words are out of Ed’s mouth before he can stop them. Stede turns, automatically extending his other hand to Ed, but Ed doesn’t take it. Stede looks confused, and that confuses Ed more than the situation already does. 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“Why does it matter?” Ed asks again. “He’s fucking gone.” 

 

John glares at him as Frenchie lets out a harsh breath. 

 

“Well, yes, he’s gone,” Stede says, still frowning. “That's why we need to know where he’s going.” 

 

“Doesn’t fucking matter where he’s going,” Ed says, growing frustrated. “He’s gone, Stede-”

 

Something dawns on Stede’s face. He squeezes Frenchie’s hand and stands, placing a placating hand on Ed’s chest. 

 

“Ed. You didn't think I was leaving Israel to that fate, did you?” 

 

“Fuck’s that mean?” 

 

“We’re going after him,” Stede says, like there was never any question about it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

 

“...what?” 

 

Stede smiles then, gentle and sad, and cups his cheek. “We don’t leave men behind, Edward. It’s not our way.” 

 

Ed could collapse. He could collapse right here, because Stede has said that like he’s not preforming a miracle of some sort. 

 

“It’s dangerous,” he says. 

 

“Most everything seems to be,” Stede says. “Doesn’t mean we won’t try.” 

 

“Your men-” 

 

“Oh, I think they’ll agree,” Stede says. “But I suppose I should check.” 

 

He turns his head slightly, raising his voice. 

 

“We’re going after Israel, aren’t we?” 

 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Pete’s voice rises. 

 

“Fuck yeah we are!” 

 

“I thought it was decided already,” Swede says. 

 

“Oh, we’re all going to die for that little pissant, aren’t we?” Lucius groans. 

 

“No one’s dying, babe.” 

 

“I've already sent Karl on reconnaissance,” Buttons calls. 

 

More and more voices join until every single person in the clearing has called their assent, some more reluctantly than others, but it's unanimous. Stede’s face is bright and shining, and Ed is absolutely stunned by the sight. 

 

“I told you,” Stede says. 

 

Ed’s chin wobbles, and his vision blurs, but he reaches for Stede, pressing his forehead against his almost desperately. 

 

“You’d- you’d really-?” 

 

“Of course I would,” Stede says. “There was never any question.”

 

Stede. Beautiful, miraculous Stede. He’s been thinking it from the beginning, hasn’t he, that Stede is miraculous, he just didn’t know how true that would end up being. 

 

If Izzy survives this, it will be Stede’s doing. Ed was ready to lie down in the dirt and let it swallow him, ready to give up on any chance Izzy had of life, and Stede- Stede hadn’t. Stede had immediately started planning to save the life of a man who hates him. Stede hadn’t given up on Izzy, and he hadn’t given up on Ed. 

 

“You’re fucking incredible,” he murmurs, low, just for Stede’s ears. “How do you fuckin’- you’re incredible.” 

 

“Yes, well,” Stede says, a bit flustered. “Remember that next time you  try to make a break for it in the dead of night, won’t you?”

 

Ed winces, but he deserves that, deserves the bit of bite in Stede’s voice. 

 

“I won’t. Not again.” 

 

“You did say that last time.”

 

“I mean it, though.”

 

There must be something in his voice, something sincere, or maybe just pitiful, because Stede softens. 

 

“We’ll talk about it when this is through, all right?” 

 

“Ok.”

 

“Good. Now let’s go get our damned man back.”



 

LUCIUS

 

Lucius has no idea what he’s doing here. 

 

For god’s sake, he can barely shoot a gun. He can hold one well enough, enough to make it look like he knows what he’s doing, but that’s good as he will ever be, despite Pete’s best efforts to teach him.  The things scare him half to death. And a gun in his hands, well, that’s more than terrifying, it’s a fucking hazard. So him going on this insane rescue mission for Izzy doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but… it would be stranger not to go, he thinks. 

 

He thought if anyone’s heart was getting broken today, it would be Stede’s, that they would be too late to catch Ed and he’d be dead on the ground or carted away for his execution. He didn’t expect a heartbroken Frenchie. 

 

He’s never really had cause to think about what a heartbroken Frenchie would look like. Frenchie’s always so…. upbeat, hopeful, optimistic. He has his down days, sure, but he bounces back from things very quickly. He would have guessed, though, that it would look more like what Frenchie’s been doing in the last day or so- moping and singing very sad songs to anyone who will listen. That’s manageable. Usually songwriting is a very, very bad sign when it comes to heartbreak and grief, but Frenchie sings day in and day out regardless, so he’s a rare case where it might actually be cathartic. 

 

But this Frenchie, the Frenchie who’s barely spoken a word since they set out to stakeout the jailhouse where Jackie is pretty sure they’re keeping Izzy before transport, the Frenchie who looks like he’s about to fall out of his saddle with every jostle of his horse, who looks despondent and hopeless despite the rescue mission- Lucius isn’t sure how to help. He just knows someone has to try, and that someone is going to have to be him. Roach and John are doing a good job, all things considered, but neither of them are really talkers in the way Lucius is. They’ll have a lot of waiting to do tonight, during the stakeout. That’s as good a time as any. Certainly a better time than now would be. 

 

There’s a rustle in the brush by his horse’s hooves, and she spooks. She’s a skittish horse, a skittish horse for a fairly skittish man. Pete thinks it's hilarious, but he’s been working with the two of them, and the horse has improved, if not Lucius. 

 

“Oh god-” he says, trying to sooth her, but she’s well and truly balking, and continues to do so until Pete falls back, taking the reins from Lucius and bringing them to a stop. 

 

“Oh, you’re a star, thank you, babe,” Lucius says. His mare stomps her feet, still anxious, so they wait a few moments, Pete waving the others ahead with a quick “we’ll catch up”. 

 

“You ok, sweetie?” he asks. 

 

“Oh, sure, barely jostled me,” Lucius says, squeezing Pete’s hand. 

 

“I meant about all this,” Pete says, waving at their morose group. “About Izzy, all that.” 

 

“I mean, there’s not a lot of lost love on my end, but I feel bad for Frenchie. Fang, too.” 

 

“I get Fang, but why Frenchie?” 

 

Lucius raises his eyebrows. Pete winces. 

 

“Did I miss something?” 

 

“A bit , yes,” Lucius says. “Izzy and Frenchie are sort of… involved, I think. I’m not entirely certain what the situation is, but there’s something going on there.” 

 

“Really?” Pete asks. 

 

“Yes, babe, really,” Lucius says. “You didn’t know?” 

 

Pete shrugs. “You know I’m not good at that stuff like you are.” 

 

“You do know about… well,” Lucius gestures towards Ed and Stede, riding side by side, but not really speaking. There’s tension there after Ed’s midnight dash, and usually Lucius would be all over that, but given that both of them are alive he figures Frenchie takes precedence. 

 

“Oh, duh,” Pete replies. Lucius grins, in spite of himself, in spite of the situation. 

 

“See? You’re better at it than you think. I don’t even think Stede knew about that until it was already happening.” 

 

Pete snorts. “That’s not surprising.” 

 

“No, it’s really not.” 

 

His mare has calmed enough to move on, and with a click of Pete’s tongue, they start riding again. 

 

It’s comfortable, with Pete by his side. It’s always comfortable, even when they fight, even in a dangerous situation like this one. 

 

Lucius spent most of his life in cities, so he never met anyone like Pete until… well, until he met Pete. He surprised him, from the very first. Pete was a rough outlaw who tried to rob his and Stede’s carriage on their way west, who called sewing women’s work and sneered at the finer things that both Stede and Lucius enjoy- who then turned around and made Lucius coffee exactly the way he likes it after only seeing him make it once, who insisted on teaching Lucius how to shoot because “a pretty thing like you should be able to defend yourself, there’s some rascals out here” , who's a shockingly good storyteller and very possibly the most genuine man Lucius has ever met. 

 

And he cares about Lucius, which is mind-blowing on a lot of levels. Likes him. Loves him, probably. Neither of them have said that just yet, but it’s there, a sort of quiet understanding that will wait until one of them voices it. And Lucius loves him right back. He’s lucky. Luckier than he has any right to be, probably. 

 

They reach their stake-out point after a while, an old shack of a place that just overlooks the edge of town where the jail cell is. Jackie and the Siete Gallos have circled around closer to the train tracks, taking Jim and Oluwande with them.

 

“I’ll take her, if you want,” Pete says, gesturing to Lucius’s mare as he dismounts. 

 

“Would you really? I do want to check on Frenchie.” 

 

“I figured you did. I can handle it,” Pete says, puffing his chest out a bit like he does whenever Lucius lets him do something for him. 

 

“Ooh, my big strong man,” Lucius says, leaning in to press a kiss to Pete’s cheek. Pete flushes dark red. 

 

“It’s, uh, it’s no trouble at all,” he stammers, and Lucius shoots him a wink as he walks off. 

 

He finds Frenchie seated at the top of the hill, looking down at the town. He’s low enough to the ground that they won’t be spotted by any nosey lawmen, not when it’s approaching dusk- fuck, they’ve been riding for a long time, Lucius hadn’t noticed how sore his thighs were until now- since they’d first had to circle back to the ranch for supplies, ammunition, and a quick strategy session with Jackie and Nicolás.

 

Frenchie’s singing, and at first Lucius thinks that might be a good sign, but… well, the lyrics leave a bit to be desired. 

 

“Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,

Sing the Death March as you carry me along 

Take me to the valley, there lay the sod o’er me, 

I’m a young cowboy, I know I’ve done wrong.”

 

Lucius winces, straightens his sleeves, and heads over. 

 

“That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?” he asks. Frenchie looks up with red, bloodshot eyes and an expression that goes straight to Lucius’s unfortunately bleeding heart. That bleeding heart has gotten him into a lot of trouble over the years. 

 

“Couldn’t think of another one,” Frenchie murmurs. 

 

Lucius glances around. “Where’s John and Roach?”

 

“Sent ‘em away. Didn’t want ‘em worrying so much.” 

 

“I see. You want some company?” 

 

“You don’t have to. I’m all right.” 

 

“Honestly, it’s a bit of an excuse to let Pete take care of stuff for me. He’ll be disappointed if I go back now. Do you mind?” Lucius asks. 

 

The nod Frenchie gives is rapid enough that Lucius knows he was bluffing about not wanting company. Frenchie’s not a guy who likes to be by himself, he never has been. Half the time he sleeps in John’s room, even though he has one of his own. 

 

Lucius settles down next to him, stretching his legs out and rubbing at his thighs. Fuck, they’re stiff. 

 

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” Lucius says. “The other day. About Izzy.” 

 

“It’s ok, Luc. I know you mean well.” 

 

“Still. It wasn’t really my business, was it?” 

 

“Why does it feel like you’re about to push again?” Frenchie asks, the slightest smile tugging at his lips. 

 

“Guilty,” Lucius says, nudging him. “ I’m just so curious, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand it. He’s hot, I guess, but he’s a pretty huge dick.” 

 

He pauses. “Does he have a huge dick? Is that it?”

 

“Come on, mate. I wouldn’t know. We didn’t exactly get that far,” Frenchie says, but the shake of his head is fond, and Lucius counts that as a win. 

 

“Sorry. But he is a dick. And you’re so… not a dick.” 

 

Frenchie lets out a ghost of a laugh. “Yeah, he can be. But he’s not always. You haven't really seen him, none of you, but… it’s like, yeah, he’s an asshole, but he cares a lot, and I think that’s why he’s an asshole sometimes?”

 

“...I don’t get it.” 

 

“Ok, so, like, one of the first times we talked, it was about the yearlings, right, and who’s in charge of breaking them,” Frenchie says. “I said we all do, and he got pissed off, but he wasn’t pissed off like he was pissed off about how we run the ranch, he was pissed off cause it could have hurt the horses if it’s not done right. That make sense?” 

 

“A bit, I guess. But he’s so… oh, what’s the word. Abrasive?”

 

“Yeah, I don’t mind that, though. He gets less abrasive once you get to know him. He’s funny, too. In a snippy sort of way. Smart. Super fucking loyal. And when he actually starts talking like a real person he’s a bit charming.” 

 

Frenchie sighs. “We’ve got more in common than you’d think. With our pasts, and stuff. It’s nice, you know, talking to someone who gets it. Even if you’re not talking about those experiences, specifically, you can tell when someone understands.”

 

Lucius ponders that. It is strange, and Lucius may not entirely get the appeal- again, Izzy’s definitely nice to look at, but now that Lucius knows what it is to be loved by someone like Pete, who’s so genuine and emotionally open, with him at least, it’s difficult to see the appeal in someone like Izzy, who’s so closed off. Lucius used to see that kind of man as a challenge. But maybe that’s the difference between him and Frenchie. Where he would have been looking at someone like Izzy as a nut to crack, Frenchie just sort of… exists, and breaks down walls just by being the way he is. It’s not a challenge to him. 

 

And they do sort of fit, don’t they? Sort of gravitate to each other, Lucius has noticed it. 

 

“So you two were… I mean, right?” 

 

“Sort of. I dunno. It’s complicated,” Frenchie says, resting his forehead on his knees. “I wanted to be. Or at least give it a shot.”

 

“And he said no,” Lucius says, realization dawning. 

 

I may have hurt him. But  I need you to understand that stopping this now is the only way to keep him safe, Izzy had said. It’s making a bit more sense now, this sacrifice that he’s made. Lucius is pretty certain it wasn’t only for Ed. 

 

“Yeah. Well, he didn't say no, but I figure backing away from a kiss and then ignoring me is a pretty clear message. So I don’t know. I just know I’ve gotta get him back.” 

 

Frenchie laughs again, this time almost helplessly. “Stupid, isn’t it? Risking everything for a man who wouldn’t even kiss me? Who for all I know doesn’t want anything to do with me?”

 

“I don’t think it’ stupid. And I think he cares about you.”

 

Lucius pauses, tapping his fingers on his thigh. “Pete told me something, after you all went into town that one time. When you stayed behind, to let Jim and Izzy get away?”

 

Frenchie nods.

 

“Well, Pete said, before you got back, Izzy came, like, rushing into the field where he and Buttons and Stede were working, like some kind of fucking insane person, and basically demanded that they go back for you. It sounded like he and Jim had been arguing about it all the way there. He was worried, properly worried. And it’s been what, like a week since that happened? I don’t see that he stopped caring about you in a week’s time.”

 

Frenchie presses his lips together in a tight line. “Yeah. I dunno.” 

 

All right, Lucius thinks. Time to bring out the big guns.

 

“I did talk to him, too. Yesterday. About you.”

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah. He said a lot of stuff, some of it was bullshit, but I can kind of see what you mean, about him caring a lot. It was eating him up, I think, not talking to you. I think he was scared.” 

 

“Scared of me.” Frenchie shakes his head. “Great.” 

 

“Not of you. Of losing you.”

 

That shakes Frenchie out of it a bit. “If he was scared of losing me, why’d- that doesn’t make sense.”

 

“No, I agree, but look me in my eyes and tell me you think Izzy is someone who makes rational decisions when there’s emotions involved.” 

 

Frenchie cannot. 

 

“That’s what I thought. I think, in his own roundabout, sort of fucked up way, he was trying to protect you. Clearly, it was a stupid thing to do, but I do think the intention was there.”  

 

He can tell Frenchie doesn't entirely believe him, but he relaxes enough to lean his head on Lucius’s shoulder. 

 

“Thanks.” 

 

“Anytime.” 

 

They stay like that for a while, until the sun has nearly vanished behind the mountains and the stars begin to peek out in the sky. They stay there until Ed appears, asking if he can talk with Frenchie, and Lucius excuses himself. 

 

He finds Pete out behind the shed. He likes to sleep under the stars sometimes, and while Lucius doesn’t love the bugs that tend to come out at night, he indulges that desire. He curls up next to him, Pete waking up just enough to wrap an arm around him. Lucius should let him sleep, but he pokes him until he blinks his eyes open. 

 

“You ok, babe?” 

 

“Yeah, just-” 

 

Lucius stops, because this conversation with Frenchie and the impending rescue has opened the door to a nameless fear that curls around his chest. It’s not something he’s ever thought about before, losing Pete, but the life they live is not a safe one. But he can’t quite voice that, so instead, he grabs Pete’s chin, turning his head to face him. 

 

“If you ever go and get yourself arrested because of some stupid heroic impulse-” he starts. 

 

“Yeah, I know, love,” Pete says soothingly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “You’ll break me out of jail just so you can kick my ass.”

 

“You’re damn fucking right I would,” Lucius says. “Glad we’re on the same page.”



 

STEDE

 

There’s tension between him and Ed, and not the good kind. Stede doesn’t like it. It makes something unpleasant churn in his gut, a fear of losing Ed, but not losing him to a bullet or to a noose, but losing him, losing them, because of something far less tangible. 

 

Stede has never really fought with a significant other before. Oh, he and Mary certainly fought, but even though they were married, it never felt as high stakes as this, likely because they both thought in the back of their mind that a dissolution of their marriage would be a relief, not something devastating. 

 

He’s not even sure if they are fighting, really. There’s so many other compounding factors right now, with Israel’s sacrifice, the impending rescue mission, Chauncey’s words- murderer, abomination- still echoing in his mind. He’s not proud of how he lost his head. It was foolish, risky. Firing that shot could have gotten himself and Ed and all of his men killed. It’s sheer luck that it didn’t. 

 

He has to be better. He can’t lose his head again, can’t let himself get distracted like that. 

 

Unfortunately, this tension with Ed is highly, highly distracting. It hums in the back of his mind as they circle back to the ranch, as they talk with Jackie and Nicolás about the plan of action for the morrow (a good plan, Stede is certain of it, despite the risk it entails), and it lingers like an itch he can’t quite scratch as he and Ed ride side by side to the stakeout point. They haven’t really left each other’s sides, in spite of the tension, because Stede is fucking terrified that Ed will just… disappear if he takes his eyes off of him for more than a moment. He doesn't think he’ll run off again, but he hadn’t thought Ed would run off in the first place. So he doesn't think he can be blamed for being a bit more cautious than usual. 

 

The shack where they’re staking out the jail is tiny, so tiny that Stede feels, for a moment, that he can’t breathe. He glances around, sees Ed with Ivan and Fang, and as much as it feels like a tightening rope to walk away, he thinks Ed is as safe as he can get here, and if Stede doesn’t get a moment alone he thinks he’ll explode. So, after a quick conferring with Pete, Stede retires to where the horses are hitched, a few yards away from the shack, just under the crest of a hill, so that he’s out of sight of the others. 

 

The horses have already been tended to, Buttons saw to it, but Stede checks on Halifax anyway, making sure he has water, making sure he’s been rubbed down. They’ve done a lot of riding today, after all. A little extra tlc can’t hurt. 

 

He leans his forehead against Halifax’s neck, taking a few deep breaths. 

 

“Oh yes, I know,” he says in response to Halifax’s snort. “I just need a moment.”

 

“Bad time?” 

 

Stede turns his head to see Ed standing a few feet away, shifting self consciously. 

 

“No, of course not,” he says, straightening. “Just checking on Halifax.” 

 

Ed nods. 

 

“You left. Wasn’t sure where you went.” 

 

“I’m sorry. I suppose I should have told you.” 

 

Those words have a bit more bite in them than Stede would like, and from the wince on Ed’s face, he hears it too. 

 

“Should we-” he starts. 

 

“I don’t know,” Stede says tiredly, running a hand through his hair. “I thought it could wait, but… I don’t enjoy being like this with you, Ed. It’s horrible.” 

 

“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” Ed admits. He sidles closer, under the excuse of patting his own horse’s neck. Elizabeth, Stede remembers, named for his mother. 

 

“But I think this is a far longer conversation than we can spare the time for, currently,” Stede says. 

 

“Probably.” 

 

“So what do we do?” Stede asks. “I’m afraid I’m no good at this part of things, Ed.” 

 

Something passes over Ed’s face, some kind of sadness, some kind of resignation that confuses Stede. 

 

“Better just to get on with it, I think,” he says. 

 

Stede furrows his eyebrows. “I- I do have one question, Ed. If you’ll allow it.” 

 

Ed nods. He’s not making eye contact with Stede, and that hurts a bit, though he’s not sure why. 

 

“Why?” Stede asks, the question that’s been hanging on the tip of his tongue all day. “Why did you do it? Why wouldn’t you have waited? Why didn’t you wake me?”

 

Ed shrugs, tight and quick. 

 

“Thought I could end it myself. Stop anyone else from getting hurt.” 

 

“I don't doubt your intentions, Ed,” Stede says softly. “But you had to know it was suicide.” 

 

“Guess so. Figured it was the end of the line for me. I just hoped- fucking stupid. Just hoped I could save you. Stupid. Can’t save anyone.”



And oh, don’t those words just go straight to Stede’s heart? It’s so difficult to stay angry at Ed, really, especially when he looks so defeated, when he’s so clearly suffering. 

 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he says. “I think you’ve saved me in a lot of ways already.” 

 

Ed’s eyes snap up, wide and confused, and then back down. 

 

“You don’t have to do that.”

 

“Do what?” 

 

“Try n’ soften the blow. It’s fine. I understand.” 

 

Stede has to stop and try to decipher that sentence. 

 

“Well, perhaps you can enlighten me, because I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” 

 

Ed looks at him then, really looks at him, and his expression changes from resigned to a tentative surprise. 

 

“You’re not- I thought you were done with me. You’re not?” 

 

“What? No! What could have possibly given you the idea that I was done with you?” Stede asks, baffled. 

 

Ed blinks. “I just- I betrayed you, Stede.”

 

“I don’t know that I’d call it a betrayal, exactly,” Stede says. “I’m rather upset with you, yes, but-”

 

He shakes his head. “I’ve been waiting for you for quite a long time, Ed, even when I didn’t know it was you I was waiting for. You’ll have to do something quite horrible for me to even consider being finished with you.” 

 

Ed just stares at him, with that look that’s so unexpectedly vulnerable from someone with Ed’s demeanor, and then he’s moving, cupping Stede’s face in his hands, thumb ghosting over his bottom lip. Stede shivers. 

 

“Can I?” Ed asks, all tentative and almost shy, as though Stede would ever have the ability to refuse him. He’s nodding before Ed can even finish the question. 

 

It feels like coming home, Ed’s kiss, like Stede’s been lost and wandering all his life, and he’s finally stumbled on the place where he belongs. He smells like leather and quite strongly of horse and a bit like sweat, and his lips are chapped from the day's heat, and it all hits Stede quite strongly. 

 

He could have lost Ed today. He’s just now realizing that he wouldn't survive that. 

 

It's terrible, isn’t it, to be glad that it was Israel, and not Ed, who was taken. It’s terrible, and certainly not something he should voice, but he does anyway.  

 

“I’m so terribly, desperately glad you’re still here, Ed,” he murmurs. 

 

From the way Ed grips at him at those words, from the near desperate turn to his kiss, it wasn’t the wrong thing to say at all. 

 

It's Halifax that breaks them apart with a hard shove of his nose to Stede’s back, jostling him into Ed, who grabs him around the middle to steady him. 

 

“Fuckin’ guy,” Ed grumbles, and for the first time since the previous day there’s a touch of humor to his voice. It fades quickly, though, his arms tensing around Stede. 

 

“I should- I should talk to the lad. Frenchie. Izzy gave me something to give him.” 

 

“Of course,” Stede says. “It would do you both good to speak. I feel quite awful for him. For the both of you.” 

 

Ed nods, forehead knocking against Stede’s gently. He starts to move, but hesitates. 

 

“We’re really- we’re ok?” 

 

“Yes, Ed” Stede says, squeezing his hand. “I’m formulating quite a stern talking-to for you, but it’s a work in progress. It can wait until we get Israel back.” 

 

The corner of Ed’s mouth quirks up. “Looking forward to it.” 



 

FRENCHIE

 

Frenchie hasn’t really talked to Ed directly all that often. A couple times, sure, but mostly it’s been in a group setting. He’s not exactly intimidated by the guy, he wouldn’t say that. Ed’s mostly just a dude, and he’s spent a lot of time crying today, which helps to humanize him a bit. But he’s still Blackbeard, and it’s still a lot to have the guy looming over him, especially when Frenchie’s been doing a bit of the old crying himself, and especially given how Frenchie reacted to the events of the day. 

If Ed had been oblivious to the growing feelings between Frenchie and Izzy, surely there could be no doubt of it now. He’s not sure Izzy would have mentioned what happened between them to Ed. He thinks maybe he would have. Izzy’s secretive, sure, but he and Ed are close, really close. And Frenchie’s heartbroken enough to admit that he hopes Izzy told Ed, that he merits some kind of mention. 

 

Turns out, he does. It’s just not what Frenchie expected.

 

“Here.” 

 

Ed holds something out, some dangling thing, and Frenchie recognizes the chain that he’s sometimes seen flash around Izzy’s neck when the sun hits it right. He’s not expecting the ring hanging from the end of it. 

 

“What’s this?” he asks, apprehensively. 

 

“It’s Izzy’s. He asked me to give it to you.” 

 

Frenchie blinks rapidly, trying to piece that together. 

 

“He wouldn’t let me kiss him, but he’ll give me a fucking wedding ring?” he blurts out, without thinking. “Not exactly the best time for a proposal.” 

 

A half smile flickers across Ed’s face. “Not sure it was a proposal, mate. He wanted you to have it, though.”

 

Frenchie reaches out and takes it, letting the ring land in his palm. A couple more things about Izzy click. 

 

“He’s not really the jewelry type, is he?” 

 

“Nah.” 

 

“Whose was it?” 

 

Ed settles down next to him, drawing his knees up to his chest like a kid. 

 

“Izzy ever tell you about someone he lost?” 

 

“No. I pieced it together, a bit. Thought it might have been you, at first, till I realized it wasn’t a breakup loss, but like, actual loss.” 

 

“Me?” 

 

“Yeah. He loves you.” 

 

Frenchie’s not a huge fan of how that sounds, all bitter and jealous, because really, who is he to place any sort of claim on Izzy’s affections? Izzy and Ed are partners, true partners, have been for ten years. And Frenchie... Frenchie’s just a silly, stupid man who thought he could ever possibly be enough for someone like Izzy. 

 

“I mean, yeah, but not in the way you’re thinking,” Ed says. “Izzy’s-”

 

He laughs, a bit helplessly, and Frenchie realizes that he’s crying. “Izzy’s the only fuckin’ person I can trust in this world, really. I mean, yeah, Ivan and Fang, trust ‘em with my life, but Iz, I trust Iz with fucking everything. It’s been… what, twelve, thirteen years? He’s my fuckin’ family. So yeah, I love Iz, he loves me, but not like that. I remind him too much of someone else, anyway.” 

 

“This someone else?” Frenchie asks, still rolling the ring in his fingers. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“What happened to him?” 

 

“Got hanged.  Name was Charles Vane,” Ed says. “I never knew him, I found Iz after the fact, but I’ve heard about him.” 

 

He glances sideways at Frenchie. “I think you’re a little like him.” 

 

“Doubt that.” 

 

“Nah, really. I was like him in a bad way, you know. Charles was reckless, I guess, headstrong. So’m I. And that’s what got him killed. But there was good stuff about him too. He was smart, you know, clever, like you, at least that’s what Iz said. He was was kinda a roll with the punches sorta guy, and he fucking loved life. He said that a lot, that Charles was so alive. Izzy needs that. “

 

“Yeah, well,” Frenchie says, hunching in on himself. “Guess whatever bit I had of that wasn’t enough.”

 

“I dunno about that. He gets all-” Ed makes a quick tensing motion with his shoulders. “-you know? About stuff like that. Stuff that matters. And he was definitely like that around you yesterday.” 

 

Ed sighs. “He’s cautious. Good quality, most of the time, but- There used to be this bloke, Calico Jack, that I was sorta involved with-”

 

“Calico Jack?” Frenchie asks, wrinkling his nose. “You were fucking Calico Jack?” 

 

He remembers Calico Jack, back in Anne’s gang. A stinking drunk of a man, loud and brash in the worst possible way. He’d been around before Mary, before Anne figured out she wasn't all that partial to men, and especially not to men like Calico Jack. Most of Frenchie's experiences with the man involved him showing up out of the blue to try to drive a wedge between Anne and Mary.

 

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, I was younger. He stole a bunch of shit from me after, anyways. Not the point, though. Point is, Izzy was always fucking on edge whenever he was around, whenever we got together, you know? It made him tense, made him itchy, even just seeing us together. I thought he had a problem with it ‘til he told me about Charles. Turns out he’s just scared.”

 

Ed’s face falls. “I never saw him with anyone else, all these years. He’s always waiting for the other shoe to fall, y’know, waiting for anything good to get taken away from him. You’re the closest I’ve seen him get to someone in a long time, maybe ever.”

 

And fuck, but doesn’t that make Frenchie’s chest ache?

 

“Thirteen years?” he asks softly. “He didn’t have anyone? For thirteen years?” 

 

Ed nods. “Give or take. Since Charles. He can’t let himself, I think.”

 

Fuck, Frenchie thinks. He must have been so lonely.

 

Frenchie remembers that, remembers the ache of loneliness deep in his chest that he felt after his brother’s death, that he felt after he was forced to flee Anne’s gang. He remembers curling up alone in some deserted stretch of desert, just his horse for company, under a threadbare blanket, shivering and listening to the coyotes yip and wondering what made them sound so lonesome. They had families, didn’t they? He’s seen coyote families before, seen them with their babies. They don’t have to be lonely, so why do they sound it? 

 

He remembers the way the loneliness nearly got the best of him, the way he nearly turned back around and went east again, even though there was nothing there for him either, just to try something. It was sheer luck that he ran into John, in a spot of trouble himself, sheer luck that they banded together and ended up at Stede’s ranch. If he hadn't been at that bar that night, hadn't decided to intervene when that fight broke out between John and those drunken bastards, Frenchie’s not sure where he would have ended up.

 

Point is, he knows that ache, that pain, that hole that loneliness eats away at a person until you’re sure you’ll never feel whole again. To feel that for thirteen years- no wonder Izzy is the way he is. No wonder he freezes up at the slightest hint of affection, no wonder he’s so scared. 

 

Is he scared now? Is he lonely, all by himself, surrounded by enemies? He must be. He doesn't know they’re coming for him. He must think he’s going to die alone.

 

“He relaxed a bit. Around you. More than I’ve seen him relax in years.” 

 

Frenchie nods slowly, but his mind is elsewhere. The rope burn around Izzy’s neck, Izzy’s secrecy, Charles’s death by hanging, don’t you know what could fucking happen? We could be hanged, plays on a loop. 

 

“How’d Charles get caught?” he asks. 

 

“I don’t know all the details,” Ed says. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. When we get him back.” 

 

“We are gonna get him back. Right?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“Bet your ass we are. Iz isn't going down for this. Not on my watch. Plus Stede’s pretty fucking determined, and you know how stubborn he is. We’ll get him back.” 

 

Ed stands, clapping Frenchie on the shoulder as he does. “Want me to send someone else out? You should sleep.” 

 

Frenchie shakes his head. “Nah, I won’t sleep anyway.” 

 

“I’ll send someone out all the same.” 

 

Ed’s footsteps recede in the background, and Frenchie studies the ring in his hand. 

 

Charles Vane. 

 

We could be hanged. 

 

The scar around Izzy’s neck, the ring on a chain. 

 

This fucking ranch, your fucking boss, it’s not normal, this isn’t what it’s like out there.

 

“Oh man, Iz,” he whispers, quiet and broken, pressing the ring to his lips, cool metal smooth against his skin, not like the rough crack of Izzy’s lips that night after a long day with the horses. “Why didn’t you just say? Why didn’t you just- why’d you have to-”

 

He feels the tears on the back of his hand before he registers that he’s crying again, shoulders shaking in tight, tense sobs. His fingers clench around the ring, and he holds himself in, holds himself together, because he cannot afford to fall apart like this, not now. 

 

He only stops, though, when Ivan comes out. Ivan doesn't ask questions, but Frenchie knows he and Izzy are close, and he thinks that’s why Ed must have sent him over the others. 

 

Together, they keep a silent vigil over the town, watching the figures move around the jailhouse. Frenchie doesn’t think he blinks all night, worried that if he tears his eyes away from it, they’ll move Izzy early, or worse, they’ll just execute him here and now, and there will be nothing that they can do about it. 

 

The chain is around his own neck now, and he worries the ring between his fingers in a way that so heavily mirrors Izzy when he’s stressed that Ivan shakes his head, though Frenchie misses the gesture. 

 

He doesn’t know what happened with Charles and Izzy. All he knows is that Charles is dead, and Izzy is not, and if he had to guess, Izzy saw it happen. Frenchie is a superstitious man, not a religious one, but he sends up a prayer anyway, to whatever afterlife is out there, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if Izzy survived hanging once Charles may have had a hand in it, and maybe, just maybe, he can save him again. 

 

Frenchie’s more than prepared to do it himself, but honestly, he can use all the help he can get. 








Notes:

Two crazy milestones with this chapter- 1) I actually stayed somewhat consistent with chapter length (mind blowing) and 2) this is officially the longest thing I've written in... years, I think. A testament to my hyperfixation, probably, but also a testament to how supportive you guys have been towards this story!

So I got really emotional about Ed and Izzy’s backstory here, does it show? Just two dudes trying to make it in the world, becoming family against all odds, having each other’s back even though they’re kinda antagonistic.

Also, if y'all know me you know I am a Lucius/Pete STAN. I have a four part series mostly dedicated to a potential post-canon arc for the two of them (yes, this is a shameless plug in case anyone’s interested in it lol) so you know I had to give them a bit of a love-fest at some point in this story.

Frenchie’s song is Streets of Laredo.

I know I say this every chapter, but I truly cannot thank you guys enough for the comments and kudos. This story is fun to write on its own, but it's 10,000x more so when I know you guys are enjoying it. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Up next: Let's get our damned man back!

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!

Chapter 8

Summary:

Our crew waits for news of Frenchie’s fate. Ed and Stede make an agreement. Spanish Jackie has a business proposition, and the lives of the crew turn in a new direction.

I had to split the final chapter into two lol I know I’m known for the long chapters here, but this one was gonna be over 20k words and apparently that’s where I draw the line. So there will be another chapter after this!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

STEDE

 

They’re alive. 

 

In spite of all the odds, Stede and Ed are here, alive, in the wreckage of their elaborate fuckery. Ed is alive, Hornigold didn’t take him, and Stede is here, and their enemies are dead, and Ed’s forehead is warm against his own, one hand on Stede’s hip and the other between his shoulderblades, his breathing deep and even, his eyes closed. 

 

If it weren’t for the continued shouts of alarm around them, the occasional spat of gunfire coming from the surrounding hills where Jackie’s men are scattering any remaining lawmen, it would be almost peaceful. 

 

Ed’s eyes shoot open suddenly, as if remembering something. 

 

“You got fucking shot,” he says, pushing Stede back a little, yanking up his shirt. 

 

“Only a graze, really,” Stede says, but he winces as Ed prods at the skin surrounding the wound. “Missed all the important bits.” 

 

He glances down, and a smile presses against his lips. “We’ll have matching scars, though. That’s right about where you were shot, isn’t it?” 

 

That startles a laugh out of Ed, and he leans his head against Stede’s chest.

 

“You’re a fucking lunatic ,” Ed says. “How d’you think that fast, huh?”

 

“Well, I rather figured the element of surprise would be important,” Stede says with a shrug. “I’d hoped I could avoid the getting shot bit, but as it was I decided I could play it to my advantage.” 

 

“It was pretty damn convincing.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Stede says. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” 

 

Ed shakes his head, rising back up. His eyes are shining, but he blinks rapidly. “How about we both avoid gettin’ shot in the future, yeah?” 

 

“I think that would be lovely,” Stede says. 

 

He glances to the side, where Hornigold’s body lies, blood seeping into the dirt around him. For a man who’s caused so much trouble for them, he looks small, as though he’s shrunk in death.

 

“Are you all right, Edward?” he asks. 

 

Ed shrugs. “For now. Might be… less all right, later on.” 

 

“I may be as well. We’ll have to take care of each other, won’t we?” 

 

Ed nods. “Where were you? Iz said you weren't at the meeting point.” 

 

“Ah. Yes. Well, Chauncey showed his face again,” Stede says. Ed's hand tightens on his wrist. 

 

“Where’s the bastard?” 

 

Chauncey’s face, red and screaming and hateful, flashes in front of Stede’s eyes. He shakes it off. 

 

“I would imagine he and Hornigold are having a rather uncomfortable conversation in a very fiery place.” 

 

That takes Ed a second to wrap his mind around, but Stede can see when he gets it, his eyes widening. “Dead?” 

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Did you-?” 

 

“He did it to himself, a bit,” Stede says. “I’ll tell you the whole thing later. It’s rather thrilling, but I think I’ll need a drink, or several, before I can really… relive it.” 

 

Ed shakes his head, an incredulous smile spreading over his face. “Did it to himself. Fucking mental. We’ll make a proper outlaw out of you yet, Stede.” 

 

Stede chuckles. “We’ll have to see about that.” 

 

Something pings in his mind, and he frowns. “Where is Israel?”

 

Ed’s face drops. “Frenchie got shot. Izzy took him to Jackie’s hideout, to Roach.” 

 

Stede’s heart plummets. “Oh. Oh, god. Is he-” 

 

“I dunno, mate. He didn't look so good. But Roach is damn good at what he does, and Iz rode out of here like a bat out of hell. Between the two of them he has a shot.” 

 

Stede nods wordlessly, nausea rolling in his gut. Ed’s hand moves to his face, brushing a stray bit of hair back. 

 

“Stede. Let’s get to him, yeah?” 

 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Stede says, drawing himself back together. “Yes, that would be good.”

 

As if on cue, a commanding voice cuts through the air. 

 

“Are you two done with- whatever this is?” Jackie asks from astride her pinto. She’s lost her hat and her splendid clothes are dirtied, but she still looks every bit a leader. On her left, an officer struggles to his feet, cocking a pistol. Before either Stede or Ed can shout a warning, Jackie rolls her eyes, flips her pistol out of its holster and fires a shot through his skull without even looking.

 

“Do these motherfuckers ever die?” she demands. “I swear, every one I put down, two more pop up.”

 

She re-holsters the pistol, still smoking. “My guys are mopping up. Nicky’s leading the charge. Rest of us should scatter while we still have the chance.”

 

“Yes, you’re quite right,” Stede concurs. “I’ll just need to do a headcount of my men, and we’ll be off. Thank you, Jackie, for your assistance in this venture.” 

 

Jackie grins. “You shitting me? I should be thanking you . This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.” 

 

And with a dig of her heels, she’s off, more than likely to join her men. Oluwande and Jim jog over to take her place. Oluwande’s limping, and Jim has an arm slung around him to support him. They’re both dirtied, and Jim has blood splashed across their clothes and a cut on their chin, but they look relatively unharmed.

 

“Oluwande, are you injured?” 

 

“Ah, nah, not really,” Oluwande says. Jim snorts, a fond smile stretching across their face. 

 

“He twisted his ankle. Goes the whole fight without a scratch on him, and just as it’s all ending, this dude trips and twists his ankle.” 

 

Oluwande groans. “Please don’t spread that around. Please make it sound cooler.” 

 

“Absolutely not.” 

 

“You’re very cruel to me, Jim.” 

 

“Ah, you like it.” 

 

They turn back to Stede. “What’s the plan, boss?” 

 

“Well, to coin a phrase, I believe we should get the hell out of dodge,” Stede says. “But the others, where are they? I won’t leave anyone behind.”

 

“Izzy and Frenchie should be at the hideout,” Jim says, voice wobbling slightly on Frenchie’s name. “Swede, Buttons, and John were on explosive duty, I’m not sure where they are right now. And then Roach, Pete, and Ivan should be at the hideout, too.” 

 

“Lucius is with them as well,” Stede says. “We crossed paths on my way back here.”

 

“Fang?” Ed asks. 

 

“Off with the Gallos,” Oluwande supplies. “One of their guys is down, Fang offered to fill in.”

 

“So we need our missing trio-” Stede starts, then relaxes as he sees three familiar figures galloping down the hillside 

 

“Did you see it?” Swede calls as they come into earshot. “The boom? Wasn’t it cool?” 

 

“It was fucking incredible, mate,” Ed says. 

 

“Truly, a work of art,” Stede concurs. John’s face colors. 

 

“Just a bit of placement work,” he says modestly. “A little messing with the charges. Simple, really.” 

 

“Well, the effect was quite fantastic,” Stede says with a warm smile. “Now, we should really be going-”

 

“Where’s Frenchie?” John asks. 

 

“And Izzy?” Swede chimes in.

 

“Wouldn’t want this whole venture to be fer nawt,” Buttons says.

 

“Ah,” Stede says. He’s not sure how to break the news, but Oluwande jumps in.

 

“Frenchie got shot, mate. He was alive when Izzy went to take him to Roach-”

 

John’s face pales, and before Oluwande can say anything else, he snaps the reins of his horse and gallops off in the direction of the hideout.

 

Stede clenches his jaw, pain rushing through his chest. They’d all known this venture was dangerous. They’d gone into it clear-headed, and they’d all agreed that the risk was worth it. 

 

But if they lose Frenchie- it would be a devastating blow. For all of them. 

 

“Come on, Stede,” Ed says gently. “Let’s go.” 

 

“Yes. Of course. Do we have-?” Stede looks around, and nearly starts. Halifax and Elizabeth, loyal creatures that they are, have circled back around to him and Ed. 

 

“Oh, well done,” he says, stroking Halifax’s nose. “Well done, my friend.” 

 

With a little effort, and a boost up from Ed, he’s able to mount in spite of the growing ache in his side. 

 

They make it to the hideout some time after John. Pete’s waiting outside the building, and he waves a hand half-heartedly at them as they arrive. 

 

“How is he?” Stede asks, dismounting. 

 

“Roach is still working on him,” Pete says. He’s sporting a bandage around his leg, and he gets to his feet with some effort. “Lucius, Izzy, Ivan, and John are inside.”

 

“How bad is it?” Jim asks. 

 

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Roach,” Pete says, face downcast. “There was- a lot of blood. Like, a lot.”

 

Stede’s throat tightens, and he gives a single nod. 

 

“Well, let’s- let’s let him work. We don’t want to crowd him,” he murmurs.

 

“That’s what I thought, too. That’s why I’m out here,” Pete says. 

 

“Right. Nothing to do with the fact that you’re scared of blood,” Oluwande says. 

 

“I’m not scared of blood,” Pete protests. 

 

“Sure you’re not, big man. That’s why you fainted when I had that nose-bleed, huh?” 

 

“Well, your blood’s supposed to stay inside your body!” Pete says. “It's freaky when it's out!” 

 

“Speaking of blood,” Ed says, nudging Stede’s side, “let me look at you.” 

 

He guides Stede to sit on a step, pulling up his shirt and taking a closer look at the wound. 

 

“What’s the verdict?” Stede asks. 

 

“You were right. Missed the important bits,” Ed says, thumb skimming over the skin just above it. Stede can’t suppress the shiver that crawls up his spine at the gesture. “Need to clean it, though.” 

 

“Here, take these,” Oluwande says, fishing a flask and a clean bandage out of his saddlebags. 

 

“You just carry these around?” Ed asks. 

 

“Well, with this one, you never know,” Oluwande says, gesturing to Jim, who just rolls their eyes. 

 

“Cheers, mate,” Ed says, unscrewing the flask. He turns back to Stede, and holds out a hand. “This is gonna sting.” 

 

Stede nods, gripping Ed’s hand as he pours the alcohol over the wound. He hisses. 

 

“Fuck, that’s not pleasant.” 

 

Ed’s shoulders shake slightly, amused. “Nah, not so pleasant.” 

 

He finishes, and Stede releases his grip, taking a deep breath. Ed glances up at him, shooting him a wink, before he wraps the wound. He leaves his hand over it when he’s done, face tight and drawn. 

 

“I’m all right, Ed,” Stede says quietly, out of earshot of the others. 

 

“Yeah, I know,” Ed says, though it's entirely unsteady. “Almost weren’t, though. Half an inch over-” 

 

He traces a line across the bandage. “Would have been a lot worse.”

 

“But it wasn’t,” Stede says. “Now you know a bit how I felt, don’t you, seeing you alone and surrounded by all those guns.” 

 

Ed nods. He looks up at Stede, all soft eyes and adoration, and Stede swallows. Carefully, Ed pushes himself up just enough to press his lips to Stede’s. It’s soft, and chaste, but it hits Stede like a punch to the gut, the gentleness of it. He presses back, nose nudging Ed’s cheek, and lets himself breathe. 

 

Roach comes out after a quarter of an hour, wiping his hands on a blood-soaked rag, face exhausted. 

 

“Frenchie?” Jim asks at once, leaping to their feet. 

 

“He’s all right,” Roach says, to a general outcry of relief. “He’ll sleep for a while now, but he's out of danger. Just a matter of waiting.” 

 

He collapses on the step, stretching out and resting his head on his hands. “If any of you motherfuckers are hurt, handle it yourselves. I’m clocking out.” 



IZZY

 

He’s going to be all right. He’s past the worst bit of it. Roach’s voice rings in Izzy’s head, a constant mantra that he’s been repeating for hours now, ever since Roach fished the bullet out of Frenchie’s chest and stitched him back together. It’s just a matter of waiting, now. 

 

Izzy hates waiting. He’s always hated waiting, he’s not a patient man. In his list of virtues, short as it is, patience ranks somewhere below affability, which is a feat in and of itself. And he especially hates it now, the waiting, when Frenchie’s life hangs in the balance, because despite Roach’s assurances that Frenchie is out of danger, that his body is protecting itself by keeping him asleep, letting him heal, Izzy knows he won’t believe it until he sees Frenchie’s eyes open for himself. 

 

Israel Hands knows just how quickly things can, and often do, go wrong. Especially for him, especially in this life. 

 

Just once, he begs silently, to whoever or whatever might be listening,  just once, not for me, for him, just once, be kind.

 

It was easier to wait for his own death, less than a day ago, now, than it is to wait for Frenchie to wake up. Because when he was waiting for his own death, every delay, every extra moment he was granted was at least another moment he would live. Every moment that Frenchie lies still is a moment where something could go wrong, and he could be lost forever. 

 

People have been filing in and out of the room, his people, Bonnet’s people. Lucius and Ivan stayed with him during the worst of it. Izzy had clutched at Lucius’s hand like a life-line, embarrassingly tight, but the boy hadn’t faltered, hadn’t complained. Pete joined them, nursing his own leg wound and leaning up against Lucius’s side before he was called away by the arrival of more of Bonnet’s men. None of the visitors really register, though, not for Izzy, his focus solely and entirely on the rise and fall of Frenchie’s chest. He’s half convinced that if he looks away, even for a second, that the movement will stop and Frenchie will go still forever. 

 

When Lucius releases his hand, some amount of time later, more than an hour, less than three, Izzy thinks, slipping out of the room at Pete’s call, Izzy replaces it with Charles’s ring. Roach had dropped it into his hand, removing it to tend to Frenchie’s wound, and the weight of it is as comforting as it can be, the rub of the smooth surface of the metal between his fingertips falling into an all-too familiar rhythm. He slips the ring on, somewhere around the second hour of his vigil, the links of the chain biting into his skin. 

 

The only person who really registered, when they first came in, was Ed. He’d been in and out like a shot, just long enough to check on Frenchie and Izzy, and when he was reassured by Roach and Ivan that Frenchie was going to make it-Izzy was still too shell-shocked to speak, at the time-, he’d taken a second to pull Izzy into a rough embrace before leaving again. Duty calls, Izzy supposes. There must be loose ends, with a plan as elaborate as the one they’d just pulled off. Usually Izzy would be with him to wrap those loose ends up, but Ed has Bonnet for that now, and nothing short of an act of God could pull Izzy away from Frenchie’s side now. 

 

“Hey, Iz, drink this,” Ivan’s voice sounds, and Izzy pulls himself back into his body as much as he can. He hadn’t even realized Ivan had left the room, let alone that he’d come back. He’s holding out a flask. It could be whiskey, could be water, either one would be welcome at this point. He takes it, and takes a swig. Water. Probably for the best. 

 

“Thank-” he stops, clearing his throat. “Thank you.” 

 

“Sure thing,” Ivan says, settling back into his chair. Izzy looks around the room. It’s not so crowded as it was the last time he bothered to check, just him, Ivan, John Feeney, and Jim, who he doesn’t remember coming in. They tilt their chin up at him in greeting. Izzy returns the gesture half-heartedly. 

 

“What’s the word out there?” Izzy makes himself ask. He needs to be as aware as he can, in case something else goes wrong. He’s been vigilant his whole life. He can’t slip now.

 

“Not all that much. Everything went as well as we could have expected,” Ivan says, keeping his voice low. He doesn’t have to, but there’s something about a sickroom that makes people speak quietly, step softly, like a loud movement could break whatever limbo they’re living in. “Hornigold’s dead. Without him, no one followed us, especially after Jackie’s men did their thing. The Gallos are keeping watch in case we have to move out. Ed and Stede have it under control. You don’t gotta worry.” 

 

Izzy nods slowly, eyes still fixed on Frenchie. The man in question takes a deeper breath, and holds it there, and Izzy’s heart nearly stops until his breathing resumes a normal rhythm. He lets out a shaky breath of his own. 

 

He can feel eyes on him, but whether they belong to Jimenez or Feeney, he’s not sure, and he can’t bring himself to care. 

 

“Hey, guys.” Oluwande appears at the door, taking in the scene in front of him. He crosses to Jim’s side, placing a hand on their shoulder, and they lean their cheek into the touch. The sight of it makes something twist in Izzy’s chest. 

 

“How's he doing?” Oluwande asks softly. 

 

“He’ll pull through. He’s a tough little fecker,” John replies, injecting some authority into his deep voice, though Izzy’s pretty sure he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is the rest of them. “He’ll wake up soon.”

 

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” Oluwande says. “Stede’s asking for everyone, outside.”

 

Izzy’s entire body tenses at the prospect of letting Frenchie out of his sight. Ivan puts a hand on his back, rubbing in a circle. 

 

“One of us should stay, keep an eye on him. Just in case. Iz, would you?” Ivan says, and Izzy sends him a silent thank you. The idea has a certain dignity to it, he supposes, something to let him keep face, though that’s the last thing he cares about right now. It suggests that Izzy is staying because Frenchie might need him, and not because he’ll shatter if he’s taken away. 

 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Oluwande says, an understanding, sad smile on his face. “I’m sure the boss wouldn’t mind.” 

 

Izzy nods, stiffly, the only response he can manage. 

 

He’s not certain, really, how many of them know about him and Frenchie. Spriggs, he knows, Feeney, he thinks Roach might, certainly Ivan now, and from the look on Oluwande’s face, he knows too. The idea makes Izzy’s skin crawl, though he knows his actions since Frenchie was shot haven't exactly done much to dissuade anyone of the notion. He tries to let it go. It’s the least important thing, now, and he can say with some confidence that he doesn’t expect any of Bonnet’s men to turn on him or Frenchie because of it, but there’s still years of conditioning there, years of covering his tracks, of being overly cautious, of avoiding connection at all to keep another fate like Charles’s at bay. 

 

Ivan claps his shoulder as he stands, and the rest of them file out. Then it’s just Izzy, alone for the first time since it all happened, and Frenchie, unconscious and far, far too still on the bed. For a moment, Izzy just stares, a line seemingly permanently etched on his brow, and then he moves. He removes the ring from his finger, pressing it into Frenchie’s palm as he grips his hand. He can feel the pump of blood with how hard he’s holding on, and he closes his eyes, just for a moment, bowing his head over their joined hands, focusing on the pounding of it to reassure him that Frenchie’s still there.

 

“You should have let me go,” he whispers, harsh and rough. “Should have let them take me. That was the whole point of it, you- to keep you safe .” 

 

He thinks, for a moment, that he feels an answering squeeze on his hand, but he’s likely imagined it. 

 

“I need you safe,” he says, still in a whisper, even though there’s no one there to hear him. “I need you safe, don’t you get it, you have to be alright, you can’t die, not for me-” 

 

And it was for him, wasn’t it? Frenchie wouldn't have been there at all if they'd just let Izzy go to his death uninterrupted, like he was supposed to, wouldn’t have been in the line of fire if he hadn’t come to Izzy’s aid when that man snuck up on him. 

 

“I’m no good, not for you, not for anyone. Everything good I’ve ever had has been ripped away, and it’s my fault, always my fault. I can’t ruin you, not you, never you- but I did already, didn’t I? This wouldn’t have fucking happened if you hadn’t come for me-”

 

He’s sobbing now, quiet and constrained, because while Izzy’s anger may be loud and explosive and everyone else's problem, his grief, his pain, has always been quiet, private, has always been his own. 

 

“Charles loved me, and I lost him, and I’ve been fucking alone ever since, alone and angry and fucking sad, until- you. I don’t give a fuck if you want nothing to do with me after this, if you hate me for what’s happened, if you want me gone I’ll go, if you want me to hang myself I fucking will, if you want to shoot me yourself for this I’ll give you the fucking gun, just- just wake up and tell me, will you? Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it, I swear, just tell me-”

 

The words stop coming then, and Izzy just holds on as the grief rips through him, feeling the pulse of Frenchie’s heart between his fingers, faint and sometimes uneven but steadying, Charles’s ring pressing into his palm, forehead ghosting over Frenchie’s knuckles. 

 

That’s how Ed finds him, when he comes back, hunched over Frenchie with shaking shoulders. 



 

ED

 

Ed can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Izzy cry in the years they've known one another. And by one hand, he means three fingers. Crying just isn’t something Izzy… does, not in front of people. Ed’s not even sure he does it on his own, if he can help it. 

 

But here he is, folded nearly in half to rest his forehead on Frenchie’s hand, shoulders shaking, still so restrained, even after all the stress and the fear and the pain.

 

Ed’s not totally sure what to do. But he knows he won’t leave his friend alone, not in this. If it were Stede, lying there instead of Frenchie, Ed’s pretty sure he’d be begging for Izzy to be with him, just so he wouldn't have to be alone, so he would have someone he trusted with him. 

 

 A floorboard creaks under his boot as he moves, and Izzy’s head shoots up, wide-eyed, breathing heavy. He snatches his hand back from Frenchie’s before he sees it’s Ed. Ed holds up his hands in surrender, shutting the door behind him. 

 

“Don’t stop on my account,” he says. “No one else is coming for a bit. Stede’s got ‘em busy.” 

 

It takes Izzy a second to gather himself, but he does put his hand back over Frenchie’s, though he doesn’t cry again, aside from a few residual half-sobs that make his breath catch. He wipes at his face with his spare hand, smearing dust in its wake. 

 

“You look a mess, mate,” Ed says, tossing him his kerchief. Izzy catches it, using that to wipe at his face instead. 

 

“Apologies, boss,” Izzy says drily, an attempt at his usual brusque nature, though the waver in his voice betrays him. “For not looking up to snuff.” 

 

Ed lets out an amused huff, and sinks into the chair next to him with a groan. 

 

“You hurt?” Izzy asks at the sound. 

 

“Scrapes and bruises, nothing major,” Ed says. “Knee’s fucked, though, Elizabeth threw me. I’ll be fine.” 

 

He pauses. “He’ll be fine, too.” 

 

Izzy swallows. “That’s what I’m told.” 

 

“I even threatened Roach a bit, make sure he was telling the truth. He didn't break.” 

 

“Roach did a good job,” Izzy allows. “Good as a real doctor. If it were Bonnet, would you believe it until you saw him wake up?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“There you go, then.” 

 

Fuck, but Izzy looks tired. He looks like he’s aged, even in the couple hours since he rode off with Frenchie. The gray in his beard seems to stand out more against the pallor of his skin, and the circles under his eyes are dark enough they might as well be blackened. Ed grimaces. 

 

Izzy’s not a toucher. Ed is, always has been, but aside from quick, casual touches, he and Izzy don’t really do that. It makes his next move a risk, but he does it anyway. He wraps an arm around Izzy’s shoulder, squeezing his upper arm as he does so. Izzy stiffens, but then he lets out a long, shuddering breath, and leans into the touch. 

 

“‘M glad you’re not dead, Iz,” Ed says. 

 

“Should be. It should’ve been me,” Izzy says. There’s no bite to it, just a quiet recognition. 

 

“Shut up. No it shouldn't have. That was the whole point, of all this, that it wasn’t you.” 

 

“And the whole point of what I did was so that it wouldn’t be either of you,” Izzy shoots back. “And look where we are now.”

 

“Don’t act like you were doing either of us a goddamn favor,” Ed snaps. “Fucking hell, Izzy, you think Frenchie woulda said, well, that’s that done, and just, what, just moved on? He was a mess. I was a mess, Iz, I couldn’t even fucking think after you left. You weren't doing either of us a favor.” 

 

“Wasn’t meant to be a favor. It was me, fixing things.” 

 

“Fuck were you fixing?” 

 

“Your mistake, for one,” Izzy says. He’s still got his eyes on Frenchie, but the muscle in his jaw is ticking. “What in god’s name were you thinking, going there by yourself? Just decided to say, fuck the plan, fuck Bonnet, fuck me, Edward Teach knows best, Edward Teach does whatever the fuck he wants, damn the consequences?” 

 

Ed winces. “I was thinking I couldn’t let anyone get hurt ‘cause of me. Couldn’t let Stede get hurt. Or you, or the boys.” 

 

If Izzy had a spare hand to throw up in exasperation, he would have done so. “Is that not what I was just saying, Edward? That I did what I did because I didn’t want you or- or Frenchie hurt?” 

 

He sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t want to fight with you. Not now. I don’t have the energy or the time.” 

 

“Me neither. I’m sorry. I didn't come to fight, I came to see if you were all right.” 

 

Izzy’s mouth tightens. “I’m fine, Edward.” 

 

“You’re clearly not.” 

 

“It doesn’t matter what I am,” Izzy says, quietly. “Just matters that he wakes up.” 

 

Ed nods. They’re silent for a moment. 

 

“Was it like this? With Charles?” Ed asks quietly. 

 

“No. It was… Faster,” Izzy says. “No waiting. They dragged us straight to the gallows.” 

 

“I meant between you and Frenchie. Is it like how it was with Charles?” 

 

Izzy thinks on that for a minute. “Yes and no. They’re very different people, and I was… with Charles for longer. So it’s different. But it’s the same sort of- fuck, I don’t know. Same sort of pull.” 

 

And god, but isn’t that an awful look on Izzy’s face? Gaunt, haunted, it’s the face of a man who’s been given a second chance and is fucking terrified that it’ll be stolen away from him again. 

 

“He’s gonna be ok,” Ed says, the only thing he can think to say at all. “You’re due some good luck, I reckon.” 

 

“Yeah, well,” Izzy says, “I’ve never much been given what I’m owed, have I?” 

 

Ed wants to refute that, but what's there to refute, with the life Izzy’s lived? He doesn’t have to, in the end, as they’re interrupted by a single knock on the door. Ed looks to Izzy for confirmation before calling for the person to enter. 

 

Izzy doesn’t take his hand from Frenchie’s this time, thumb running over the back of his knuckles. It’s a start, at least.

 

Stede pokes his head in, eyes softening at the sight in front of him. The simple appearance of him makes Ed’s entire body glow. 

 

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says. “I only wanted to drop something off.” 

 

“Drop what off?” Ed asks. 

 

“Something for Frenchie. I’d hoped Israel might know what to do with it,” Stede says. Izzy furrows his brow, but it clears when Stede produces a horseshoe from his bag. “It’s from John. I believe it’s meant to bring good luck?” 

 

Izzy lets out a half chuckle, then a full one. “He’d like that. Superstitious bastard.” 

 

Stede smiles. “I’ll pass it to you, then. It’s in good hands. As is Frenchie.” 

 

Stede approaches, handing the horseshoe off to Izzy, who takes it like the iron is something delicate, and then he crouches, wincing as he favors his left side, to run a gentle hand over Frenchie’s forehead. 

 

“He's quite an extraordinary man,” Stede murmurs. “Singular in many ways. A survivor. I have complete faith that he’ll pull through.” 

 

He straightens. “I’ll leave him in your care, Israel, if you’ve no objection. Ed, if I may have a word-” 

 

“Course you can,” Ed says. He squeezes Izzy’s arm one more time. “You ok by yourself, Iz?” 

 

“I’m not a child, Edward,” Izzy says with a roll of his eyes. “Go on. We’ll talk later. When- after he wakes up.” 

 

“That’s the spirit,” Stede says. “We want positive energy in this room.” 

 

“Please fuck off, Bonnet.” 

 

“Absolutely,” Stede says. He lingers by the door, and Ed goes to join him, leaving Izzy, who he has never known to be a superstitious man, to affix the horseshoe to the wall above Frenchie’s head with all the reverence of a religious artifact. 

 

Ed closes the door behind them, and offers Stede his arm. He takes it gratefully, hands closing around his elbow. 

 

“Thank you. Without all the excitement of the fight, I’m afraid my injury is wearing on me more than I expected,” he says. It’s kind of him, to pretend he doesn’t notice Ed leaning on him as well, that he needs the support as much as Stede does.

 

“Yeah, that’s how it goes. One time, I got shot in the arm, didn’t notice till four hours later. Thought it was a bee sting at first.” 

 

Stede chuckles. “I’m afraid I’m not as tough as all that.” 

 

“Shut up. You’re plenty tough.” 

 

“If you say so.” 

 

“Everything ok? What’d you want to talk about?” Ed asks. 

 

Stede sighs. “Let’s go outside, shall we? I could use some air. I’ve never much liked sickrooms.” 

 

“Me neither. Give me the creeps,” Ed admits. “Last time I was in one was with my mum. When she-er, when she got her fever. Hated that, that she spent her last days in that fucking room.” 

 

“Ah,” Stede says. “That’s why you all but jumped out of my window, when you woke up after you were shot?”

 

“Yeah. That and I wanted to see the ranch. See where the fuck someone like you came from.” 

 

Stede huffs a laugh, squeezing Ed’s arm. They walk out back, moving down a trail for a few minutes, before stopping at a small hill. Ed helps Stede down, and settles next to him. 

 

“I’ve been thinking,” Stede starts, frowning, “about where we go from here.” 

 

“We as in-” Ed gestures between the two of them. 

 

“Oh, well, yes, but not just that,” Stede says, cheeks heating up. “No, I mean after Frenchie wakes up. We’ll have to move eventually. Jackie’s hospitality is only temporary. And- well, after all this, I doubt we can go back to the Lighthouse Ranch.” 

 

There’s a heaviness to Stede’s tone that goes straight to Ed’s gut- but he’s right. The authorities know who Stede Bonnet is. His ranch is the first place they’ll look. 

 

“Fuck,” Ed swears under his breath. “Fuck, Stede, I’m so sorry. I didn't even think-”

 

Stede shrugs. “It’s just a place, I suppose. I just rather liked it.” 

 

“Me too,” Ed says softly. Stede leans against him with a sigh. 

 

“I was quite happy there. But it stands to reason I could be equally as happy elsewhere. I just don’t know where that might be.” 

 

Ed swallows hard. He wants to wallow in this guilt, because this is his fault, his fault that Stede has to give up his home, because if Ed had never been there, Stede would simply be going about his life, with no threat to his home or his people- 

 

But it's no use wallowing. It won't solve anything. 

 

“We’ll go back to get your stuff,” he says decidedly. “I’ve got stashes all over the place. We’ll stash your stuff, move the animals, and we can hide out somewhere until- until we find a new place. Somewhere farther west, maybe. Think you’ve proven you can handle yourself out in the lawless lands.” 

 

Stede is silent, and for a moment Ed wonders if he’s mucked it up somehow. 

 

“We?” Stede asks, softly. 

 

“Oh.” Ed clears his throat. “Yeah, I mean- if you’ll have me. Follow you anywhere, wouldn’t I?” 

 

Stede’s head shoots up off his shoulder, and he rests a hand on Ed’s cheek, turning his face towards him. 

 

“Do you mean it?” he demands. “Truly?” 

 

“Yeah,” Ed says, so quiet it's nearly a whisper. “I meant what I said, Stede. Being with you- it’s the happiest I’ve ever been.”

 

“But you’re Blackbeard. You’re an outlaw. The most spectacular outlaw in the west. You’re saying- you’d give all that up? To follow me?” 

 

Ed snorts. “C’mon, Stede. What am I giving up? I stay here, I’m hunted down anyway. I’ve been fucking tired of the game for years. I just wanna be with you. Besides, plenty of opportunity for crime in the lawless lands. That’s why they’re called that, y’know. We really could make a proper outlaw out of you, if you wanted.” 

 

Stede just stares at him, those whiskey-brown eyes looking straight into his soul. 

 

“I have conditions.” 

 

“Shoot.” 

 

“No more self-sacrificing plays.” 

 

“Done.” 

 

“I mean it, Ed. Even if you think the situation calls for it, that is not a decision you are allowed to make. I can’t- I can’t wake up in the middle of the night and find you gone again. It was utterly and absolutely terrifying.”

 

Ed reaches over, placing a hand on Stede’s knee. 

 

“Promise. I swear it. On my mum’s grave.” 

 

Stede lets out a long exhale. “Good. All right. Condition number two. If you ever- well, if you ever have doubts, about-” 

 

He taps the back of Ed’s hand, the one resting on his knee. “About this. Us. Um, please voice it. I wouldn’t want- if we ever had to part, I would like it to be as friends, without any resentment built up.” 

 

Ed would laugh if Stede wasn’t so serious. 

 

“Promise,” he says, but only because he knows, deep in his soul, that the one thing in this life he will never doubt is Stede Bonnet. 

 

“And that goes for you, too,” Ed says, suddenly. “If you ever decide- fuck, I dunno, you don’t wanna be tied down to some washed up old outlaw, that’s- that’s fine.” 

 

Stede smiles then, bright and blinding and brilliant as the sun. More brilliant than the sun. The sun has never looked like this, like Stede’s smile, never had that radiance. 

 

“Oh, my darling,” he says, in a voice soft as a caress. That’s one thing you need never fear.” 

 

It’s like a shot to the heart in the best way possible. If Ed died now, he would go content, he thinks, would ascend to the pearly gates despite all his wrong-doing, because if he is worthy, somehow, of Stede Bonnet’s love, then certainly he is worthy of salvation. 

 

“Any other conditions?” he asks through a very dry mouth.

 

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Stede says. “Just one more.” 

 

“Go on then.” 

 

“It’s quite an important one,” Stede says. He leans closer, until he’s right up in Ed’s space, the tips of their noses brushing. 

 

“Yeah?” Ed says, breathless. 

 

“Possibly the most important one of them all.”

 

“Better tell me, then.” 

 

Stede moves impossibly closer, so close that his lips brush against Ed’s with his next words. 

 

“Are you listening?” 

 

Ed nods imperceptibly. 

 

“Good.” 

 

And with that last word, Stede closes the final gap between them, pressing his lips to Ed’s, hand tangling in his hair with a punched-out breath. Ed lets out a groan, grabbing the collar of Stede’s shirt, pulling him even closer, if that’s possible. But it's still not close enough, so Ed swings his leg over Stede’s, all but leaping into his lap with a growl, fuck his bad knee. Stede gasps before smiling against his lips, sliding a hand under Ed’s shirt to rest on his hip. Ed splays his own hands across Stede’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart pick up, and strokes his thumb along his collarbone. He bites down on Stede’s lower lip, and that draws a devastating sound out of Stede, one that goes straight to Ed’s gut, coiling there like a snake with a nearly unbearable heat. 

 

“I’d like to do- quite a lot- of this-” Stede murmurs, every couple words punctuated by the touch of his lips. “Among- other things- if that would be- agreeable to you.” 

 

“Agreeable-?” Ed gasps out, and he has to stop, laughter shaking at his body. “If that would be- yeah, I fucking well think that would be agreeable to me. You’re gonna fucking kill me, Stede.” 

 

“If it helps, the feeling is mutual,” Stede says with a breathless chuckle. “I’m growing rather concerned that my heart might just explode.” 

 

Ed taps at his chest. “Well, can’t have that, can we?” 

 

His smile softens into something more hesitant. “We’re really doing this?” 

 

“Yes,” Stede says, like he can’t believe it himself. His nose scrunches in a way Ed has only seen it do once or twice, when he is resplendently, completely happy.  “Yes, it would seem we are.” 

 

“Two of us, takin’ on the world?” 

 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 




 

FRENCHIE

 

Frenchie wakes up once, before anyone knows he’s done so. Or, he sort of wakes up. He’s not even totally aware of it himself, not even sure that’s what’s happening. The whole thing feels drifty, floaty. Frenchie’s only been on a boat once, in a mad dash down a river after robbing the family he worked for, the ones who treated him worse than dirt. Rivers don’t leave traces. He’d been in a rickety sort of rowboat, crouched low to the bottom of it, letting the current take him away from his old life. This is a bit like that, like waves are lapping at him, dragging him along. 

 

He’s aware, vaguely, of a throbbing pain in his left shoulder, radiating out through his arm and his chest. He’s aware of a pressure on his hand. And he’s aware of a voice, at the edge of his consciousness. 

 

“Should have let them take me. That was the whole point of it, you- to keep you safe.”

 

He knows that voice. Raspy, quiet, a bit harsh. He just can’t quite put a name to it, with how fuzzy his brain is. It pulls at him, against the current, tugging him back to shore. But even if he didn’t know the voice, whoever it is sounds so sad, so broken, that Frenchie’s instinct is to help, to comfort. He tries to squeeze at the pressure on his hand. He's not sure if he succeeds. 

 

“I need you safe. I need you safe, don’t you get it, you have to be alright, you can’t die, not for me-” 

 

Is he dying? Fuck, he hopes not. The thought does bring something into focus, though- a slamming pain, a lot of blood, a face, scared and pale and very dear to him, someone clutching at him as the landscape rushes past. Maybe he is dying. He doesn’t want to be, really, he doesn’t. He’s not ready to go. He has too much left to do. What those things are, he can’t really remember, but he knows they exist.

 

“-if you want nothing to do with me after this, if you hate me for what’s happened, if you want me gone I’ll go, if you want me to hang myself I fucking will, if you want to shoot me yourself for this I’ll give you the fucking gun, just- just wake up and tell me, will you? Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it, I swear, just tell me-”

 

Frenchie loses the voice then. He’s not sure if the person’s stopped talking, or if the river is just taking him away, but it’s gone. He mourns the loss of it, but he doesn’t have much time to do so before the waves close over him again. 

 

Don’t go, he thinks vaguely, before he’s dragged under. 

 

Don’t go.

 

The second time he surfaces, the pain is much more severe. Whatever was muting it before seems to be gone, and a point in his shoulder is throbbing with every beat of his heart, white-hot lines radiating out through the rest of his body. He even feels it in his toes. He didn't even know that was possible. 

 

He blinks his eyes open. His eyes are crusty, but he can't lift his hand to wipe at them, doesn’t have motor control back just yet. So he just blinks as hard as he can, trying to clear the film. He’s way too warm, piled beneath blankets in a bed he doesn’t recognize, in a room he’s never been in. It’s simple, looks like a cabin of some sort, with gaps in the wooden planks of the walls. The only decoration is a horseshoe he can see hanging over his head. 

 

Good luck, he thinks, a tired smile appearing on his lips. Probably needed some of that.

 

He turns his head, prompting another wave of pain as the movement pulls at his muscles. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the current as it tries to pull him back under. When he can breathe again and his vision clears, he’s able to take in the rest of the room. It’s sparsely furnished, really just a bed and a small cabinet, lanterns scattered around on the floor, giving a warm glow to the space. There’s a bunch of chairs arranged around the bed, but they’re mostly empty- except for two. 

 

Lucius is sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs, sketching something in his notebook, intense concentration on his face. He glances up, and his eyes widen, a relieved smile spreading across his face. He claps a hand to his chest, shoulders slumping. Frenchie manages a half smile.

 

Lucius says nothing, just holds up a thumb in a “you good?” gesture, raising an eyebrow. Frenchie nods once, rustling against the pillowcase. 

 

“I’ll give you a minute before I bring the others in,” Lucius whispers, barely above a breath, and he glances to Frenchie’s right, grinning. “Call if you need me. I’ll be outside.” 

 

Lucius rises, tip-toeing to the door, closing it silently as he exits. Frenchie frowns, then looks to his right, where Lucius had-

 

Oh, that’s the pressure on his wrist. 

 

Israel Quickshot Hands, one of the West's Most Wanted, is sitting on the most uncomfortable looking wooden chair Frenchie has ever seen, feet planted on the ground, one hand shoved into his pocket, and the other resting on Frenchie’s wrist, fingers pressed against his pulse point. His head is tipped back at an angle that looks painful, mouth parted slightly in sleep. 

 

Something warm and glowing rushes through Frenchie, easing his pain, if just for a minute. He could wake him. Should wake him, probably, but he just studies him, his hooked nose, his unusually disheveled hair, the spot of dirt on his face just under the tattoo on his cheek. 

 

He looks exhausted. Frenchie doesn’t imagine he looks much better himself. He remembers it now, getting shot, though everything after that is still somewhat fuzzy. 

 

He’s all but resolved to let Izzy sleep, to maybe go back to sleep himself, when the pain returns, shuddering through his body. He lets out an involuntary groan. 

 

Izzy’s head shoots up like a gun’s gone off, hand tightening on Frenchie’s wrist. His eyes snap to Frenchie at once, wide and alert- 

 

And he freezes like a statue, exhaling with a huff. 

 

“Hi,” Frenchie says. It comes out less of a word, and more of a croak, like a toad. His throat is bone dry. 

 

Izzy just stares like he’s seen a ghost, chest rising and falling rapidly. Wait, is Frenchie a ghost? Lucius hadn’t seemed to think so, but he guesses it's a possibility. He swallows, trying to force some moisture back into his throat. Ghosts probably don’t hurt so much, but what does he know? He’s never spoken to one. It’s worth asking. 

 

“Am I dead?” he asks. That comes out a bit more clear, but still raspy. Something flashes across Izzy’s face, and he wrenches his free hand from his pocket, bringing it to Frenchie’s throat, feeling for a pulse there. He finds it, and his hands tremble. He gives a quick shake of his head, but doesn’t move his hand. 

 

“That’s a relief,” Frenchie says. The words scrape against his throat, and he coughs. That seems to spur Izzy into action. 

 

“Water, you need-” he says, shooting to his feet. “You need water.”

 

He snatches a flask from one of the empty chairs, unscrewing it with shaking fingers. He sits on the bed next to Frenchie, pressing the flask into his right hand, steadying it with his own in case Frenchie drops it. 

 

“Here, can you- can you shift up?” he asks. 

 

Frenchie nods, but he needs some help doing so, and the movement is slow and difficult. He manages it, though, leaning against Izzy, and he gulps down a few mouthfuls of water. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

 

“Better, thanks,” he says. Izzy recaps the flask, setting it down without even looking at it. He’s still looking at Frenchie like he might vanish into smoke at any given second. 

 

“Was it that bad?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“Was it- you got fucking shot,” Izzy bursts out. 

 

“Yeah, I mean, I remember that,” Frenchie says. He almost shrugs, but thinks better of it. “People get shot all the time.” 

 

“And people die from it all the time, for fuck’s sake,” Izzy says. “You almost-” 

 

He cuts off. 

 

“Oh. That bad,” Frenchie murmurs. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Izzy’s breathing way too fast, and his hand, still resting on top of Frenchie’s, has a tremor to it. He’s scared, Frenchie realizes. Terrified, maybe. 

 

“I mean, I didn’t,” he says quietly. “Die, I mean. If I’m awake I’m guessing that’s a good sign.” 

 

“You were out for 12 hours,” Izzy says, like the words are being forced from him. “12 hours, and I didn’t know if-” 

 

Frenchie blinks. “Have you been here the whole time?”

 

“Course I have,” Izzy mutters. 

 

“Oh. Thank you.” 

 

It’s probably not super healthy for his heart to be beating this fast so soon after a chest wound, but Frenchie can’t really help it, because that image really is… well, it's nice. It’s really nice, the idea of Izzy staying, watching over him like some sort of very angry guardian angel. 

 

“Thank-” Izzy cuts off again, his free hand clenching. “Don’t thank me. You shouldn’t be thanking me when it's me who put you there in the first place.” 

 

His words are low and bitter and self-loathing, and Frenchie, who’s still sort of recalibrating, has trouble processing them. 

 

“I don't think it was you that shot me, Iz.” 

 

“No, but it’s my fucking fault.” Izzy pulls his hand back, standing up. “It- if you hadn’t- if it weren't for me you wouldn’t have even been there, you wouldn’t have been in danger-” 

 

Izzy’s foot is tapping, like he wants to run away, but he stays, his eyes pleading with Frenchie to understand. 

 

“It’s my fault for putting you in that situation, and you nearly- I almost- fuck. I almost got you killed, Frenchie, just like-” 

 

He stops again, but Frenchie finishes it for him this time. 

 

“Like Charles Vane?” 

 

The name stills Izzy, grief flashing over his features. 

 

“Ed told you?” 

 

“He told me some. Nothing that would make me think it was your fault he died.”

 

“It was. If I’d been more- more careful, more vigilant, I would have- I could have stopped it. I could have caught fucking Robert before he could turn.” 

 

“Who’s Robert?” 

 

“Doesn't matter.” 

 

Frenchie figures he can push on that later. Whatever argument Izzy is having with himself, it’s obviously one he’s been having for years, and he’s clearly convinced that Charles is dead because of him. Frenchie won’t be able to undo thirteen years of self-hatred, especially not weak and injured as he is now. When he’s recovered, he can argue that ‘till the sun goes down. But not now. 

 

“Ok, I’m not dead though. And it was my decision to go, Izzy, my decision to go and get you. I could have stayed out of it, if I wanted, but I wasn’t gonna let you go off and die. Not without a fight.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

From the way Izzy’s eyes widen, he didn't mean to ask that question. 

 

“Come on. You know why,” Frenchie says. He reaches his hand out, ignoring the pain that shoots through his shoulder at the movement. “Will you come back here?” 

 

Izzy hesitates, but obeys, sitting cautiously on the edge of the bed. Frenchie takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. Izzy has callouses, he notes, not for the first time. Lots of them. They feel nice. 

 

“You know I care about you.” 

 

“You shouldn’t,” Izzy murmurs. 

 

“Yeah, you don’t get to decide that, though,” Frenchie replies. “That’s my decision.” 

 

“Shitty decision.” 

 

“Still mine to make.” 

 

Izzy huffs out the ghost of a laugh. “You’re fucking stubborn.” 

 

“Oh yeah,” Frenchie says. “You hadn’t caught on to that yet?” 

 

He shifts, and lets out a hiss through clenched teeth. 

 

“You’re hurting. I can get Roach,” Izzy says, starting to move, but Frenchie grips his hand. 

 

“It’ll pass. Just a minute more, yeah? I need to work up to everyone else rushing in here.” 

 

“...all right,” Izzy says, settling back. He sits closer this time, leg pressed against Frenchie’s hip. 

 

“Did it all work out ok?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“It did, yeah,” Izzy says. “Hornigold and Badminton are out of the picture. We’re at Jackie’s hideout for now. Probably have to move soon, to be safe. When you’re able, anyway.” 

 

“Sweet of you all to wait for me,” Frenchie says. Izzy shakes his head, and Frenchie can see a smile tug at his mouth. 

 

His thumb ghosts over the side of Frenchie’s index finger, and he brings their hands up, pressing his lips to Frenchie’s knuckles. His eyes close, and he lets out a shaky breath. 

 

Yeah, Frenchie’s heart definitely skips a beat at that one. Not healthy. He blinks hard, trying to dispel the tears collecting in his eyes. He sees a single one fall from Izzy’s eye, but he lets it slide. He’s got no room to talk, really, getting as choked up as he is. But who can blame him? They’re both here, they're both alive, they've made it through against all odds, and the same man who froze up when Frenchie tried to kiss him is holding his hand willingly, on purpose, and that simple gesture is nearly enough to make Frenchie weep. 

 

He clears his throat, trying to dislodge the lump in it. 

 

“That all I get? I almost died, you know,” he says, trying for playful, but falling somewhat short. Izzy’s eyes open, guarded and a bit wary, still, but so full of relief that it makes Frenchie’s stomach clench. He lets their joined hands fall to rest on the blankets, and leans down, pressing his forehead to Frenchie’s. 

 

“You’re pushing your luck,” he says. 

 

“Well, good thing I’ve got that horseshoe,” Frenchie points out. “It’s even hanging the right way. So I’ve got oodles of luck to push.” 

 

“Ridiculous.” 

 

“You like me anyway, though.” 

 

“Yes,” Izzy says quietly. “I do.” 

 

Frenchie opens his mouth to reply, but Izzy kisses him before he can. 

 

Izzy’s not the best with words. Frenchie knows this. What he is good at are actions, and this is no exception. Without the adrenaline of their last kiss, surrounded by enemies and gunfire and the fierce joy of being reunited, this is soft, softer than Frenchie ever thought Izzy could be, gentle and firm and… there's no other word for it but tender. He hums happily, deep in his chest, and he feels more than hears Izzy’s chuckle in response. 

 

Izzy’s careful not to push too hard, given Frenchie’s injury, and as much as Frenchie might want him to push a little bit, the throbbing in his shoulder tells him that’s probably not a good idea. 

 

There’s a single knock on the door, and Izzy pulls back, closing his eyes with a sigh. 

 

“Sorry, just me,” Lucius’s voice calls. “I’m just checking to make sure you’re not dead, Frenchie.” 

 

Frenchie lets his head flop back onto the pillow, grinning up at Izzy. 

 

“He’s fine, Spriggs,” Izzy calls back. 

 

“Oh, oh good. Well, I’ll, er, I’ll just-” 

 

“You can come in, man,” Frenchie says. Izzy stiffens, just a bit, and Frenchie thinks he might bolt, but he stays where he is, just adjusts so he’s not leaning over Frenchie. 

 

Lucius pokes his head in. “Hi, hello, we’re all decent?” 

 

“Jesus wept,” Izzy grumbles. 

 

“I'll take that as a yes.” Lucius comes in, heading to Frenchie’s other side and patting the back of his hand. “How are you feeling?” 

 

“I mean, I’ve been better,” Frenchie says. “But all things considered, I’m not dead, so that’s a pretty big plus.” 

 

“I suppose that’s something,” Lucius says. He glances down at their conjoined hands, and smirks, dropping a wink at Izzy, who goes beet red and looks away. “Are we ok to see everyone? This one’s not the only one who’s been worried, you know.” 

 

“Yeah, go on,” Frenchie says. “Just, uh, get someone to hold John back, will you? He’s gonna try to hug me and I might pass out again if he does that. Restraint isn’t exactly his strong suit.” 

 

“Who the hell can hold back John?” Lucius says. “Well, maybe Fang and Ivan together? I’ll get them on it. I'll be back, then.” 

 

He pauses at the door. 

 

“I’m loving this, by the way,” he says, gesturing between the two of them. “Really, loving everything about it.” 

 

“Get out of here,” Izzy orders. When Lucius is gone, he lets his head drop against Frenchie’s with a groan. 

 

“He means well,” Frenchie says. 

 

“I know. He’s been… very helpful, during all this,” Izzy admits. “Don’t tell him I said that.” 

 

“I’ll keep it to myself  in case I need to blackmail you sometime,” Frenchie agrees. Izzy rolls his eyes fondly. 

 

They can just hear the others outside. Lucius hasn’t reached them yet, but he will. Izzy glances at him, looking guilty. 

 

“I don’t- I haven’t done this, really,” he says, voice low. “Not like this. It’s- new.” 

 

“It’s new to me too,” Frenchie says, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to be all over me, or anything, in front of the others. Not if you don’t want to. I won’t complain if you do want to, but I won’t be offended if you don’t.”

 

Izzy gives a sharp nod. “I- thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me. Just kiss me again before the others come in.” 

 

Izzy shakes his head, but complies, kissing him, then kissing his forehead, before slipping off the bed. He doesn’t go far, just to the chair he was asleep in, and he even moves it closer to the bed. He groans, cracking his back. 

 

“Fuck this chair.” 

 

“I’ll rub your back for you later if you want, babe. Least I can do.” 

 

“You can’t even move your arm,” Izzy points out, then pauses. “ Babe ?” 

 

“You not like that?” 

 

Izzy shrugs. “Don’t have much of an opinion on it. Whatever you like.” 

 

But he’s avoiding eye contact, and that tells Frenchie all he needs to know. 

 

Then the others burst in, and the room is filled with tears, and laughter, and a very gentle punch to the arm courtesy of Jim. Izzy sits by his side through it all. He doesn't hold his hand, or kiss him, in front of the others, but he’s there. He stays, and he sits close enough to Frenchie that sometimes their arms brush when Frenchie gestures with his good hand, and that’s enough, to have him by his side. 

 

It’s more than enough. 



 

JIM

 

The relief that rushes through Jim at Lucius’s high-pitched call of  “ he’s awake! ” is like a burn in the best possible way, filling their chest and making them shake with it. John nearly faints, Oluwande is bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, and Swede is openly sobbing. It takes them all a moment, but the rush to the room where Frenchie’s been lying comatose for the past twelve hours is like a stampede. Oluwande has to draw them into his side to keep them from getting trampled by John, Ivan, and Fang, the latter two under strict orders from Lucius to keep John from crushing Frenchie with the force of his relief. 

 

Roach elbows his way to the front, and Jim has to crane their neck to even get a glimpse of Frenchie, who’s sitting half up in bed, gaunt and tired, but grinning in that easy way he has, and they relax, letting themselves slump into Oluwande. 

 

“Told you he’d be fine,” Olu murmurs, pressing his cheek into the top of their head. “When you gonna start listening to me?” 

 

They elbow him in the side, and he feigns injury. 

 

“Ah, my worst patient,” Roach tsks, tugging down the blankets to check on the wound. “You ever do something like this again, you find yourself another doctor.” 

 

“You’re not even a doctor, mate,” Frenchie says, earning himself a knuckle to the head. The rest of them are crowded outside the door until Roach gives the signal, then they’re piling in, way too many of them to comfortably fit in the room. Jim catches a glimpse of Izzy, sitting in the same chair he was when they left him a couple hours ago, and they can tell just from the way he’s sitting that he’s itching to bolt. They get it, they feel the same, a bit. It’s very crowded, and Jim prefers a little room to maneuver.

 

But they wouldn’t miss this for the world. If only for the entertainment value of John forcibly inching his way towards Frenchie, Ivan and Fang each grabbing an arm and digging their heels in to prevent him from sprinting, while the two of them and Roach and Lucius all say in one giant, overlapping garble of words- 

 

“Remember what we talked about, remember what we talked about, don’t grab him, he’s still hurt, don’t grab him-” 

 

John shows a remarkable amount of restraint, in Jim’s opinion. He doesn't sweep Frenchie up like he’s clearly itching to, only thunks his head down on Frenchie’s middle. It earns him a hissed breath from Frenchie, and Izzy flinches like he’s going to go for his gun, but Frenchie’s hiss turns into a pained laugh, and he rubs John’s head. 

 

“Come here, you big crybaby, I’m fine,” he says fondly. 

 

“You can’t do that to me again,” John all but wails, and it's easy to forget he’s a sensitive dude, for such a big guy. 

 

“I mean, I didn't plan to in the first place, but I’ll try to avoid it,” Frenchie says. It only takes a second until the others are squeezing in, Swede basically crawling on top of John to grin at Frenchie, Roach seated on the bed next to him, Lucius and Pete at the foot of the bed, Ivan and Fang leaning against the wall. Buttons remains by the door - he’s never very comfortable indoors at all. He usually sleeps outside or in the barn with the horses, back home. Jim and Oluwande squeeze in by Izzy, Olu raising a hand in greeting. 

 

“How’s your back, old man?” Jim asks.

 

“Fucked,” Izzy admits. 

 

“You ever tried having a better spine? Or just not being old?” 

 

“Fuck off, Jimenez,” Izzy says. Jim lets a smile touch their face, before turning their attention to Frenchie. He’s nodding his head as Swede details the hours he was unconscious, focusing on very inconsequential things, like the position of the Big Dipper in the sky, and leaving out the major events, for some reason, but Swede’s never been the best at focus. Frenchie loves that shit, though, the astrological shit, so maybe Swede’s the best person to update him after all. Frenchie glances over at them and drops a wink, and Jim scrunches their nose at him. 

 

It’s been a stressful fucking couple of days. It’s been a stressful few weeks. It’s been a stressful fucking life, really, for Jim, but this- this is nice. It’s nice, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Oluwande, his solid frame next to them, listening to Fang try to comfort John, even though he himself is teary-eyed, nice to see Lucius babying Pete’s leg, nice to laugh when Stede comes into the room and nearly collapses at the sight of Frenchie awake, to see the fondness in Ed’s eyes as he keeps him upright. 

 

It's nice. It’s family. 

 

Excluding one particularly important member of their family, though. So when Olu nudges them, jerking his chin towards the door, and they see Nicky lingering outside, they slip out to join him. He’s even less comfortable with crowds than they are, and he’s only known these people a few days. They may be family to Jim, and Nicky may like the crew, but they aren’t his people. Not yet. 

 

“Thought you were on watch?” Jim asks, leaning up against the wall opposite the door with Nicky, kicking one leg up to rest behind them. 

 

“I had one of the guys take over when I heard,” Nicky says. “I’m glad he’s ok.” 

 

“Me too,” Jim says, still feeling the buzz of that relief in their chest.

 

Nicky glances at them, then back into the room, where Stede is grandstanding about bravery and cleverness and integrity- though where integrity comes into the heist they just pulled, Jim’s not sure. 

 

“They’re fucking weird,” Nicky says, shaking his head. 

 

“Yeah. I am a bit too, though,” Jim allows. 

 

“You’ve always been weird.” 

 

“Shut up.” 

 

Nicky ducks his head with a smile. His fingers toy with the rosary in his pocket. “Where will you guys go? After this?” 

 

Jim sighs. “I have no idea. We’ve been floating ideas all day, but right now it seems like we’re just… going west. Until we find something. Stede thinks he’ll know it when he sees it, whatever that means.” 

 

“All of you? I mean, Blackbeard and the Skulls, too?” 

 

“Sounds like it. I don’t think we could pry Ed and Stede apart if we used a crowbar, at this point.” 

 

“Yeah, they seem pretty settled.” 

 

He fidgets again. “You know, you don’t have to go. You could join the Gallos. If you wanted. The Siete Gallos, plus Jim. I guess your boyfriend could come too, if he wanted.” 

 

“He’s not my-” Jim starts automatically, then stops. Well, Oluwande probably is their boyfriend, now, even if the term feels juvenile, for what Oluwande means to them. Partner, maybe. They like that better. “Well, whatever.” 

 

They pause, thinking it over. The idea has an appeal, they have to admit that much. They could stay with Nicky. They’ve spent so long thinking that he’s dead, and they’re reluctant to leave him again. More than reluctant. And Jim- for most of their life, Jim has known violence, has known the fight. They could join it again, with the Gallos. 

 

But then they glance back into the room, where Frenchie’s voice has just rung out a bit louder than the rest, where Oluwande is laughing so hard his eyes are nearly closed, and their chin wobbles. 

 

“I don’t know,” they say softly. “I don’t want to leave you again, Nicky. But- I don’t think that’s my life, anymore.”

 

Nicky exhales. “Yeah, I thought you might say that. Just wanted to let you know you could.” 

 

“You could come with us,” Jim suggests. Nicky snorts, shaking his head. 

 

“Nah. This might not be your life anymore, but it is mine. I’m damn good at it, and I like it.” 

 

Jim nods, turning their face to hide the sheen over their eyes. They hear Nicky shift, and then he’s tugging them into an embrace. 

 

“We’re still family. No matter what. And if I don’t hear from you like, all the time, I’ll ride the Siete Gallos out to wherever you are and track you down myself. Now that I know you’re alive there’s no fucking way I’m letting you disappear, not again.” 

 

Jim chuckles, a bittersweet, watery thing. “Same goes for you, hermanito. I’ll rain hellfire.” 

 

Nicky squeezes them tighter. “I’m really glad you found me.” 

 

“Technically, Olu did that.” 

 

“Did what?” Oluwande’s voice sounds. “Sorry, I saw a cute sibling moment happening and I had to be a part of it.” 

 

Jim shakes their head against Nicky’s shoulder, and sticks an arm out, wiggling their fingers for Oluwande, and he flings his arms around both of them, rocking them back and forth until Nicky is protesting. 

 

They break apart after a minute, when Jim's eyes have cleared a bit. Nicky snatches their hat off of their head, ruffles their hair, and plops it back down, tugging it over their eyes. 

 

“Jackie actually wanted to talk to you two, if you’ve got a second,” he says, back to business. 

 

He leads them out front, where Jackie’s lit a cigar, smoke curling out into the late night air. 

 

“Your guy’s awake?” she asks. 

 

“Yeah, he’s up,” Jim says. They lean up against the railing of the porch, hands clasped in front of them. 

 

“Good. I wanted to run something by you two, see if your boss would be interested.” 

 

“Shoot.” 

 

“You can’t go back to the Lighthouse, or whatever the fuck Bonnet calls his ranch, right?” Jackie asks. 

 

“Nah, too hot with the authorities. We’re thinking about going further west, finding a new place,” Jim says. 

 

“Figured as much. You think Bonnet wants to keep the property, or would he be open to an offer?” 

 

Oluwande’s eyebrows nearly shoot off his head. “You want to buy the ranch?” 

 

“It’s a good piece of land,” Jackie says, taking another drag on her cigar. “Good investment. Jackie’s thinking about expanding. That spot would make a hell of a headquarters.” 

 

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Jim asks. “What with the authorities, and all?” 

 

Jackie snorts. “I’d lay low for a couple months before I used it. I’m not an idiot. Besides, you think the authorities are gonna fuck with me? I’ve got half the sheriffs in the state in my pocket, and after what we just pulled, my rep’s through the roof. I’d love to meet the fucker who has the balls to come after me now.” 

 

“Jackie, someday I hope I have half the confidence you do,” Oluwande mutters. 

 

“It’s not confidence, kid, it’s competence,” Jackie says, holding up a finger. “You think Bonnet’d be interested?” 

 

Jim exchanges a look with Olu, who shrugs. “I think so.” 

 

“Run it past him, will you?” 

 

They do run it past Stede, and he is, in fact, amenable to the idea. He’s thrilled about it, actually, that the ranch will pass to someone who can appreciate it, someone they know, rather than a stranger who might rip the whole thing down. Jackie even agrees to have some of her men care for the livestock while they’re searching for a new place. 

 

It’s bittersweet, saying goodbye. Even for Jim, who tries not to get sentimental about this kind of stuff. But there’s something cleansing about it, too. They spend a week clearing the place out, waiting for Frenchie to recover enough to travel, stashing furniture and Mary’s art and Stede’s ridiculous rugs in Blackbeard’s caches. He sells some of them, to his credit, to have a bit of a nest egg when they get to wherever it is they’re going. And then it’s empty. Just wooden boards and big glass windows and small hints of the life that they’ve all led, of the home they’ve all found in this place. 

 

Jim gets their last look at the ranch from the mountains, looking down into the valley, astride their horse with Oluwande and Stede at their side. 

 

“You ok, Jim?” Olu asks, watching the cloud of dust from the Siete Gallos move further away. They’ve said goodbye to Nicolas, an uncharacteristically tearful thing, and the rest of their crew is further up the path. They nod, but their throat is tight. 

 

Stede’s eyes are shining and his chin is wobbling, but he holds it together with a remarkable grace. 

 

“Farewell, dear home,” he says, taking his hat from his head and placing it against his chest. “She served us well. Brought us all together. For that, I will be forever grateful.” 

 

He looks serene, like this, early morning light hitting his face, and despite themselves, Jim tears up. 

 

“Yeah, she did,” they say. They're about to ride off when a figure in the distance pauses. Even from here, they can make out Nicky. He raises his hat to them, and Jim returns the gesture. 

 

“You’ll see him again,” Oluwande says. 

 

“Yeah, I know,” Jim says, and they do. They found Nicky again over a decade after they were separated, after all. There’s no force on earth that could stop them from finding him again. 

 

So, with one last look, they urge their horse forward with a click of their tongue, and they turn towards the west, towards the lawless lands- towards their family. 

 

And they smile. 

 

Notes:

I told y’all we would have a happy ending! Even if it's not quite over yet. I’m hoping to have the next bit up later this week, this weekend at the latest, just to give me a little time to make sure I’m happy with the note I’m ending this on. It should still be a decently hefty chapter, given that a single POV is already like 4k words and I have three more to go. So stay tuned!

Once again, you all have been so kind and so supportive towards this story, and my heart is very full about it. Your comments last chapter really gave me life, and as always, if you feel like leaving your thoughts on this one, I always love hearing from you guys!

Next up: one month later, our crew finds a new home, and we look to the future. Plenty of fluff and nice things to make up for how much I’ve put you guys through in this story lol. See ya then!

Chapter 9

Summary:

Our crew has been on the road for a month, and the finish line is finally in sight. Frenchie and Izzy navigate their relationship. Frenchie ruminates on the mortifying ordeal of being known, and Izzy contemplates a fresh start. Ed and Stede find their new home. Ed begins to heal from old wounds, and Stede discovers what happiness actually feels like.

Happy endings across the board, featuring a whole lot of domesticity, feelings, a very cute spectre (or witch, depending on who you ask) that haunts the new ranch, a letter to Mary Bonnet, and more fluff than I even know what to do with. Bon appetit.

Frenchie’s song is Out Where the West Begins. As always, there’s a version on the playlist!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

FRENCHIE

 

Oh, Frenchie’s missed this. 

 

There's just something about being on the run, as long as you know it's temporary, that stirs the blood. Maybe he’s a little crazy to think that (he’s almost certainly a little crazy, but everyone he knows now is at least somewhat off in the head), but he’s always felt like that. Yeah, sure, when he’s been on the run in the past it's been tough, and he’s had some very bad, very dark moments, but there’s always been a sense of a fresh start, getting somewhere new, letting go of old baggage. 

 

And this time, he won't be starting entirely from scratch. This time, he doesn't have to start over alone. That makes it all the better. 

 

“You see it?” Jim calls from a few yards away, over the rush of wind. 

 

“I see it,” Frenchie confirms. 

 

The two of them are overlooking a small town, just visible on the horizon. If they weren’t so high up, they wouldn't be able to see it at all. 

 

“That’s what Ed was talking about, wasn’t it? You ever been?” Jim asks. 

 

“Nah, I’ve only been this far west… once, I think, and only for a week,” Frenchie says. “Years ago, too. I don’t think I ever came here.” 

 

Here refers to the town, of course, which Ed told them is called Elk’s Point, a sprawling settlement that sprung up around a river some years ago. It’s the place, or so he says, for enterprising ranchers- or in their case, outlaws on the run- to start up, to buy land and homestead.

 

“I don’t see anything else it could be, anyway, assuming they’ve pointed us in the right direction,” Jim says. They’re squinting into the sun, beating down on them even with the large hat perched on their head. It’s gotten very hot very quickly as spring turned to summer, and it’s dry. It makes the puckered scar on Frenchie’s shoulder, nearly healed, but still a bit tender, itch like nobody’s business. 

 

“Nearly there, then,” Frenchie says. “You relieved?” 

 

“Yeah, I fucking hate traveling,” Jim says. “I mean, I’ll do it, but if I have to listen to Fang and John hold one more conversation in their sleep-” 

 

Frenchie chuckles. He already knew John talked in his sleep, of course, he’s shared a room with the guy for the better part of a year, but Fang was a surprise. He’s not sure if it's subconscious, or what, but the two of them have been having full-fledged debates in their sleep. It would be impressive, if they weren’t all sleeping in one room or together under the stars, depending on the place and the weather.

 

Frenchie doesn’t mind it much. John’s sleep-talking has been a source of comfort for him on bad nights, and the conversations he and Fang hold are genuinely entertaining. He’s never liked sleeping alone as it is, so this whole month hasn’t been out of the ordinary for him. Izzy’s been having more difficulty adjusting. And honestly, much as he loves the others, Frenchie really wouldn’t mind getting some fucking privacy, somewhere he can take Izzy for more than just a stolen half-hour here and there. 

 

“What were they talking about last night? I slept through it, mostly,” he asks as they both nudge their horses into light trots, back down the trail they came up. 

 

“It switched, like, five different times,” Jim grumbles. “I couldn’t keep up. At first it was something about coffee? Then demolition, then dogs. I can’t remember the other two, I was drifting.” 

 

“We’ve gotta get Fang a dog, mate, he talks about them enough,” Frenchie says. 

 

“That’s not a bad idea. Especially once we get the livestock here,” Jim says. 

 

“Well, I guess we have to find a place, first.” 

 

“Oh, we’ll find one. You know how Stede gets, when he sets his mind to something. He’s already decided this is the spot.” 

 

“Has he?” 

 

“You haven’t heard him and Ed talking about it?” Jim asks with a raised eyebrow. “They’ve all but put the deposit down.” 

 

“We’re literally not even there yet,” Frenchie says. “It might suck.” 

 

Jim shrugs. “I don't know. I’ve got a good feeling.” 

 

“Careful, Jim, that almost sounded optimistic.” 

 

“Olu’s rubbing off on me, I guess,” Jim says. “C’mon, let’s get back. It’s hotter than the devil’s ballsack out here.” 

 

“That’s definitely not a saying!” Frenchie calls after them as they gallop ahead. 

 

“As if half the stuff you spew isn’t bullshit!” Jim calls back. 

 

“Ah, you- and they’re gone,” Frenchie says. “C’mon, Salt, let’s catch up.” 

 

With a snort, Salt increases her pace. 

 

It’s a bit cooler, but not much, back at the campsite. They’re by the bend of the river leading down to Elk’s Point, so the water helps some, but even then, Frenchie’s about to sweat straight through his shirt. Jim’s already dismounted by the time he gets there, hitching their horse to a tree branch. The others are lounging, Ed and Stede in deep conversation with Oluwande and Buttons, Lucius and Pete dipping their feet in the river, Swede, John, Roach, and Ivan engaged in a card game that will probably turn bloody if someone doesn’t intervene. Izzy’s observing, but when he spots Frenchie, he gets up, dusting his pants off, and heads towards him. 

 

“Any luck?” he calls as he approaches, taking Salt’s bridle and guiding her to the other horses. 

 

“Yeah, actually,” Frenchie says. “We’re not far out now, you can just see it from the crest there.” 

 

He jerks a finger back the direction he came. 

 

“Ed’ll be pleased,” Izzy says. 

 

“I think we’ll all be pleased, mon rêleur, ” Frenchie says, letting the nickname roll off his tongue. 

 

Izzy’s got an unexpected weakness for pet names, he’s found, but it was  hard to strike a balance. He still calls him Quickshot, mostly, or Iz, but he throws some others in there too. Izzy doesn’t like babe so much, Frenchie thinks with how much Lucius and Pete use it with each other it’s sort of lost its meaning for Izzy, and a lot of pet names like love or darling, like Ed and Stede use, are too sentimental for him. Thus, mon rêleur, loosely translating to my complainer. Half insult, half term of endearment, it's perfect for Izzy. Plus he knows Izzy likes when he speaks French, even though he doesn’t understand more than a word or two here and there. 

 

“Don’t act like you don’t love it out here,'' Izzy says, glancing back at him with an arched brow. 

 

Frenchie grins. “Yeah, guilty. I do a bit. But it’ll be nice to be settled again.” 

 

Izzy hums in assent, hitching Salt to a branch near Shadow. Frenchie waits to dismount until he’s done, swinging his leg over. He lets out a bit of a grunt as the movement jostles his shoulder, and Izzy’s hand shoots out automatically to rest on his waist, steadying him. 

 

 “Shoulder?” Izzy asks, eyes scanning over him, and that's one thing about Izzy that’s nice, he’s observant. Frenchie’s never much liked being the object of scrutiny, sort of interferes with his modus operandi of going unseen, blending in, but he finds he doesn’t mind it so much when it's Izzy. There’s something nice, something healing, about being known, about Izzy caring enough to catch these little ticks and oddities that give Frenchie away, things other people don’t notice. 

 

“Yeah, it’s acting up some,” Frenchie admits. “It’ll be fine.” 

 

He glances around, sees that the others are mostly occupied, and ducks his head down for a kiss. Izzy tilts his own head up, his hand coming to rest on Frenchie’s jaw.

 

Izzy’s still a bit skittish with affection in front of the others, at least when there’s a lot of attention on them. He’s gotten better, a lot better, actually, sort of had to if he and Frenchie wanted to have any kind of relationship while on the road, given the aforementioned lack of privacy, but Frenchie still tries not to push. 

 

Though that’s very hard to stick to when he pulls back and Izzy’s eyes are darker than they were when he leaned in. 

 

“Hey, hey, Frenchie!” Roach calls from the circle of the card game. “Come look!” 

 

“What’s up, mate?” Frenchie asks, walking over, Izzy at his side. 

 

“New wanted posters,” Roach says with a grin, gesturing to a pile of papers to his left. 

 

“Pete n’ I found ‘em on the main road, when we went down to scope it out,” Ivan chimes in. The main road is less of a road and more the only well-traveled path in this part of the state, but even out here, it would seem their notoriety has spread. 

 

“Oh, give ‘em here,” Frenchie says, plopping down on the ground, rifling through the stack. Izzy sits back where he was, on the other side of Ivan. 

 

There's the usual ones, of course- Blackbeard, Lawless Ivan, Fang the Vicious, Israel ‘Quickshot’ Hands-

 

“They didn’t do your nose justice in this picture, really,” Frenchie says.

 

Izzy snorts. “What sort of fucking comment is that?” 

 

“You’ve got a great nose, Iz, I’m saying it's a shame they didn’t capture it. Doesn't he have a great nose?” 

 

“I’m not complimenting your boyfriend,” John says with a wave of his hand. 

 

“I think your nose is very nice,” Swede says brightly, smiling at Izzy, who groans, dropping his head into his hands. 

 

“Please move on.”

 

Frenchie does as asked, rifling through the others. Half of the posters don’t have names, and the pictures aren’t good enough for any of them to need to be on alert, but they’ve all got one. He thinks this one with the long hair is meant to be Swede, the one that looks like a genuine madman is meant to be Roach, probably. John’s is more of a vague outline of a giant with almost no distinguishing features, and there's one with a kerchief pulled half over his face-

 

“Hey, Dread Black Pete!” he exclaims with a grin. “They finally got the name right!” 

 

“And he’s been fucking insufferable about it, believe me,” Roach says. 

 

“Ah, he’s earned it, hasn’t he?” 

 

They’ve got Stede’s likeness down pretty well, but it’s the Stede of Befor e, as Frenchie’s calling him in his mind, not the Stede that’s developed on the road in this past month. He’s got a beard now, he dresses more like an actual cowboy, and his hair is longer, slicked back from his face, rather than the bouncy waves shown in the poster. 

 

He finds his, finally, and chuckles. “They’re not letting go of the Billy Colt thing, eh?” 

 

Frenchie’s acquired another alias, it seems- this time of bounty hunter Billy Colt, the identity he’d used to get Izzy off that train. 

 

“Doesn't seem so, no,” Izzy says. “Even though Billy Colt’s dead. And looks nothing like you.” 

 

“Does he look like this picture, though?” Frenchie asks, turning it so Izzy can see. 

 

“No.” 

 

“Doesn’t look like me, much, either,” Frenchie says. 

 

“They never do, do they?” John asks. 

 

“That’s the magic of it, my friend,” Frenchie says. 

 

“You want me to deal you in?” Roach asks, waving the cards. “For the next hand?” 

 

“Nah, that’s all right, mate,” Frenchie says, stretching out. “It’s too hot to do fucking anything. I’ll just watch.”

 

“Suit yourself,” Roach shrugs. He does, however, insist on dealing Izzy in, despite his protests. 

 

The day continues on in a similar manner. They’ll move again tomorrow, once Ed and Stede have their game plan for getting into town, but for now, it’s nice, just to relax, put his feet up, and not to have to ride miles and miles in the searing heat. 

 

He drags himself away from the card game after a while, joining Lucius and Pete by the river to cool off, splashing water on his face and congratulating Pete on the Dread Black Pete title that he’s been trying to cultivate for years finally being recognized, and before he knows it, the sun’s gone down. 

 

He eats with the others, confers with Ed and Stede about the plan for the next few days- they think it's a good idea to go in with a small group first, scope the place out, and Frenchie agrees- and as the stars come out and the red streaks of the sunset have faded into a light pinky-purple sort of color, everyone starts to retire. Frenchie gets to his feet, bidding everyone a good night with a grand sort of sweeping bow, and joins Izzy at their bedrolls. 

 

He’s managed to put a little space between them and the others, Izzy has, behind one of the trees, closer to the bank of the river. It’s not much privacy, but better than nothing. Izzy had all but brawled with Ed for it, until Frenchie played his injury up as the winning card. He’d feel guilty, but Ed and Stede have far fewer reservations about public displays of affection, so he figures he and Izzy deserve the spot. 

 

Izzy’s already there when he flops down. He usually retires for the night before the others, because, as he says “I spend enough time with you twats during the day, you don’t get my nights, too.” 

 

He’s sat with his back against the tree trunk, his jacket used as padding, reading by lantern-light. The silver of his chain glints around his neck. Frenchie had given the ring back to him when he recovered, because really, Frenchie has no claim on it, it’s Izzy’s ring, Charles’s ring, and it belongs to him. Besides, Frenchie has a vague idea in his head that he’ll probably get Izzy a ring of his own sometime in the future, though it's maybe too early to be having thoughts like that. 

 

Frenchie takes the opportunity to sprawl out, with his head in Izzy’s lap. Izzy looks up from the page, a fond smile quirking at his lips. 

 

“Hi,” Frenchie says.

 

“Hello yourself,” Izzy says, scratching at Frenchie’s scalp with his free hand. 

 

“What are you reading?” 

 

“Don Quixote,” Izzy says. 

 

“What's it about?” 

 

“It’s a Spanish novel,” Izzy says. “I’ll read it to you, if you like.” 

 

“I don’t speak much Spanish.” 

 

“Neither do I,” Izzy says. “My copy’s in English.” 

 

“Oh, sure then. But don’t start over on my account.” 

 

He shifts, and scrunches his face in discomfort. Izzy catches on immediately. 

 

“What’s wrong?’ 

 

“Ah, nothing. Shoulder just itches like the fucking devil,” Frenchie says. “Trying not to scratch at it. I think it’s the heat.” 

 

Izzy scoffs, marking his page and setting the book to the side. “Why didn’t you say? I have something for that.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Mmm. Sit up, I’ll get it,” he says, pushing at Frenchie’s shoulder. He sits, and Izzy rummages in his saddlebag, pulling out a tin with some sort of salve in it. He twists it open. 

 

“Oh, that smells nice,” Frenchie comments. 

 

“It’s not about the smell, is it?” Izzy says with a shake of his head. 

 

“Does, though.” 

 

“Shirt off,” Izzy says brusquely. 

 

“Yes, sir,” Frenchie says. He drops a wink, and even in the dim light, he can see Izzy’s face go red. He shrugs it off, and scoots in front of Izzy when he gestures. Izzy dips his fingers in the salve and starts applying it to the scar on his left shoulder blade where the bullet cut through him. The effect is instant, cooling and tingling, and Frenchie lets out a sigh of relief. 

 

“Better?” 

 

“Yeah, better,” Frenchie says. “Where’d you get that?” 

 

“I’ve had bullet wounds before,” Izzy says. “Figured you might need something for the itch.”

 

“Sweet of you.” 

 

“Your definition of sweet is very odd,” Izzy says. 

 

“I don’t think so. How's that not sweet?” 

 

Izzy doesn’t answer, but Frenchie can feel an amused breath against the back of his neck. He moves to the scar on Frenchie’s chest, calloused fingertips rubbing in a circular motion. Frenchie hums contentedly, letting his head tip back and rest on Izzy’s shoulder. He’s almost certain they don’t need to be quite so thorough with the application of the salve, but he’s definitely not going to complain. 

 

Izzy’s other hand rests on his hip, and his breathing is even in Frenchie’s ear. Frenchie’s never been good with silence, really. It’s why he never liked to sleep alone, why he tries to fill pauses with conversation, why he talks to himself sometimes instead of keeping it in his head. 

 

He doesn’t mind the quiet with Izzy, in part because it doesn’t really feel like quiet. He’s always associated silence with emptiness, with loneliness, with that strange ache in his chest that could never quite be filled by just himself. But with Izzy, quiet isn’t empty, it's filled with Izzy’s breathing and the shifting of his clothes and his heartbeat, often enough, and it's certainly not lonely. It’s just nice. 

 

Izzy’s fingers stop their motion after a while, and they just rest there, his thumb sometimes stroking across the juncture between Frenchie’s neck and his shoulder. 

 

“You never told me your real name.” 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“You said I don’t even know your real name, once. What is it?” 

 

“Why’re you thinking of that?” Frenchie asks. 

 

“Wanted posters. Got me thinking,” Izzy says. Frenchie can feel his shoulders move in a shrug. “Added another name to the list now, Billy Colt. Just wondered what the original was.”

 

“Ah.” Frenchie shifts. “I mean, for all intents and purposes, Frenchie is my real name.” 

 

“Your mother didn't give you that name,” Izzy scoffs. 

 

“That’s not what I said, is it?” 

 

There’s no reason for him to avoid the question, really, except for the rolling feeling in his stomach that accompanies it. He hasn't gone by his birth name in years and years, and for good reason. Doesn’t even really like to say it if he can avoid it, cringes when he runs into someone with the same name, because for all intents and purposes, the man who held that name, the boy Frenchie used to be, is dead and gone with the rest of his family. He may have used it for a while after the death of his brother, but he’s pretty sure that name died in that bunk in the workhouse with Beau, coughing up blood and choking on it.

 

Izzy pauses, like he’s not quite sure how to continue. Frenchie bites at the inside of his cheek, an old habit, a bad one. 

 

“You don’t have to say,” Izzy says finally. “If you don’t want.” 

 

Frenchie stays quiet, fingers tapping against his thigh, then he slumps. 

 

“S’ fine, sorry. I just don’t go by it anymore.” 

 

“Figured as much. Since you go by Frenchie.” 

 

Frenchie lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.” 

 

“Why don’t you?” 

 

Frenchie shrugs, and sort of makes himself smaller. If there were more people around, that tactic might work, but it’s just him and Izzy. No hiding. He’s still getting used to that. “Just not who I am, anymore.”

 

Izzy sighs behind him, and taps at his hip, getting him to turn around. 

 

“It’s fine. You don’t have to say,” he says, and Frenchie can see that he’s sincere, can see it in his face, but that only makes him feel more like a disappointment. Izzy’s been pretty open with him, for Izzy anyway, about the more painful moments of his past, and Frenchie can’t even return the favor? What’s that about?

 

“You just- you made it sound like a joke,” Izzy says slowly. “Like you were teasing, when you said it, that I didn't even know your real name. I didn’t think it would be a bad question.” 

 

Frenchie relaxes a little. “I was teasing. When I said it. Trying to make you blush.” 

 

“Did I?” 

 

“No, and that was very disappointing,” Frenchie says, bumping his forehead against Izzy’s temple. “You did want to kiss me though. I could tell.” 

 

“What a surprise,” Izzy deadpans, “given that I spent most of my time on that godforsaken ranch wanting to do just that.” 

 

Frenchie’s heart skips a couple beats, and this time, he’s the one blushing. 

 

“You didn’t tell me you were smooth, you know,” he says, shifting his legs so he can settle more on top of Izzy. 

 

“Am I?” 

 

“More smooth than I expected, anyway. I’m meant to be the flirt between us.” 

 

“I think you still hold the title.” 

 

“Good.” 

 

Izzy’s eyes are crinkling again and Frenchie can feel an easy smile press into his own cheeks, dispersing the weight that sat in his stomach earlier. Maybe that’s what makes it possible for the next words to slip out, now that the guilt is gone, the feeling of being inadequate in some way.

 

“I don’t use my real name because of the last people who called me by it.”

 

Izzy stills, a line appearing between his brows. Frenchie avoids his gaze. He’s not really talked about this before, not even with John, except in passing. He thinks Roach has guessed, if only because he’s had similar experiences himself, but it’s not been discussed in any sort of explicit terms.

 

“I was, uh, fresh out of the city,” he says. “After my brother died. Beau. My younger brother. He got, er, I’m not sure the term for it, we didn't really have doctors in the workhouse, but a bad cough, an infection, I think. Died of it, like a lot of kids did.”

 

“Consumption?” 

 

“Yeah, maybe, that sounds familiar. But anyway, after he died, I came west. Had some idea in my head of making my fortune, you know, we all heard about the West and the gold and that, back in the poorhouse. Anyway, I got a bit out, found work at this big house, like, right away, wondered why it was so easy, then I realized they weren’t hiring any white folk, just people like me, who looked like me or who were too naive or too- too stupid to see what they were doing. Folks with nowhere else to go.” 

 

He shrugs. “It wasn’t technically, you know, slavery, not legally, or whatever, cause they couldn’t, but-”

 

“But it was,” Izzy murmurs. A muscle in his jaw is ticking. 

 

“Yeah, basically. I, er, I left, after a while, started to do the whole outlaw thing. Robbed them before I left. My first crime.” 

 

He makes an attempt at a smile. It falls somewhat short. 

 

“But, I dunno, when you hear your name said by someone who fucking hates you, or doesn’t even hate you, just doesn’t think you’re a person at all- sort of spoils it.”

 

Izzy nods, eyes fixed on Frenchie’s face. 

 

“Why Frenchie?” he asks, and Frenchie jumps on it, relieved that Izzy isn’t asking him to linger on that subject. 

 

“Oh, my mum’s parents were in ‘service’-” he throws up air quotes around the word- “to this French merchant who came here when he got bored of France, of Africa. Both of ‘em spoke French, so did my mum. That’s where I learned. I was thinking about her when this bloke I was talking to at a bar asked my name.”

 

Izzy chuckles, and Frenchie can feel it shake in his chest. “So your brilliant plan was not to say, for instance, a French name, but just to make the word French into a name?” 

 

“I was a little drunk, all right?” Frenchie says, shoving at his shoulder. “And it was my first alias. Didn't intend for it to be my permanent one, but it just sorta stuck.”

 

Izzy smiles up at him, easy and relaxed. 

 

“Suits you. Frenchie does. Better than any other name, I’d imagine.” 

 

A shadow crosses his face, there and gone quick as a blink. 

 

“You’re not stupid, you know.” 

 

Frenchie leans back, startled. “What?” 

 

“You’re not stupid,” Izzy repeats. “You’ve said that. Before. That I thought you were stupid. And you said it again now. People like you, too stupid to realize what they were doing. You’re not stupid.” 

 

“Oh. Thanks?” 

 

Izzy’s really frowning now. “You’re not taking me seriously.” 

 

“I am, I am,” Frenchie says. 

 

“I mean it. You’re the smartest fucking person I know.” 

 

Frenchie scoffs. “Yeah, now I’m not taking you seriously. What about Ed?” 

 

Izzy tilts his head. “Ed’s a genius, sure. He’s also half fucking mad. That half cancels out the genius most of the time. It’s why he and Bonnet work. Two halves of a whole idiot.” 

 

He grumbles that last bit, and Frenchie has to bite down a grin. 

 

“You’re equally as smart as Edward, if not more. And you’re not half fucking mad. So you come out on top.” 

 

That stirs something in Frenchie’s chest, some sort of a warm glow that he didn't know he was missing. 

 

“Thank you,” he says, and this time it's not dismissive, it's low and sincere.

 

 He slips his arms around Izzy’s shoulders and rests there, nose bumping against the noose scar on Izzy’s neck. He’s heard the whole story now, a few times, though it took some time to really coax it out of him aside from the bare details of it. It still makes something awful ache in Frenchie’s chest, thinking about it, knowing the pain Izzy’s gone through and the guilt he still carries over Charles’s death. But Izzy seems lighter, now, having told the story, having started to… not move on, not exactly, because Frenchie knows better than most that you don’t really move on from something like that, that a part of you breaks off and lingers there for the rest of your life. But he’s living again, living for something other than the thrill of lawbreaking or the feeling of a gun in his hand, and whatever part Frenchie’s played in that, however small, he’s proud to have played. 

 

“You ever been to Elk’s Point?” he asks after a few quiet minutes. 

 

“Once,” Izzy says. “With Ed, couple years back.” 

 

“What’s it like?” 

 

“Small. Quiet. Not so small that a group like ours’ll make a splash, though.” 

 

“You think it’ll be good? For us?” 

 

Izzy pauses, then nods, beard brushing against Frenchie’s shoulder. “Mm. I think so. It’s good land. We get enough of it and the horses’ll like it.” 

 

Frenchie grins. “You’re coming with us, right, when we go and get them from back home?”

 

Jackie’s been watching over the horses and the other livestock for the past month, so Frenchie, Buttons, Swede, and Pete are planning to ride back and gather them when they’re settled in the new place. It’ll be a bit of an excursion, but without all the twisting and winding that they’ve been doing on the way here to throw the authorities off their trail, it’ll be a quicker journey, hopefully a couple weeks as opposed to a month there and back.

 

“Course I will. If you want me.” 

 

“Always want you.” 

 

The words come out as easily as breathing, and Izzy’s hand tightens on his hip. 

 

Frenchie’s pretty sure that, even with Charles, Izzy has never much been on the receiving end of a lot of praise, or kind words. Charles loved him, certainly, but Frenchie gets the idea that Charles was a bit more like Izzy in that he let actions speak more than his words did. He could be wrong, but the way Izzy reacts to any type of recognition or just, like, basic kindness is a pretty big indicator. So Frenchie plans to shower him in as much of it as Izzy will allow, for as long as he will allow him to do so. 

 

He likes that reaction, so he says it again. 

 

“Always want you,” he murmurs, dragging his lips up to Izzy’s ear, feeling the man shiver under him, and he’d very much like to put the shaky breath Izzy lets out to music sometime. He’s pretty sure Izzy wouldn't like that, though. Almost definitely wouldn’t. Maybe if he asks nicely and promises not to play it in front of the others. 

 

“Frenchie,” Izzy says, low and warning. 

 

“What? I’m not allowed to say nice things about you?” Frenchie asks, kissing back down Izzy’s neck, over his scar, over his swallow tattoo. 

 

“You know full well what- what you’re doing,” Izzy says, stuttering as Frenchie nudges him to tip his head back. 

 

“What's that?” 

 

“Frenchie.” 

 

“I’m not doing anything,” Frenchie says, even though he knows Izzy can feel the grin spreading across his face. “You could say nice things about me, too, you know. Switch it up a bit.” 

 

“I say nice things about you.” 

 

“Say some now, then.” 

 

“Frenchie, come on,” Izzy says, pleading now, and the rush of that goes straight to Frenchie’s head, making him a little dizzy. He’s not quite used to the fact that he’s got the power to make Izzy weak like this. He definitely likes it. 

 

“No, you come on. Say something nice. Just one thing, and I’ll stop teasing,” Frenchie says, nipping at a particularly sensitive spot behind Izzy’s ear.

 

“You’re a fucking nightmare.” 

 

“That’s not very nice, is it?” Frenchie chides. “You can do better than that.” 

 

Izzy huffs out a laugh, sounding a little desperate. “Fucking- fine. You’ve got nice hands.” 

 

That takes Frenchie aback, and he leans back, studying Izzy with a confused smile. “What?” 

 

“You have nice hands,” Izzy repeats, and there’s a spark of something like mischief in his eyes, having caught Frenchie off-guard. His hand slides up Frenchie’s side, cupping his elbow before continuing up his arm, closing around his wrist, thumb at the center of his palm. He brings their hands up, turning Frenchie’s hand, studying it. “First thing I noticed, your hands.” 

 

“Really? When you were pointing a gun at me and Stede, you noticed my hands?” 

 

A smile presses into Izzy’s cheeks. “After that. I barely noticed you and Bonnet aside from the threat you posed, given that Ed was bleeding out. Noticed you a little more. But after. I saw you playing for the horses, that first morning.” 

 

He keeps his eyes on Frenchie’s hand, fingers dancing lightly over the skin, and now Frenchie’s the one shivering. 

 

“Clever fingers, I thought,” Izzy continues. “Talented.” 

 

“That’s objectifying, Iz.” 

 

“Is it?” Izzy hums, eyes darting up to meet Frenchie’s, a smirk playing on his lips. “Will that do?” 

 

“Do-?” 

 

“You wanted me to say something nice.” 

 

“Oh, oh yeah, that’ll do, are you kidding? That was fucking- come here,” Frenchie says quickly. Where he’s asking Izzy to go, he’s not totally sure, given that he’s literally in Izzy’s lap, but he pulls him closer anyway, kissing the smirk off his face. Izzy’s hand, still tangled with his own, presses between them, and he sighs into Frenchie’s mouth, shoulders losing some of the tension he’s been carrying after weeks on the road. His other hand presses against the small of Frenchie’s back, holding him in place, while Frenchie’s tangles in Izzy’s hair. Much as he likes the slicked back look, he likes it disheveled just that little bit more. He gives it a tug, and Izzy’s lips part against his-

 

“Y’see, you want to- you want to take the red n’ the blue n’ mix ‘em together-” 

 

John’s voice, sleep-muddled and slurred, rings out, and Frenchie can’t help the snort that escapes him. 

 

“Nah, mate- you want a nice magenta-” Fang’s voice answers, equally as sleep-muddled. 

 

“I am going to kill those twats,” Izzy groans. “I’m going to rip their tongues out.” 

 

Frenchie tries to muffle his laughter, but can’t quite manage it, letting his head forehead fall down to Izzy’s shoulder, shaking with it. 

 

“It’s like clockwork,” he says. “Every night, with those two.” 

 

Puta madre-” he hears Jim start from closer to the campfire, and Oluwande’s sleepy voice soothes them. 

 

“I don’t even know how they’re doing it,” Frenchie says. “They’ve got some sorta like, telepathic connection.” 

 

“It’s a fucking inconvenience, is what it is,” Izzy grumbles. 

 

Frenchie raises his head, pressing a kiss to the tip of Izzy’s nose. “Well, we’re off the road soon. We’ll have a room. Just gotta be a little patient.” 

 

“We’ve been fucking patient.” 

 

“Good practice, then,” Frenchie says. “Self-improvement can be a good thing, you know.”

 

“If Bonnet doesn’t buy here, I’ll buy a ranch my goddamn self,” Izzy says. 

 

“That eager to get me alone, are you?” 

 

Izzy fixes him with a look. “What do you think?” 

 

“Cheeky.” 

 

Frenchie straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Probably should sleep, anyway. We’ve got a long ride tomorrow.” 

 

“S’pose we should,” Izzy agrees. He reaches into his bag, handing Frenchie a sleep-shirt, and pulls out one of his own. Frenchie extinguishes the lantern and stretches out on his bedroll. Izzy joins him. Izzy sleeps on his side, usually, Frenchie on his back, so Izzy lays close to his side, head resting against Frenchie’s arm, his own arm slung across Frenchie’s middle, hand on his chest. Frenchie twists his head, pressing his lips to Izzy’s temple, and brings his hand up to rest on top of Izzy’s. 

 

“We should get Fang a dog,” he says as his eyelids start to droop. “When we settle.”

 

“Hm. You’d like one of those little yappy things, I imagine.” 

 

“Yeah- a Shi Tzu. How’d you know that?”

 

“You said it once. Few weeks back,” Izzy says. “You were talking to Fang, I think.” 

 

Frenchie tries to hide his grin. He doesn’t quite succeed. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

 

“They’re not much use on a ranch, you know. We’d be better off with a collie. A proper herding dog.” 

 

“I think a Shi Tzu would be useful. They’re lucky, you know. The Buddha had one. It could ward off the witches. You don’t think that would be useful?” 

 

“Maybe if there were witches to ward off, it would be. As there aren’t-”

 

“Witches are very real, Iz, we’ve discussed this.” 

 

Izzy shakes his head. “Sleep, Frenchie. We’ll talk about the dog in the morning.” 

 

Frenchie obliges, closing his eyes, letting the sounds of John and Fang’s conversation, interspersed with Izzy’s even breaths as he slides into sleep lull him into unconsciousness, something warm and glowing under his ribcage, expanding throughout his body. 

 

Frenchie’s used to being the one puzzling other people out, noticing other people, finding out what makes them tick. He never quite thought he’d ever be on the receiving end of that same interest, that intrigue. To have Izzy not only noticing things about him, but asking him questions, trying to figure him out like he figures other people out- he likes it.

 

Being known by someon e, he thinks as he drifts off. What a weird thing. 



IZZY

 

It’s shaping up to be another scorcher, Izzy can tell the second he wakes up. The sun is bright, high in the sky already, though it can’t be much past dawn, and the rays of it beat down onto his face. The heat isn’t helped by Frenchie, who, in his sleep, has rolled half on top of Izzy, his breathing deep and even in the crook of Izzy’s neck. With anyone else, Izzy would mind the invasion of space. As it is, he finds he doesn’t mind much, not with Frenchie. Not at all, really. He never minds much of anything with Frenchie. 

 

It does take some effort to extricate himself, though, from the tangle of Frenchie’s limbs, at least without waking the man. Frenchie’s a deep sleeper, luckily, and he’ll sleep for a while more until Izzy wakes him. He stands, rolling his neck, popping the joints there, and switches his sleep-shirt for his usual black one. He’s starting to envy the flowy, white things that Bonnet and some of the others wear, if only because of the heat. But he’s already softened too much around this group. He has to maintain some dignity, some semblance of himself. And if he dies from heatstroke in the process, so be it. 

 

He straps a knife to his thigh, but leaves his pistol and holster where they are, resting on top of his saddlebag. That’s a new thing, too. Used to be, Izzy wouldn’t be caught dead two feet from his gun. 

 

He glances around the clearing. Everyone looks a little different, in the pale morning light, a little younger, a little more peaceful. Most of the group is still asleep. Lucius and Pete are inseparably tangled at the edge of the group, Pete snoring like a goddamn locomotive, Jim lying on top of Oluwande a few steps away. Ivan’s propped up against a tree, arms crossed over his chest as he dozes, Fang curled into a ball at his side. Buttons is passed out in the crook of a branch of that same tree. How the man keeps his balance, Izzy has no fucking idea. John and the Swede are sleeping back to back, Roach’s bedroll on the other side of the Swede. That one’s empty, Roach already up and moving, the strong smell of black coffee wafting through the air from the campfire. 

 

Roach spots him coming, and pulls out a tin, filling it nearly to the brim with the liquid. Izzy nods a thanks. 

 

Bonnet’s awake, nursing his own tin, Ed sprawled between his legs, still dead to the world. 

 

“Good morning, Israel,” Stede whispers. 

 

“Morning.” 

 

“I was wondering if you might accompany me into Elk’s Point today,” Stede says. Izzy frowns. 

 

“You’re not taking Edward?” 

 

“I had hoped to get your opinion on the property. I would take Ed, but his knee was acting up yesterday, I thought he might want to rest it rather than exert himself by riding.” 

 

Izzy looks him up and down, then shrugs. “If you want.” 

 

“Excellent. I was thinking we would leave mid-morning?” 

 

“Very well,” Izzy says. 

 

They’d reached the new campsite, only a couple hours' ride outside of Elk’s Point, two days ago now, and Ed and Stede have already scoped out a potential property. They’re camped farther from the river this time, up in the hills, just to be safe, which likely accounts for the heat. No water to cool the air around them. 

 

Izzy picks his way across the rest, back to Frenchie, who’s curled around his pillow now in Izzy’s absence. Izzy settles down, picking up his book, sipping his coffee. He’ll get moving in an hour or so, get Shadow ready to ride, but for now he indulges in the luxury of just… sitting. Just existing. 

 

He’s half focused on the story, half focused on the movement of Frenchie’s face as he sleeps. He’s just as expressive in sleep as he is during his waking hours, eyebrows furrowing, nose scrunching, lips muttering soundlessly, forming half-words. He doesn’t talk in his sleep, just sort of pantomimes it, which Izzy had been grateful to learn- he’s a light sleeper himself as it is, and though he would have endured it for Frenchie’s sake, it wouldn't have been particularly pleasant. It’s bad enough with John and Fang’s sleep talking. 

 

The others start to wake over the course of the next hour, groggy conversations filling the air around him. Izzy sees Bonnet stand, easing Ed’s head down from his lap, and rises as well, getting himself ready for the excursion.

 

He looks down at himself, and sighs. For all that he’s been holding onto the black of his clothing, it won’t really do to look quite so… dangerous, if he’s meant to be a rancher in town with Stede. He refuses to trade the pants, but he does dig around for one of Frenchie’s extra shirts, a light blue collared one. It’s somewhat too large- Izzy may be wider than Frenchie, but Frenchie’s taller, has longer arms, and he tends to wear his shirts large anyway, but tucked in and with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, it’ll do. He still ties his kerchief around his neck, though. 

 

 When he’s dressed, he procures a second tin mug of coffee from Roach, and crouches next to Frenchie, waking him with a squeeze to his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open blearily, squinting up at the sun. He frowns at Izzy. 

 

“What are you wearing?” he asks, propping himself up on an elbow and accepting the tin, taking a small gulp. “I’ve never seen you in color before.”

 

“Bonnet wants me to scope out the property with him,” Izzy says. “Figured I should try to look the fucking part.” 

 

Frenchie snorts, running his finger over the collar. “This is mine?”

 

“Who else's?”

 

“Dunno. Figured Stede might have lent you something. Glad he didn’t. It’s a good color on you.” 

 

“Better on you,” Izzy mutters without thinking. Frenchie rubs at his eyes, a sleepy smile crawling across his face. 

 

“Cute. Have fun with Stede. Better you than me. It’s fucking hot again,” he complains, voice still rough with sleep. 

 

“S’pose one of us has to work,” Izzy says. 

 

“And it’s going to be you. I’m too pretty,” Frenchie says, setting the tin down on the ground next to him and flopping back. 

 

He is pretty, especially like this, with the sun hitting his long lashes, all loose-limbed and relaxed, but Izzy’s not gonna say that. Not now, anyway. Maybe later. Frenchie’d probably like that.

 

“Conceited,” he mutters instead, tapping at Frenchie’s chin. Frenchie leans up for a quick kiss. He tastes like coffee, sending a buzz down Izzy’s spine.

 

“Keep an eye on Ed for me while Bonnet and I are gone, will you? He needs supervision,” Izzy says. 

 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Hands,” Frenchie says with a lazy salute. Izzy rolls his eyes, trying not to show how much that goes straight to his head. He straightens, and meets Bonnet at the horses. 

 

“Shall we?”

 

“If we must,” Izzy responds. 

 

Stede’s shockingly quiet as they make the trip, only interjecting a few times for small talk or to point out a particularly interesting (to him) piece of flora or fauna. Izzy supposes that after a month on the road together, Stede’s been able to put two and two together and figure out that Izzy’s not really a talker unless he’s in the mood. 

 

He wishes he could say he still hates Stede. A large part of him wants to. They’ve got very little in common aside from Edward, and a mutual desire to keep the rest of the crew alive and kicking, but after Stede risked so much to break Izzy off of that train, blew up his comfortable life to do so- well, he owes him. And even disregarding that, over the past month, Stede’s shown himself to be- Izzy is hesitant to say worthy of respect, doesn’t think he could say it without vomiting, but a leader. He’s left behind his material trappings, for now, anyway, and taken to life on the road with a vigor and enthusiasm that most seasoned outlaws can’t match. Izzy thinks the novelty would wear off, if they stayed out on the road longer, but as it is, he can allow that Bonnet is maybe not the worst person in the world. And he makes Ed happy. Happier than Izzy’s ever seen him. 

 

“Is there anything in particular I should be looking for, Israel?” Stede asks as they approach the property. 

 

Izzy shrugs. “I can spot most of what you’ll need. Probably want to ask what crops can be grown, the condition of the facilities, if they’ve had livestock before, how the land handles it. And ask why they’re leaving, that’ll tell us if there’s something wrong with the land.”

 

“I’m glad you came,” Stede says. “Ed’s knee was a good excuse to ask you. I would have welcomed his company, of course, but, well-” 

 

“Edward doesn't know fuck-all about ranches,” Izzy agrees. “He’s a miner’s boy.”

 

“Exactly. Your expertise is more than welcome.”

 

That’s the other thing about Bonnet, isn’t it? When he gives a compliment, he fucking means it. 

 

The ranch they’re looking at is situated just beyond the edge of the town, close enough to the river that water will never be an issue, but far enough away from any neighbors that they won’t be under too much scrutiny. Izzy remembers that Elk’s Point, in the one time he’s been, values privacy above all else. People keep themselves to themselves. They’re neighborly enough, but they’re also more likely to look the other direction than stir up trouble. Anyone who comes this far west, after all, is looking for reprieve from civilization, from the law, from any number of things. 

 

It’s a piece of luck that the place is for sale. They could find undeveloped land, of course, somewhere, but putting in for land through any sort of governmental body is risky at this juncture. Better to buy it already developed, less of a trail, less of a fuss, less attention drawn.

 

The place is magnificent, Izzy can see as they ride through the gate, run by a family of six and an assortment of ranch hands. It’s sprawling, with fields as far as the eye can see, and Izzy’s already making calculations. The broken horses in that pasture, yearlings in that one, maybe he can convince Ed to invest in some cattle now they’ve got the space for it- Bonnet has a few dairy cows, but he imagines those won’t be making the long journey here. Chickens, sheep, maybe- they could have a full-fledged operation here, if they wanted to. 

 

They could have a home. Izzy hasn’t counted anywhere as home in a long, long time. 

 

The family, it turns out, is leaving to go back east, to tend to a sick relative. The west hadn’t agreed with the wife, even from the beginning, as the eldest son explains in a hushed voice when his mother’s back had turned. Never liked it, especially this far west, and they’re all eager to have this done quickly, to be able to move on and back towards civilization. 

 

Stede asks all the questions Izzy had mentioned, letting Izzy silently take in the place. It’s in good condition, overall. He can see some work that needs doing already, but nothing they can’t handle with the crew they have. Stede makes such a good impression on the family that they invite them both in for tea, which makes Izzy’s skin crawl. Stede notices, shockingly observant. 

 

“Perhaps your eldest could show my man around the livestock facilities?” he asks. “He’s our expert, you see, we have a large amount of horses we’re moving, and I trust his eye more than my own.” 

 

The eldest, a bright-eyed young man of about sixteen, looks more than happy to skip out on tea, and chatters away at Izzy as they walk across the grounds. 

 

“I’ve been learning a bit,” he says as they approach the barn, “about taking care of the animals and that. Da says I’ve got a good instinct for it, especially with the horses.”

 

“Have you now?” Izzy asks. “They teach you how to gentle them?” 

 

“I’ve done it once,” he says, standing up a little straighter. “The horse is mine now, he’s a handsome fella. It’s hard work, that.” 

 

“It is,” Izzy agrees. They walk into the barn, and Izzy turns in a circle, examining the place. He nods approvingly.

 

“You’ve kept it up well, your family,” he says. 

 

“We try our best,” the boy replies. “It’s mostly the hands, who do the maintenance. We’re all city folk, really. But Da makes sure we do what we can.” 

 

“That’s a good way to be,” Izzy says, running his hands along the wood. No signs of rot, no bad weather damage. 

 

Something catches his eye in the corner, and he squints at it. It’s a small figure, huddled behind a haybale, only her tail visible. 

 

“This your cat?” he asks. 

 

“Nah, she’s feral,” the boy says. “ We’re not sure where she comes from. My little sister keeps leaving her food, I think that’s why she stays. Will you leave food for her, when you move in? It’ll make Sarah happy, to know someone’s looking out for her.” 

 

Izzy crouches down, just able to see the glint of the cat’s eyes in the dark. She lets out a warning hiss. 

 

“Sure I will,” he says, straightening. “Cats are good to have, on a ranch. Keep the rats under control.” 

 

He lets a smile touch his face. Frenchie won’t be pleased. But she’s such a little thing, young, can’t be more than six months by her size. Even Frenchie can’t think a thing that small is evil. 

 

He’ll probably have to promise to find him a Shi Tzu, all the same. 

 

***

Bonnet’s all but bubbling with excitement by the time they reach the campsite again, and Izzy can’t bring himself to complain about it. Much. He’d say he couldn’t be arsed to try to stifle Stede’s enthusiasm, but really-

 

Izzy’s excited too. And that’s such a weird thing that he’s going to have to keep it to himself for a while, because he can’t remember the last time he was excited about anything. The closest he comes, in his life, is the adrenaline rush in his veins before and during a heist or a fight, but when that adrenaline fades away, it just leaves him tired and worn. This isn’t the same. There’s nothing about this situation that would make his adrenaline start pumping, anyway. It’s just a ranch. But he’s already making plans. He talked with Bonnet about renovations to the main house on the ride back, even acquiescing to some outlandish demands- Stede wants a library with floor to ceiling windows, highly expensive and highly, highly impractical for the winters they’ll get out here- and he’s already thinking of more for the rest of the facilities. 

 

“I did have something to run by you, Israel, if you’ll allow it,” Stede says as they make the approach.

 

“You’ve already dragged me out here, you may as well,” Izzy responds. 

 

“Well, I know you had quite a lot to say about how I ran my ranch back home,” Stede begins, arching an eyebrow. 

 

“That’s because you weren’t running a fucking ranch,” Izzy supplies. “You were playing at it.” 

 

“Yes, well, it was an enjoyable play, at least,” Stede says, “but I’d like to get it right, this time. If you’re to stay with us, which I’ve assumed you are- well, I’d value your input. On changes I can make. I’d like to have you work with Pete and Buttons to make this a functioning ranch.”

 

Izzy stares at him. “And you’ll listen. To what I have to say.” 

 

“Of course.” 

 

“You may not like some of it.” 

 

“Try me.” 

 

“Your men will have to wake up before noon,” Izzy says bluntly.

 

“Our men,” Stede corrects gently. “I don’t know that we’ll be able to get them all up before dawn, like you, but I’m certain we can come to a compromise.” 

 

Izzy stares him down, but he looks sincere. He looks hopeful, like there’s a chance Izzy might say no, like he might decide to up and leave despite Frenchie, despite Ed, despite it all. 

 

“You’ll have to pay me for the rest of my advice,” he says, looking back towards the campsite. 

 

Stede chuckles. “That can be arranged.” 

 

They dismount some yards from the camp, and Stede holds out a hand. Izzy hesitates, before shaking it. 

 

“Welcome aboard, officially. I’m thrilled to have you.” 

 

“Not like I was going anywhere, was I?” Izzy mutters. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on Ed.” 

 

He side-eyes Stede. “Guess you’re doing that now, though.” 

 

Stede face flushes. “I suppose I am, aren’t I? I don’t know that I’d call it keeping an eye on him, though. Caring for each other, perhaps.” 

 

Izzy closes his eyes, inhaling through his nose. “I don’t care what you call it. I need to know that you’ll do a good job of it.” 

 

Stede studies him, an unexpectedly shrewd look in his eye. “How’s that?” 

 

Izzy sighs, hooking his fingers through Shadow’s bridle. “I’ve been Edward’s right hand for over ten years now.  My job was to support him. Keep him safe, keep him content, watch his back, curb his worst impulses. I thought I was good at it. Then you came along, and shattered everything, and the worst part of it is you’re better support than I am. He likes you, yes, but more than that, he fucking respects you, listens to you, cares about your opinion. Edward doesn’t listen to anyone. Certainly not me, not anymore.” 

 

Stede starts to protest, but Izzy holds up a hand. “I don’t- I don’t want to hear it. I did the best I could for Ed. But he’s got you now. Edward is the only family I’ve ever known, Bonnet. I need to know he’s in good hands with you. So I can-” 

 

“So you can let go,” Stede finishes. “Not of Edward. But of that role. Of being the only support Ed has.” 

 

“Yes.”

 

Stede extends a hand like he’s going to grasp Izzy’s shoulder, but thinks better of it. 

 

“You’ll still be with us,” he says firmly. “I will never take your place in Edward’s life. The two of you have been through too much, are too important to one another, for that to happen. But I can assure you that I will spend my life making him as happy as I possibly can.” 

 

Izzy gives a short nod. “Good.” 

 

He jabs a finger in Stede’s direction. “This fucking conversation never happened.”

 

“My lips are sealed,” Stede swears. 

 

And with that, they make the final few steps into view of the campsite. Izzy feels… lighter. Like something’s been lifted off of his shoulders. Something that’s been weighing him down for a long time, the pressure of being the only person Ed has to turn to, the only one who knows him, of Ed being the only person who knows Izzy, really knows him. They have other people in their network now. It’s not just the two of them, facing the world. It’s bittersweet in some ways, but sweeter than sugar in others. 

 

Frenchie and Ed are sitting side by side, and they notice the two of them at almost exactly the same time. Ed bounces up at once, and Izzy can see Stede was right about his knee acting up, from the wince. Frenchie doesn’t leap up,  but he practically beams as he stands. 

 

“You ask him to fuckin’ babysit me?” Ed demands of Izzy even as he’s pulling Stede into his arms. 

 

“Course I did,” Izzy says, like there was never any doubt. 

 

“C’mon, Ed, I thought we were buddies,” Frenchie protests. 

 

“How was the place?” Ed asks. “You like it?” 

 

“Oh, Ed, it’s perfect,” Stede gushes. “A few improvements needed, it's true, but the bones are there. Israel has already agreed to help plan the renovations and oversee the operations.” 

 

“Have you?” Frenchie asks, surprised, as he leans his elbow on Izzy’s shoulder. 

 

“Given Bonnet’s seemingly inexhaustible wealth, thought I might as well get on the payroll,” Izzy says. “Make this place an actual ranch. Bring in profit, make it sustainable for the future.”

 

Frenchie’s looking at him with a weird sort of glimmer in his eyes. Izzy’s not sure what to make of it, so he holds him back as Ed and Stede go to fill the others in, motioning his head towards an outcropping where they’ll be out of view. Ed sees them go, waves them off. 

 

“What is it?” Izzy asks the moment they’re out of sight. “What’s wrong?” 

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Frenchie says, and he laughs, but that glimmer’s still there. 

 

“Frenchie. What is it? What’s happened?” he asks again, something tight twisting in his gut, something worried. 

 

“No, it's really nothing, nothing bad, just something st-” 

 

He starts to say stupid , but cuts himself off. 

 

“-silly,” he finishes instead. “Doesn’t matter.” 

 

Izzy is not a patient man, but he knows how to look like one. So he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the rock, despite the burning heat of it from baking in the sun, and raises his eyebrows until Frenchie relents. 

 

“Moot point now, so don’t get all-” Frenchie waves his hands. “-Izzy about it. I was- look, I was sort of worried you’d be off again. Once we got to the new place.” 

 

“Off… again?” Izzy asks, bewildered. 

 

“Yeah, you know,” Frenchie says, shrugging. He’s hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself small, the way he does when he’s under unwanted attention. “Off. You were always talking about it back at the Lighthouse Ranch. Leaving, getting back to your usual life. And it’s not like this is the most exciting life, or anything. Not for you. And you don’t even like Stede, really, so part of me worried you’d get us here, get irritated with it, and head off. Go back to the outlaw life. I’m- er, I’m glad you’re not.” 

 

Izzy blinks. “Not planning on it, no. Never was.” 

 

Frenchie nods quickly. “Like I said, silly.” 

 

“If I did, I’d take you with me.” 

 

The words don’t leave him consciously, not really. All he knows is that Frenchie is standing there, making himself small, worried about Izzy leaving him, as if that were ever a fucking option, and he needs to know that it never, never was, never, never would be.

 

“Would you?” 

 

“Course I would,” Izzy breathes out. “Not planning on leaving, like I said, but I wouldn’t- not after-” 

 

He exhales, frustrated. “When- you were shot. You almost died. It fucking- it would have broken me. If you did. Beyond repair. I wouldn’t leave you after that. I can’t leave you.” 

 

And he can’t. Not won’t, can’t. He knows that. He’s known it since he saw Frenchie kneeling by that train, his blood pooling around him, maybe even known it before that, if he’s being honest with himself.

 

Frenchie’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Really?” 

 

“Really. You’ll have to fucking leave me if anything-” 

 

“I’m not doing that,” Frenchie says at once. “Not planning on it.” 

 

He’s stepped closer, fingers trailing over Izzy’s wrist. “I’ve always been a bit of a runner, you know. My whole life, something bad happens, I run the other way. I never really ran towards something until I was running towards you. To get you back.” 

 

There’s a lump in Izzy’s throat the size of an orange, it feels like, he can barely breathe around it, and he draws Frenchie in, leaning his head on his shoulder. Frenchie’s hand comes up to rest on his chest, fingers toying idly with Charles’s ring. 

 

“You ever do anything like this? With Charles?” he asks. 

 

It still astounds Izzy, the way Frenchie speaks about Charles. There's no jealousy there, no lingering resentment that Izzy’s loved another before him, no apprehension around him wearing Charles’s ring. He thinks he’s talked more about Charles in the past month than he has in the past decade, just because Frenchie asks. 

 

“Like what?” 

 

“Settling down,” Frenchie says. “You ever talk about retiring, the two of you?” 

 

Izzy shakes his head. “No. Charles- he was an outlaw. Through and through, to the bone. Retirement wasn’t in his vocabulary.” 

 

He sighs, pressing his forehead just a little harder into Frenchie’s shoulder. “He always said he wasn’t long for this world. Never saw himself growing old, never even saw himself the age I am now. And he never had a problem with it. I think he welcomed it, sometimes. Rather die young and full of fire than old and tired, he said. I was the one who didn’t want it to be true.”

 

Frenchie hums quietly, deep in his throat. “Did you want to? Retire? Back then?” 

 

Izzy shrugs. “I would have gone anywhere with him. But I never saw that for us.” 

 

“For you, though. Did you ever want to give it up?” 

 

Izzy thinks about that. “I don’t know. But I’d do it now.” 

 

There used to be a time, not so long ago, that Izzy would have rather died than live a life like this, because he couldn’t imagine his life without the fight. Without the fight, without raining pain and vengeance on the people who took Charles from him, on the people who would kill him if they knew what he was, there was no life. No life that he wanted to live, anyway. He always pictured dying by Ed’s side, on horseback, by gunfire. It felt fitting, for a long time. Now, it doesn’t. 

 

“I’m… looking forward to it,” he admits. “To fixing the place up, getting it running.” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Frenchie pulls back, and his smile is real this time, all white teeth and squinty eyes. “Good. I am too. Between the both of us, maybe we stick around long enough to see what this place becomes.” 

 

Izzy nods, and then, just because he can, he pulls Frenchie down into a long, slow kiss, and he lets that excitement bubble up in his chest until he’s all but glowing with it. 

 

“There's one more thing,” he murmurs against Frenchie’s lips. 

 

“What's that, Iz?” 

 

“The new place has a cat.” 

 

Frenchie’s answering shriek of “ what?” nearly breaks Izzy’s eardrums and brings the crew running, but he can't bring himself to regret it. He has to reassure Frenchie that he’ll stop it from stealing his breathe while he sleeps to convince him not to turn around and head back east, but the ensuing chaos of the crew arguing about whether or not a cat was good to have around, something that Izzy would have found irritating in the past, is just familiar, comforting even. 

 

Later that evening, when the sun’s gone down and the campfire’s been lit, Izzy sits on the outskirts of the group, cleaning his pistol, while Frenchie strums out a song. He’s close enough that he can see Frenchie’s fingers dancing across the strings like the dancing of the flames only feet away from him. 

 

 

“Out where the sun is a little brighter, 

Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter, 

Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, 

That’s where the West begins.” 

 

 

“Mind if I join?” 

 

Izzy glances up. Lucius is standing a couple feet away, eyeing his gun with an apprehensive look. Izzy gestures for him to sit, and packs the equipment away. 

 

“Oh, you didn’t have to stop,” Lucius says. 

 

“I was nearly done anyway,” Izzy says. Lucius settles on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest, a fond smile on his face as he looks at the crew. 

 

“He’s very good.” 

 

“Frenchie? He is,” Izzy replies. 

 

“I’m glad you two found each other.” 

 

Izzy frowns, bemused. “I seem to remember you giving me a shovel talk.” 

 

“Oh, of course,” Lucius says, waving a hand dismissively. “But that was just a precaution. You were a massive dick.” 

 

Izzy startles both Lucius and himself with a chuckle. “S’pose I was.” 

 

“You’re still a dick, just less of the time,” Lucius clarifies. “But you’re good for him. He’s good for you.” 

 

“He is good for me,” Izzy confirms. “Don’t know about that first bit.” 

 

“Oh, hush,” Lucius says. “Of course you’re good for him. Lot of people meet Frenchie, and all they see is the weird superstitions, or the clumsiness, or what have you, and that’s it. They don’t bother looking deeper than that, because they think there isn’t anything deeper, like the guy can’t have layers, or something. But you looked. Right off the bat, you looked, you wanted to know more. I think you were confused by him, at first, but you didn’t dismiss him, you kept trying to figure him out. I think he’s been waiting for someone like you.”

 

“How the fuck do you know that?” 

 

“Oh, I saw it. But it was the bounty thing that I really got it. Most people think Frenchie’s lying or joking when he tells them he’s got a $1000 bounty on him. You believed it. You couldn’t figure out what it was for, but you believed it, no question.”

 

Lucius strikes a chord there, but Izzy will be damned if he lets him know that. 

 

“And you’re the expert, are you?” Izzy asks wryly. “On me, on our relationship?” 

 

“Of course I am. I’m the expert on everyone’s relationship, babe,” Lucius says. “I'm happy for you both. You’ve got my seal of approval.  And I brought you a gift, so be nice to me.” 

 

Izzy wrinkles his brow. “What is it?” 

 

“Oh, don’t be daft, it’s a nice gift.” Lucius pulls something out of his jacket, a slip of paper, holds it out. Izzy takes it, unfolds it- and his breath catches. 

 

“I sketched it while he was out,” Lucius murmurs, watching his face. “I thought it might be too soon, at first, to give it to you, so I held on to it.”

 

Izzy can’t quite speak. Lucius has captured a moment from that awful period of time while Frenchie was recovering from his gunshot. Frenchie’s on the bed, unconscious, and Izzy’s beside him, head tipped back, chair angled towards Frenchie, his hand on his wrist. 

 

“If you don’t want it, I can get rid of it,” Lucius says. “I just- when I saw it I needed to capture it, you know? Because I had my doubts, before, about  you two. When I saw that, I didn’t anymore. And I don’t think you did either.” 

 

Izzy’s lips press together, and his hands are trembling. Frenchie’s voice rings out through the air, a voice that was almost stolen from Izzy a month ago. 

 

 

“Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, 

Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing, 

Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, 

That’s where the West begins.” 

 

 

“Thank you,” Izzy says roughly. Lucius softens, and stands, patting his hand. 

 

“You’re welcome. Come and join us, won’t you?” 

 

He walks off, collapsing dramatically next to Pete, who chuckles and strokes his hair. 

 

Izzy stays where he is for a moment, quiet, running his fingers over the sketch. He tucks the drawing into his pocket, inside his vest, close to his heart, and joins the others around the fire. He sits at Frenchie’s feet, looking up at him, letting their legs touch, and Frenchie smiles down at him, still playing. He lets the sound of the music and the warmth in his chest rush over him. 

 

Lucius is right. Unfortunately, he usually is. Izzy has no doubts, not about Frenchie, not since nearly losing him. 

 

It feels foolish, falling so quick. Like something Ed would do. Like something Ed has done. But there’s just something about Frenchie, something different, something bright. Maybe not love, not yet, but Izzy knows himself, knows that stirring in his chest that tells him that even if he’s not in love with Frenchie now, he will be soon enough. Probably sooner than he thinks. 

 

A new start. It’s a nice idea. Maybe it’ll even be a nice reality. 

 

Israel Hands is not a hopeful man. But just for a moment, just for now, he lets himself become one. 



 

“Out where the world is in the making, 

Where fewer hearts in despair are aching, 

That’s where the West begins.”




ED

 

Edward Teach is not a man unfamiliar with pain. As previously stated, pain may very well be the oldest friend he has. And he’s used to it, really, he is. Even on his best days, his knee throbs when he moves it wrong, that ache accompanies him always. So he rarely complains, rarely even notices pain anymore aside from a vague and ever-constant  awareness of it in the back of his mind. 

 

But the sharp bite of Stede’s elbow in his ribs- yeah, he notices that. 

 

He groans, shifting, but Stede’s elbow is buried right under where his body rests on the thin mattress that Stede sweet-talked the old ranch-owners out of when they moved, making it very difficult to get into any type of comfortable position without pulling away from Stede entirely, something that Ed is loathe to do. 

 

“Fuckin’- Stede. Stede,” he grumbles, nudging at him. 

 

“Hm?” Stede mutters blearily, half awake, half asleep, eyes squinting at Ed. 

 

“Elbow.” 

 

“What’s that now?” 

 

“Elbow,” Ed says again, corners of his mouth lifting in spite of himself. 

 

“Wha- oh! Oh, sorry darling,” Stede says, finally moving the offending limb. 

 

It’s a common occurrence, for one or the other of them to wake up with a limb jammed into an uncomfortable position. Ed tends to sleep curled around Stede like some sort of octopus, and Stede tosses and turns in his sleep, so they end up tangled like a knot most of the time. 

 

“What's the time?” Stede asks, closing his eyes again. 

 

“Well, judging by the sun, I’d say its somewhere about fuck-off o’clock.” 

 

Stede snorts. “Time to be up, in other words.” 

 

“Nah, no, you don't need to be going anywhere,” Ed protests. 

 

“Israel will have my head if I don’t show my face soon,” Stede says. 

 

“Fuck Izzy. He could spend some more time in bed anyway.” 

 

“Ed,” Stede chides gently. “I can’t be slacking off only a week into our time here. I’m serious about making this a functioning ranch.”

 

“We don’t even have any livestock yet. Can’t be functioning until then.” 

 

“Yes, but we need to make certain everything is in order for when we do have livestock, and since Israel’s leaving in a couple days to collect the horses, we’ll be a bit busy getting it all ready.” 

 

“Why d’you still call him Israel?” Ed asks. 

 

“I think we both prefer it when our relationship is strictly business,” Stede says. Ed huffs out a laugh. 

 

“Fine. Go on to your professional, working relationship with Izzy,” he says. “Unless I can tempt you to stay.” 

 

“You could tempt me to do a great many things,” Stede murmurs, hand ghosting over Ed’s ribcage. “But I think it would be best if you didn’t.” 

 

“Best get going, then. Before I change my mind and seduce you anyway.” 

 

Stede’s nose crinkles, and he sits himself up, running a hand through his hair. It’s longer now, he’s grown it out in the past month, sweeping behind his ears. The effect’s rather dashing, Ed thinks. He looks like someone out of a storybook. Ed just lies back, hands behind his head, shamelessly admiring the profile of Stede’s face in the morning light, the soft expanse of his shoulders, his chest. 

 

“What’s on your agenda for today?” Stede asks, getting to his feet and tugging on his trousers. He rolls his shoulders with a wince. “Lord, I can’t wait to be in a real bed again.” 

 

“You n’ me both, mate,” Ed says. “Dunno, really. Lucius and Fang mentioned goin’ into town, picking up supplies. Might tag along.” 

 

“Oh, if you do, can I give you a list?” Stede asks. He moves to the small pack of clothes he’s brought, rifling through. It’s still a bit strange, seeing Stede in plainclothes instead of his fancy-man outfits, but Ed’s pretty sure Stede could wear a shirt made out of potato sacks and still look like a gentleman. 

 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Ed says, sitting up. He twists his torso, cracking his spine, and pulls his own trousers on. He heads to Stede, batting aside his hands and doing his buttons up for him. 

 

“You think Jim can convince the Gallos to help move your shit?” Ed asks. 

 

“I hope so. It would be a sight easier than the six of our people moving all of it themselves,” Stede says. “Though I must say, the idea of the Siete Gallos as a moving company is a bit unbelievable. I think Jim’s mostly going along to see Nicolas.” 

 

Jim had floated the idea the previous evening, of them tagging along with Frenchie, Izzy, and the others collecting the animals to try to convince the Siete Gallos to help pack up all of Stede’s things, collect them from Ed’s stashes for the move across the state. 

 

“Mm. What’s on your agenda, then?” 

 

He buttons the last button, and Stede catches his hands before he can lower them, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

 

“Israel has some renovations to the stables he’d like to discuss,” Stede says. “I imagine that will take some time.”

 

“He’ll have the whole fuckin’ place torn down and built back up, time winter comes around,” Ed says. 

 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Stede admits. “The bones of the place are good, but it lacks a certain… flair. The more renovations of Israel’s that I concede to, the more I can call upon his help for some changes of my own.” 

 

Stede’s eyes glint, an air of mischief that goes straight to Ed’s gut. 

 

“Diabolical,” he says, shaking his head, nose brushing against Stede’s with the movement. “I fuckin’ love it.” 

 

There’s another set of words there, hanging on his tongue, very similar to what he’s just said- only swapping out the word at the end for another. They’ve been resting there in his mouth, in his head, in his heart, for weeks now, and he’s been very, very close to letting them loose a few different times- but he always stops himself. It feels soon. Too soon, maybe, to admit to those feelings in such stark language. 

 

“You do, do you?” Stede says, tilting his head. 

 

“Yeah, I do,” Ed says, pushing at Stede gently until his back hits the wall, pressing up against him, brushing their lips together. “I like that you’re a little evil.” 

 

“Evil? That’s a new one,” Stede chuckles even as his face goes red. 

 

“Evil,” Ed confirms. “A madman. A lunatic.” 

 

Stede’s eyes darken, pupils swallowing up the brown of his irises. His hand comes up, fingers cupping Ed’s chin, squeezing. 

 

“And you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” he says, still with that mischievous lilt to his tone. Ed’s entire body may as well burst into flames. 

 

“See, that’s what I’m fuckin’- you can’t say shit like that,” he all but begs. Stede knows full well by now the effect that those types of words have on Ed, that sort of praise, compliments. To be called beautiful by a man like Stede, all golden and dashing and handsome in a way that Ed’s only ever heard about, never seen in person until he met Stede- it’s mind blowing, it's overwhelming, it's all together too much. 

 

“I’ll say what I like. Since we’ve established that I’m evil,” Stede says. Ed kisses him, properly kisses him, before he can fire off another compliment, because if he does Ed’s not letting him leave this room for the rest of the day. Stede lets out a breathless little sound, fingers still firm on Ed’s chin, and you know what, fuck it, Izzy can wait.

 

He’s not thrilled about it when they finally stumble out of the room, but Izzy’s rarely thrilled about anything. Stede always insists on making himself presentable for the others, undoing all of Ed’s hard work of making him disheveled, but Ed balances it by doing little more than tugging a half buttoned shirt on, wrinkled trousers, and pulling his hair back. 

 

Luckily, Izzy is the only one put out by their late arrival, as the rest of the crew is struggling with Izzy’s new early morning alarm. Though Ed supposes early morning is relative- if Izzy had his way, they’d all be waking up before the sun. As it is, Stede’s talked him into at least letting the sun rise first,  and that already seems a lot to ask of most of the crew. 

 

“Decided to grace us with your presence, have you?” Izzy says pointedly as they arrive to the breakfast table. The family had been kind enough to leave them with a long wooden table that they didn’t want to transport back east, and it's just long enough, with the addition of a few chairs, to hold all of them. Izzy’s tone would be more intimidating if it weren’t for Frenchie draped across him, chin resting on his shoulder, and if it weren’t for the-

 

“That a hickey, Iz?” Ed says, just as pointedly. Izzy grimaces, and tugs his collar up. 

 

“No.” 

 

“Definitely a hickey,” Lucius chimes in from across the table. 

 

“I thought it was,” Roach agrees. 

 

“It does look like one, boss,” Fang says apologetically. 

 

“It’s not,” Izzy says, then, lowering his voice, he hisses “stop fucking grinning like that,” to Frenchie, who admittedly is grinning like a cat presented with a particuarly tasty bit of fish. 

 

“Ah, who cares if they’re a bit late,” Oluwande says, a yawn stretching his face. 

 

“I care.” 

 

“I think you might be the only one, hombrecito,” Jim says, voice muffled in the table, where they’ve collapsed face-down.

 

“Why do we have to get up so early, anyway?” John laments. 

 

“Psh, this isn’t even early, you big babies,” Roach says, emerging from the kitchen with a veritable platter of ham and eggs. “I’ve been up since before the fucking roosters. Or I think so, anyway. Hard to tell with no roosters.” 

 

“Roach, you are the only one on this godforsaken ranch I respect,” Izzy says. Frenchie elbows him.

 

“I don’t even mind it much,” Pete says, lifting his chin. The effect is rather ruined by Lucius’s snort.

 

“Yes you do, you were just complaining about it last night.”

 

“Ok, here’s an actual question, Iz,” Frenchie says, reaching across the table to snatch a plate. “We don’t even have any animals yet. Isn't that the point of getting up early, to take care of the animals?” 

 

“The point is to get started on your duties. Often, yes, that means taking care of the animals,” Izzy  replies. 

 

“So why are we getting up so early if we don't have any animals to take care of?” John asks. 

 

“Because you lot have had it easy under Bonnet’s instruction,” Izzy says, shooting a pointed look at Stede. “Real ranchers wake up before noon. I have to ease you fuckers into it.” 

 

John shoots a pleading look at Frenchie, who holds out his hands helplessly. 

 

“Hey, I’m doing my best. I made him late this morning, didn’t I?” 

 

He gestures towards the hickey on Izzy’s neck. The man in question groans, head thumping against the tabletop. 

 

“Why do I fucking bother?” he asks no one in particular. 

 

Ed stifles a grin as Frenchie winks at him across the table. 

 

“Sorry, Quickshot,” he says, patting Izzy’s back. “I meant to say you made me late.” 

 

“That’s not better-” 

 

Pete and Lucius break out into a chorus of “ooooooohs” until Frenchie makes them change the subject, taking Izzy out of the spotlight for the rest of breakfast, offering his roll to Izzy as an apology. Ed settles back, smiling at Stede across the table, sipping at his coffee. He never eats much in the morning, never has, but he never misses the morning meal, not here, not when it's filled with moments like this, playful ribbing and the hum of conversation. 

 

They break eventually to actually get some work done, at Izzy’s insistence, backed up by Stede, and Ed is left mostly to his own devices for the day. He hasn’t quite found a duty that suits him, just yet, so his days are more open than the rest of the crew’s. 

 

It’s around mid-afternoon that day when he stumbles across Izzy, Ivan, and Buttons outside one of the pastures. Buttons is speaking, gesturing out towards the hills, and Ivan and Izzy are looking more and more confused by the second. Ed has to wonder how much of that has to do with the huge fuck-off vulture that’s sitting on Buttons’s shoulder in a way that Ed refuses to believe isn’t painful. The bird is huge, extending far above Buttons’s head, but it looks docile, head tucked down by its body, dozing as the motions of Buttons’s arms rock it. There’s a second one perched on the fence, eyeing Ivan interestedly, who looks equal parts excited and apprehensive as he looks back at it. 

 

If Ed hadn’t seen it himself, he would have never believed that the two vultures had followed Buttons from the Lighthouse Ranch, but Karl and Olivia had been seen multiple times throughout the month-long journey. 

 

“I’m not sure I understand,” he hears Izzy say as he approaches. 

 

“Of course ye don’t. What I am tellin’ ye, Mr. Hands, is to look to the hills. Ye see the position of the far-eastern?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

What d’ye know of moon-bathin’, Mr. Hands?” 

 

Ivan stifles a snort, earning him a truly wicked look from whichever of the vultures is staring him down. 

 

“Consider me a novice,” Izzy says. 

 

“Moon-bathin’ ain’t just fer us human folks,” Buttons says. “‘Tis beneficial to the livestock as well, the horses in particular. Younglings need it most, though. With the position of them-there hills, the light of the new moon shan’t reach ‘em if ye put them in this pasture.” 

 

“Hold on, I thought moon-bathing was just the full moon,” Ivan objects. “That’s when you do it, innit?” 

 

“The full moon is the ideal time, aye, for old men like meself,” Buttons says. “Younger creatures benefit from all cycles of the moon, particularly the new moon.” 

 

Izzy closes his eyes, forehead pinched like he has a headache, and Ed chuckles, because he knows that expression all too well. Usually, it’s directed at him. He catches Ed’s gaze when he opens his eyes, and holds up a finger. 

 

“Ivan, will you accompany Mr. Buttons and discuss which pasture he thinks would be best as an alternative?” 

 

“Sure thing, Iz,” Ivan says amiably. He falls into stride with Buttons. “You think I could ever get Olivia to sit on my shoulder like Karl sits on yours?” 

 

“If ye’ve the time and the grit to forge a bond, aye,” Buttons says, Karl still perched on his shoulder as they walk off. 

 

Izzy lets out a sigh, dropping his head back as Ed approaches. 

 

“Boss,” he greets. 

 

“Izzy.” 

 

He’s not totally sure how to… be, around Izzy, not now, not when their dynamic has shifted so dramatically over the last month. In a group setting, with someone else as a buffer, they’re fine, they snipe and poke at one another like they always do, and there's still no one that Ed trusts more to have his back, but-

 

“Not your boss anymore, really,” Ed says. 

 

“You’ll always be my boss, Edward,” Izzy mutters. 

 

“Stede’s paying you, though.” 

 

“He knows where my loyalty lies. It’s with you, always has been.” 

 

“Not just with me anymore, is it?” 

 

He doesn’t mean for that to come out jealous. He thinks it might, though, just a bit. For over a decade, Ed has been on the receiving end of Izzy’s incredibly intense, unwavering loyalty. It was always Ed he was loyal, to even at the beginning. He worked for Hornigold, but he would have turned against the man in an instant if Ed had asked him to. It’s not jealousy that eats at him at the prospect of having that loyalty divided, not really, but it is a loss. Even if, in the end, it was for the best for both of them. 

 

“No,” Izzy confirms. “Not just with you.” 

 

“You like this work,” Ed says. “The ranch shit.”

 

“I do. Always have,” Izzy says. “Do you?” 

 

“Dunno, do I? Haven’t done much of it,” Ed says, scratching the back of his head self-consciously.

 

“You could learn. To do it. I could teach you,” Izzy says. He’s not looking at Ed directly, but Ed knows that he’s seen that Ed feels a bit aimless, around the ranch. He likes it, and he’s excited to be here, to be here with Stede, to settle for the first time in a long time, but he doesn’t know shit about ranches, or animal husbandry outside of caring for his own horse. He’s used to being the big dog, the expert, in every room he’s in, and here, he’s not. It’s making him restless, making him itchy.

 

“Would you?” 

 

“Sure, if you wanted to learn,” Izzy says with a shrug. “I’m teaching fucking everyone else, might as well teach you too.” 

 

He pauses. “Buttons doesn't need teaching. Pete’s more than adequate, Frenchie knows what he’s doing, he just pretends he doesn’t to drive me into an early grave. But the others need teaching. I wouldn’t mind taking you on too.” 

 

Ed snorts. “Wouldn’t mind, huh?”

 

Izzy’s mouth quirks up. “S’pose not. What do you want to learn?” 

 

Ed shrugs. “You know me, Iz. Whatever you think would be a good fit.” 

 

Izzy looks him up and down. “I’ll think on it. Come up with something.” 

 

Ed grins, and claps Izzy on the shoulder, straightening up. He’s about to walk off when he hesitates. 

 

“Why’d you do it?” 

 

“Do what?
 

“Follow me. All those years. I must’ve been a pain in your ass most of the time.” 

 

Izzy turns towards him, leaning back on his elbows. He tilts his head, takes a second before he answers. 

 

“You remember how you found me? How I was?” 

 

“Half-dead?” Ed suggests. It’s the kindest word for how Izzy looked when he found him outside of Prospector, younger than he is now, skinnier, rasping for breath like a dying man, covered in blood and spitting and swearing at Ed when he tried to help him. 

 

“That, sure. I wasn’t even a fucking person when you found me, Ed. I was all-” 

 

He waves  a hand, trying to encompass a feeling that doesn’t quite go into words. “-all anger, and pain, and grief masquerading as a person. If it weren't for you, I would have died. If not that day, then not long after. Killed myself or gotten killed. But you- you picked me up, put me on the back of your horse, and you just talked at me. I thought you were a madman. You found this snarling dog  who’d as soon have bit your hand off as follow you, and you turned him back into a man.” 

 

He shakes his head, almost incredulously. “I still don’t know how you did it.” 

 

“Wasn’t as hard as you think it was,” Ed says. “You’re a good man, Iz. Always have been.” 

 

Izzy rolls his eyes at that. “You and I both know that’s not true. But I’m… trying.” 

 

“Me too.” 

 

“I know you are. I’d have followed you anywhere, Ed. I still would.” 

 

Ed clears his throat roughly, and Izzy does the same, looking away. 

 

“Good. Cause you know, I’m thinkin’ about teaching Stede a few tricks of the trade. Our trade. When the heat’s died down from law enforcement, anyway. He’s got an eye for it.” 

 

“Figured as much. I’ve heard you talking. He thinks it's a romantic notion, I imagine. Waxes poetic about living by your own law, not the law of the land,” Izzy mutters, but there’s no bite behind it.

 

“Could use your help, when it comes to that. Unless, you know, you’re really retired.” 

 

Izzy looks back at him, and there's a spark in his eyes that Ed’s all too familiar with. 

 

“Mostly retired, I think,” he says. “Could make some exceptions.” 

 

“Frenchie’d be ok with that?” 

 

Izzy smiles then, really smiles. “Frenchie’s not my fucking keeeper. But yeah, he would be. Think he’d volunteer to join. What's life without a little risk, anyway?” 

 

His face falls, studying Ed. “And now we won’t have Hornigold on our backs.” 

 

“No. Guess we won’t.” 

 

“Are you glad you did it? That it's over?” 

 

Ed shrugs, shifting from one foot to another. “Glad it’s over, yeah.” 

 

It’s a half truth, but it's the closest he can give Izzy, at least now. “Are you?” 

 

“I fucking well am,” Izzy says, and he can see in the glint of his eyes that its true. Maybe that's what the difference between him and Izzy boils down to, in the end. Izzy can say shit like that and mean it. Ed never really could. 

 

***

He’s still thinking about it that evening, sitting on the porch with his legs propped up in front of him. Dusk has set in and the voices of the crew inside mingle with the sound of the insects humming in the air. Ed’s taken a small supper, eaten outside, his empty plate down by his feet, and he’s toying with the edges of the red kerchief his mother gave him in that sickroom where she passed all those years ago. He tries to keep it intact, keeps it close, never goes anywhere without it, but it's a tatty old thing now, holes worn in the edges by years of worrying at it, bloodstains from where it’s come into contact with Ed’s injuries. 

 

Glad . It’s a strange word, isn’t it, to describe the death of the man who all but raised him? No, he’s not glad, not like Izzy is. He thinks relief might be closer to what he feels, but even that is mixed with something else, something darker and far, far sadder, something he doesn’t want to dig into, not when he’s finally on the cusp of real happiness for maybe the first time in his life. But it tugs at him still, the way it's tugged at him nearly every night on the road, manifesting Hornigold’s face, rife with disappointment, in his dreams, making his stomach drop so violently he thinks he might be sick when he spots a man with a mustache like Hornigold’s. 

 

He hated the man. Hates him still. But he didn’t always. And he thinks that’s the worst bit of it, that there’s still a part of him that breaks for Hornigold. 

 

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by a tiny squeak coming from his feet. He blinks, thinking it might be a mouse, but instead he sees the lithe body of a cat, peeking her head over the top of the porch, paws balanced on either side of Ed’s supper plate. This must be the stray Izzy mentioned, the one that had Frenchie in such a tizzy. He doesn’t see what all the fuss is about, personally- she’s a little thing, a tabby, by the look of her, staring up at Ed with huge eyes. 

 

“H’lo,” he says. If a cat can glare, this one does, at his impertinence to dare interrupt her mission.

 

“Don’t let me bother you. Carry  on,” he says, gesturing to the plate. “M’ done, anyway.” 

 

She doesn't need a second invitation. She snatches the tiny bit of chicken left on his plate and dashes off with it. He watches her disappear into the night, back in the direction of the barn, with a soft smile on his face. 

 

“Tiny little thing, isn’t she?” 

 

Every muscle in Ed’s body relaxes at the sound of Stede’s voice. The man’s a better sedative than an entire bottle of whiskey, he swears. 

 

“Don’t tell Frenchie,” he says, looking back over his shoulder. “He’ll say she’s put a curse on me, or something.” 

 

Stede chuckles. “I imagine so. Your secret is safe with me.” 

 

He comes closer, hand resting on the back of Ed’s chair. Ed’s hand twitches, an old remnant of an instinct to hide the kerchief. Calico Jack had seen him with it once, snatched it from his hands, nearly ripped the thing clean in half, laughed while he did it. He’d blamed it on being drunk. Looking back, Ed isn’t so sure. Izzy had found him huddled over it, sobbing, after Jack left, and had hunted down thread that would match the fabric of it. Ed’s stitches are still there, wobbly and uneven where he’d patched it.

 

But this isn’t Calico Jack. This is Stede. Stede, who’s never handled Ed cruelly, not once. So he keeps it there, in his hands, in his lap. 

 

“That’s a lovely bit of fabric you have there,” Stede says, in that patient tone he sometimes uses, like he can sense that Ed wants to talk, but just doesn’t have the words, won’t come up with them without prompting. 

 

Ed swallows. “This tatty old thing?” 

 

Stede’s hand moves to his hair, stroking through it. “It doesn’t look so tatty to me.” 

 

Ed’s mouth twitches. “It’s got bloodstains, darlin’.” 

 

“And?” Stede asks, like that’s of no consequence. “Gives it character.” 

 

“It’s torn.” 

 

“Nothing that can’t be mended, I’m sure,” Stede says. “May I?” 

 

Ed hesitates for one long beat, then reaches up, letting the fabric fall into Stede’s hand. Stede moves forward a little, leaning with his back up against the porch railing, handling the bit of fabric with such care, such tenderness, that Ed feels almost sick with it, heart in his throat and his stomach a swarm of butterflies. 

 

“It was my mum’s,” he says, because he has to say something, if he lets this silence stretch he might just explode. “She gave it to me, before she died.” 

 

Stede’s eyes dart up to meet his, striking him dumb, though he knows that isn’t Stede’s intent. He still doesn’t think Stede knows the effect he has on him, in moments like this, when it feels like every nerve in his body is stretched thin, like he could fucking destroy him with the slightest word, the most hesitant touch- 

 

But because it’s Stede, he doesn’t destroy him. Quite the opposite.

 

“You must have loved her very much,” he murmurs, “to carry this so many years.” 

 

Helpless to do anything else, Ed nods. “She did her best. Even with my dad.” 

 

He hasn’t told Stede yet, not all of it. Stede knows Ed is responsible for his father’s death, and because Stede is very possibly the only good thing left in this world, he never wavered, never faltered, only held Ed close as he sobbed in the dead of night, muffling his cries so as not to wake the others. But he doesn't know the whole story, the bruises that littered Ed’s body for so much of his life, the sight of his father’s handprint on his mother’s cheek, the screams, the terrifying helplessness of his early years.

 

But he thinks Stede knows, somehow, in the way that people who have suffered similar ordeals sometimes know just from a look, from a word. He knows Stede’s own father was no angel, that he was a monster too, if not in the same way that Ed’s father was. The elder Mr. Bonnet was the type of monster who eats away at a person like rot over the years, instilling damage deep in the bones, in the heart, in the very soul of a man. He wonders, sometimes, if he’d gotten to Stede sooner, if some of the rot could have been reversed. He wonders, sometimes, if it’s being reversed now. 

 

“I could mend it, if you like,” Stede says. “I would never dream of doing so, if you didn’t want, but it’s very doable.” 

 

He offers it the way Stede offers everything, freely and without hesitation, without knowledge of the fucking impact of it, like he’s not holding Ed’s very heart in his hands and declaring it not only fixable, but precious as it is, no alterations needed. 

 

“I think I might like that,” Ed says, his voice an embarrassing squeak around the tightness in his throat. 

 

Stede smiles. “Then it will be done. But for now, I’ll return it to its rightful owner.” 

 

He kneels in front of Ed, folding the fabric with deft, gentle fingers, and tucks it into his breast pocket with an air of worship. 

 

“There,” he says, softly, simply, and Ed doesn’t think he can be blamed for the whimper that escapes him. He grabs for Stede’s hands, and Stede grabs back, anchoring him. 

 

“Stede?” 

 

“Yes, Ed?” 

 

“I-” 

 

The words stick in his throat. He wants to say them, he does, he doesn't think there will ever be a better time to say them, a time where he’ll feel so fit to burst with them, but he’s already nearly drowning in this moment, and those words might just drag him under entirely. 

 

He looks down at Stede, helplessly, and Stede’s eyes shine. 

 

“I know,” Stede says. “I know. I do too.” 

 

Ed’s breath shudders out of him. “Really?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“I can’t- I can’t say it,” Ed admits. 

 

“It’ll keep,” Stede says. “We have a good long time in front of us, Ed. And for every one of those days, I will feel exactly about you as I do tonight. We don’t have to rush.” 

 

Ed could cry. He could scream. He could run. He could simply let his heart fail here and now just to step out of the glow that is Stede Bonnet, if only for a moment, if only to gather himself so he doesn’t collapse. 

 

He does none of those things. He presses trembling lips to the back of Stede’s hand, clenched so tightly in his own that he’s likely cutting off blood flow, and he goes to his own knees with Stede and pulls him in close, holds him there, runs his hands across his back, his chest, his hair, his face, because he is allowed to do that, because he wants to and he can and Stede wants him to do that, wants him, wants Ed and Blackbeard and all that he is and all that he carries with him. 

 

He holds him, he holds Stede Bonnet close, and for the first time in years, so many years, Edward Teach knows that he is loved.



STEDE

 

If you were to sit down with the Stede Bonnet of five years ago, and tell him exactly where he would end up in the coming years, he would have laughed you out of his very expensive and very fancy study. Oh, he would have believed bits and pieces, maybe. He would have believed that he would come West, if only because the desire was held so close to his heart that he would leap to even know it was a possibility. He might even believe that he could become relatively successful, at least on the business side of ranching. 

 

The rest of it, though, never in a million years. Stede never would have believed that one day he would be able to gather a crew who not only tolerates, but loves him, considers him family. He never would have believed that he could create a home, for himself and for these people who so desperately need it, because Stede was always so out of place in his home back east, so the very idea of creating one would seem impossible. And he certainly would never have believed that anyone could ever look at him, at Stede Bonnet, and say ‘ I want this one, this man is mine’. It would have certainly caused him to drop dead of a heart attack if you ever told him that the man who did just that was Edward Teach. 

 

He never would have believed that he could be even a fraction as happy as he is today. But he believes it now, because this morning he woke up next to Ed, in a ranch that he owns, walked out of his bedroom without shame or fear, sipped coffee and chatted with his crew, referenced inside jokes, even, and when Ed came out of their bedroom, all groggy and squinting, Stede kissed him, in front of other people, and Ed kissed him back, and the only reactions were fake gags and fond complaints. 

 

And now he stands on his own land, with his friends, with the knowledge that the rest of their family will be returning home any day now. 

 

Oluwande’s been practically bouncing off of the walls at the idea of Jim’s return. The three weeks Jim’s been gone on the journey to gather the livestock and the rest of Stede’s possessions is the longest the two of them have been separated since they met, Oluwande confides in him. The only thing that’s been comforting him in the long weeks is the occasional letter they receive from the group. All is well, the last one read, and they should be arriving home within the week, if all goes according to plan. It’s been five days since that, and as the time grows closer, the excitement grows proportionally as well.

 

Even Lucius isn’t bothering to put on his usual bored demeanor as the minutes tick past, checking the roads every couple of hours in the hopes of seeing Pete. He’s been comfortably enjoying himself with Fang while Pete’s been gone, but Stede knows he misses him, and oddly enough, Fang seems to miss Pete as well. Stede doesn't entirely grasp the situation there, but whatever makes them happy. 

 

“Man, I can barely think right now, Stede, sorry,” Oluwande says apologetically, after Stede has to repeat what he was saying for the third time. 

 

“That’s quite alright,” Stede replies with a fond smile. “I think we’re as ready for them as we’ll ever be, though I’m sure Israel will have a few complaints when he and Frenchie return.” 

 

“Doesn’t he always?” Oluwande says, shaking his head. “Of course, we’re assuming he and Jim haven’t butted heads and killed one another.” 

 

“Is it strange to say I’d like to see that fight? Nonlethal, of course, we can’t have any murder in the family,” Stede says. “Bad for morale.”

 

“Nah, not so strange,” Oluwande says, cheeks flushing. “I’d like to see that too.” 

 

“See what?” Ed’s voice sounds behind them. Stede feels Ed’s arms slip around his shoulders, and he brings his hand up automatically to tangle with Ed’s. It’s so strange, isn't it, that a gesture like this would have all but destroyed him only months ago, and now, it feels as natural as breathing. 

 

It still destroys him a bit, but in a different way. No matter how often Ed touches him, Stede thinks, he will never quite get used to the fire it lights under his skin, in his belly. 

 

“Who would you put your money on, in a Jim and Izzy fight?” Oluwande asks. 

 

“Think I’ve gotta say Iz, mate. Loyalty and that,” Ed says. 

 

“But you want to say Jim,” Stede replies. 

 

“Depends on the weapon, I guess. The setting,” Ed muses, finger tapping at Stede’s collarbone. “Think Iz might be better with a gun, but knives, Jimenez, no contest.” 

 

“Jim’s not half bad with a gun,” Oluwande protests. 

 

“Izzy’s on another fucking level though,” Ed says. 

 

Stede tunes it out a bit as the two of them banter back and forth, letting the conversation fade into background noise, and he closes his eyes, letting the feel of Ed’s arms around him and the breeze on his face relax his muscles. 

 

Chauncey had been in his dreams, the night before, the way he sometimes still is. Chauncey and Nigel together, two twin faces, cruel and taunting and hateful. 

 

Abomination, they whisper, string you up, come for your wife and children, come for your family, come for Ed-

 

“Stede?” 

 

Stede opens his eyes as Ed turns him to face him, a quizzical scrunch to his face, and he realizes Oluwande has left. 

 

“Where’d you go then, huh?” Ed asks. 

 

“Oh, nowhere,” Stede says, slipping his arms around Ed’s waist. Ed knows about his nightmares, he’s woken Stede from enough of them, and Stede’s woken Ed from enough of his own to know that Ed has his own ghosts that haunt him- his father, Hornigold, his mother.  He likely already knows what’s plaguing Stede. He doesn't need another explanation, so Stede just looks at him, looks at this incredible man in front of him, and feels such a surge of warmth, like a burst of citrus on his tongue, like the too-sweet coffee that Ed favors, that he’s suddenly sorry for the Badmintons, for his father, for all the people like them, who would condemn him for those feelings, because he knows that if they ever felt anything like this, if they ever felt even a fraction of what Stede feels for Ed, they could never see it as wrong. 

 

How could it be? How could it be wrong to love this man, to love Edward Teach? 

 

If that’s what damns him to hell, Stede thinks, then god can send him there, he will endure it a thousand times over for one more touch of Ed’s hands. 

 

Do you know what they do to people like you? They’ll string you up. 

 

With Israel’s story, Stede knows more than ever that Nigel’s words were true. Israel is living proof of the hatred people are willing to inflict on others. 

 

But he’d like to see them try. Stede would skin any man who tried to take Ed from him now, who tried to come for his family. 

 

“Just thinking about small-minded people,” he elaborates. Ed raises an eyebrow. 

 

“You’re a weird guy, Stede, you know that?” 

 

He doesn’t say weird the way other people might say it, as though it's wrong, or other, he says it laced with so much fondness that Stede could just die with it. 

 

“I am a bit,” Stede allows, and he lets Ed pull him into a kiss, because he can, because it is safe to do so, to kiss the man he loves in his home. 

 

“We don’t have to wait out here, you know,” Stede says, glancing back at the road. “It’ll be a day or two more, probably, before they arrive.” 

 

“Dunno,” Ed says. “I think it’ll be today.” 

 

“Care to wager?” Stede says, and the look Ed gives him lights that fire again, stokes the embers that sit constantly and comfortably in his veins into a full blaze. 

 

“Could do. I’ve got some ideas.” 

 

“Do you now?” Stede says, raising his eyebrows, slipping a hand into Ed’s hair, tugging gently, just to see Ed’s eyes go dark. 

 

“A fucking few,” Ed says, breathless. 

 

“Mm. Perhaps you should compile them,” Stede says. “Make a list.” 

 

Ed breaks, a grin stretching over his face as he looks down. “Talk more about lists. It’s sexy.” 

 

Stede laughs, carefree in a way that he hasn't been since he was  lad- and maybe not even then. It's just so easy, with Ed. Everything’s easy, natural. 

 

“It could be a checklist,” he suggests coyly, and Ed cracks entirely, shoulders shaking. 

 

“Fucking hell, man. Yeah, I’ll make a fucking list,” he says, pulling Stede in and planting a kiss on the side of his head. “A sexy checklist. I’ll need some paper, though.” 

 

“Well, I can help with that. I should write to Mary as it is.” 

 

He’d sent a quick note off to Mary, at the first town they came across on the run, so she wouldn't risk writing to him at the Lighthouse Ranch in case the authorities were watching the post. He’d used an agreed-upon alias, Thomas, a distant cousin, but it was past time for him to catch her up on the goings-ons, to let her know how to reach him now that they were settled. 

 

“Great. Sexy checklist, writing to the ex-wife,” Ed says, ticking the items off on his fingers. “What an afternoon.” 

 

He’s not sure if Ed’s actually compiling a list, but he’s certainly writing something as Stede settles down at his desk. He’s not quite sure where to begin, really, with this letter. So much has happened. 

 

He thinks of the last time he saw Mary, his mad dash out of the city in the middle of the night after Nigel’s death. 

 

Mary shoves at his back, having quickly changed into a nightdress in case the authorities show up. Doug is in with the children, still sleeping, as far as Stede knows, but he can see Doug in the window, looking out at them with concern. If he has to leave his children in the hands of anyone, he can admit that he’s glad it will be Doug. He’ll look after them, look after Mary. He loves them all, like his own. 

 

“Get in,” Mary hisses, shoving him onto the carriage. “Now, remember, when you get to the border, you switch to a horse or another wagon, you leave this in a ditch and you make it look like an accident-” 

 

“I remember, I remember,” Stede says in a hush. It’s all hitting him at once now, Nigel’s death, the prospect of leaving his family and his whole world behind. “The children, what will you tell them?” 

 

Mary’s mouth pinches. “I’ll tell them you’re gone. But they’ll know you’re alive, I’ll make sure they know we aren’t actually burying you.” 

 

“Will you bury me?” he asks. 

 

“We’ll have to have some sort of a funeral,” Mary says. 

 

“Please don’t use the gravestone your mother gave us,” Stede begs. Mary’s face relaxes, a more familiar smile coming over her face. 

 

“I won’t. I’ll design something for you,” she says. “Now go. Write to us, when you get to where you’re going, won’t you? I can ship you your things, make some story up. An auction, maybe, I don’t know, I’ll think of something.” 

 

Stede nods frantically, swallowing around the lump in his throat. To his shock, Mary reaches up and pulls him into an embrace. 

 

“Be well, Stede. Be happy.” 

 

Before he can respond, she’s released him, shoved the reins into his hand, and slapped the horse's rump. With a shrill whinny, he’s off, and the last that he sees of his wife is her in her nightdress, arms crossed over her chest, one hand raised in a wave. 

 

Stede smiles, dips his pen in ink, and begins to write. 

 

Dearest Mary, 

 

I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news. Stede Bonnet is in league with Blackbeard’s gang, the Black Skulls. What a turn, isn’t it? Could you have ever imagined? The circumstances are nearly unbelievable. I will write you to explain the rest when I’m certain it's safe to do so, but for now rest easy knowing that I am alive, and I am well. We have had to leave our home, and it saddened me greatly to do so, but we left no one behind. The crew took to the venture with a vigor I never would have expected. I assumed at least some of them would leave our employ, but none of them did. I admit to being a little teary over it at times. 

 

 It’s been a long road to get here, but we’ve found a new home now. We’ve settled, and are in the process of establishing ourselves as a true and proper, functioning ranch, with the help of a new overseer. He’s a tough nut to crack, but he’s a friend of a very good friend of mine, and his input has been invaluable. 

 

It’s strange, you know, Mary, what a good group of people can do for you. I always thought that home was a place, that if I could just find the right place to exist, that I would call that home. Now, I think, home has more to do with the people in it than it does any building or physical space. 

 

I trust that the authorities could not possibly place blame at your door for Stede Bonnet’s actions, given your belief of his death. Please do tell Alma and Louis that all is well, and that I love and miss them very much. I will have some incredibly thrilling tales coming their way soon enough (and Doug’s way, as I gather he enjoys them just as much as the children do).

 

Stede pauses, stretching his shoulders, and he looks to his left. Ed is still scratching away at his own paper, his tongue poked out between his lips, the afternoon light hitting his face, illuminating the planes of his profile like a sculpture. His beard is growing out now, and Stede thinks, come winter, it’ll be quite a handsome length. He can picture it clear as day, Ed in the snow, beard scattered with snowflakes, and now he knows it will be a reality, not just a wish.

 

He blinks away the film of tears that have collected in his eyes at the sight, at the thought, and turns back to his letter. 

 

Do you remember, Mary, the conversation you and I had once, about happiness? You said you believed there was a way that we could both be happy in this life. I’m afraid to say I didn’t quite believe you at the time. Now, I think I do. I know you’ve found your happiness, Mary, and my heart sings for you and Doug. I think- I know, that I have found mine as well. I know it may never happen, but I should so love for you to meet him, if the occasion ever arises. He-

 

Stede stops. How can he describe Ed, to Mary? How can he even begin to put into words what Ed is to him, who he is to him, what he means? Everything that Ed is cannot be put to words, on something as mundane as ink and paper.  Ed is strong hands and broad shoulders and the faint smell of gunsmoke. Ed is a battered piece of fabric that he keeps tucked close to his heart. Ed is dark eyes and crinkled smiles and whisker bristles. Ed is both sun and storm wrapped into one beautiful package, he is the burn of a flame and the balm that soothes it all at once. Ed is a force of nature in himself. He is love incarnate. He is everything. 

 

In the end, Stede keeps it simple. 

 

His name is Ed. 

 

Affectionately yours, 

Thomas Edwards. 



He leaves the ink to dry, and crosses the room to Ed, placing a kiss on his neck. Ed leans his head back against his shoulder with a contented sigh. 

 

“What's that for?” 

 

“Because I wanted to. Because I can.” 

 

Stede pauses. “Because I’m happy.” 

 

Ed’s face softens, Stede can see it reflected in the glass pane of the window, takes on that vulnerability that Stede has only ever seen a few times. He twists in his chair, dark eyes meeting Stede’s. 

 

“Me too,” he says, in a voice so small Stede could cry with it. He leans down, draws him into a long, slow, aching kiss, fingers tracing the side of Ed’s neck. 

 

“You tell Mary about me?” Ed murmurs. 

 

“As much as I could,” Stede admits. “I find you’re a rather hard thing to put into words, Ed.”

 

“I’m an enigma, am I?” Ed says, lips curling. 

 

“Certainly. Very mysterious and terrifying.”. 

 

“What’d you tell her?” 

 

“That I’d found someone who makes me happy,” Stede says simply. “Someone that I love.” 

 

He may not have said that to Mary, in so many words, but she’ll read between the lines, know that when he speaks of happiness, he speaks of the love the two of them discussed. 

 

It’s been some weeks since he and Ed had their conversation on the porch, where they each acknowledged their feelings for one another without saying them in so many words. And honestly, maybe it's still too soon, but it just slipped out, really. It felt as though not saying it would be… dishonest, somehow, when Stede feels that love so intensely. 

 

Ed’s playful demeanor drops, his hand coming to rest on Stede’s chest. “You mean- I mean, that’s-” 

 

“Yes, Ed. I’m talking about you,” Stede says. 

 

“Oh. Ok. Good,” Ed says.  “Cause I do too, you know. Love you. I mean.” 

 

Stede lets out the last of the breath that was trapped in his chest. “Oh, thank god. I mean, I thought so, but you never quite know until it’s said, do you?” 

 

“Doubted me, did you?” Ed asks. 

 

“Never. Not once,” Stede says, and that brings the smile back to Ed’s face, the type of smile that still blinds Stede, that he’s quite certain will blind him for the rest of his days.

 

It’s then that he hears the rumble of hoofbeats, and the excited cheers starting up from his crew, and he beams. 

 

“They’re back!” 

 

“That means I win the wager,” Ed says, dropping a wink, eyes still all soft in spite of the lewd implication. 

 

“Oh, we can discuss that later,” Stede says, tugging at Ed’s hand. Ed laughs, lacing his fingers through Stede’s, and together they walk outside, into the chaos of the reunion. Jim is being held aloft by Oluwande, looking like they’ve been fully lifted out of the saddle before they could even dismount. Lucius and Fang have Pete in some kind of sandwiched hug, while John and Roach and Ivan have entirely surrounded Buttons, Swede, Frenchie and Izzy, the latter of which looks furious at the blatant display of affection, only softening when Frenchie plants a kiss on his cheek. 

 

“Howdy, all!” Stede calls, and another round of cheers sounds. 

 

Hand in hand with Ed, Stede walks down the porch steps, and joins his family, and oh, he’d brave all those years of unhappiness all over again if he knew this moment, this feeling, was on the horizon. 

 

And the best part of it is, he thinks, that there will be more moments like this. There will be moments like this, moments with his family, moments with Ed, moments where he is resplendently and completely happy, for the rest of his life. 

 

Stede Bonnet began his journey west alone, with nothing more than the clothes on his back and an admittedly obscene amount of money crammed into a saddlebag. He began his journey sad, and frightened, with only the vague hope of creating a life worth living. 

 

And this life, oh, this life- this life is better than anything Stede Bonnet could have ever imagined. 

 

Notes:

So, remember how last time I said 20k words is the limit for my chapters? This is literally 500 words away from breaking that. Good GOD, this thing is a beast.

That being said… holy shit? It’s done? It’s finished? And I’m actually happy with where it ended? This is surreal.

I just want to say a very genuine thank you to everyone who’s read the story, left comments and kudos, bookmarked, or interacted with this work in any way. Know that I saw and felt each and every one of them. Your guys’s comments on this story have been so overwhelmingly positive and just incredibly lovely. Originally, this was meant to be like a three chapter thing (how I thought I was gonna pull that off, who knows) and it is overwhelmingly due to your guys’s support that it turned into what it is. I so rarely do things this plot-heavy or this long, and it definitely would not have been completed without you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!

What an absolute ride this has been. Adios, buckaroos, until the next time!

Notes:

Title from kalahari down by orville peck.

I know absolutely zero about the Wild West or how cowboys or ranches work, so this is for vibes and vibes only. I’m a sucker for a cowboy and I don’t think I’m the only one.

come chat with me about pirate brainrot or anything fandom on tumblr! @fool-for-luv

 
Edit 6/2- we have a playlist, folks! If anyone wants a quick peek into the chaos of my brain as I write this, or just some western/folksy vibes to read along to, or you want to hear the songs Frenchie sings, here's the link!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0rWDqLLsS42okcuM9JwNLf?si=74b98172014b42a4