Chapter Text
Ed must be going soft, because it takes rather a lot of time for him to realize that Stede is planning a first rate fuckery.
They’ve been caught, bathed in frigidly cold water, shorn of beards, and clad in worn clean linen. Ed is still reeling from it, from the change and from the realization that Stede is alive, healthy and breathing. Stede is still here, right beside him. He keeps expecting the earth to gently rock, feeling dizzy and slightly sick when it doesn’t. And yet he’s calm, so calm, so weirdly content. Stede is fine, Stede is right here. They’ll serve out their sentences together, always together.
They’d been offered a choice: ten years of navy service, or marriage to a respectable widow, with a place in society as a gentleman farmer: two options for an honest life. They’ll take the navy service, of course.
Except.
“Want to do something weird?” Stede asks. His eyes are sparkling, and he’s rather more animated than he was when first they were caught and written into the big ledger.
Ed looks up at him, perched on the edge of their shared bunk bed. “Sure, mate.” He furrows a brow at him, gestures for him to continue.
Stede shoots him a strange look, a little hesitant, a little nervous. “Well,” he says, rolling his lower lip between his teeth, “I think we ought to take the marriage option.”
Ed chokes on his inhale. It feels as though he’s been stabbed for the hundredth time, except this one didn’t manage to avoid his vitals. It’s stupid, dramatic, but the only thing that’s been keeping him sane is the notion that they’ll face this together, always together. The idea that Stede can so casually throw that away is, well. Fuck.
“Oh, good lord,” Stede says, sounding alarmed. “No Ed, hang on.” He shimmies down off the bunk, ungainly and stupidly perfect as ever. He settles in close to Ed, catches his eye. Ed meets it, somewhat against his will.
He tries to say something, anything. He’s reaching for whatever will make him sound nonchalant, not some pathetic hurt boy whose best friend is abandoning him. Stede shushes him before he’s even got his mouth fully open, though.
“No no,” he says impatiently. “Just listen.” His voice has gone low, conspiratorial. “I’m legally dead.”
This jolts Ed out of his misery rather effectively. “What?”
Stede smiles at him, wide and bright. “I found out today. They couldn’t write me into the ledgers properly. Bit of a shock, if I’m honest, but it’s given me rather an interesting idea.”
Ed eyes him, so bright and golden and soft. Something traitorous is thrumming in his gut, and he shoves it ruthlessly down. “What’s that then, mate?”
“Well,” Stede says, clearly taking his time. He loves his drama, this one. Ed can’t bring himself to mind. “You’re far too notorious to just vanish, so the paperwork has to be right. I, however, am legally dead. Did you know Lucius has been given employment in the records office?”
“I-- I did not know that, no,” Ed says. That warm feeling in the pit of his belly is growing at an alarming rate. “What do you have in mind?”
Stede shrugs a little, suddenly going bashful. “I’m sure it’s not what you’d choose if left to your own devices, but I thought. What if I’m the respectable widow? I need an identity, you need a marriage. The king would grant us a bit of land, and we wouldn’t have to murder any old friends.” He shrugs, soft and easy. “Not the excitement you’re used to, I’m sure, but, I thought maybe it could be a new adventure--”
Ed cuts him off there, before the feeling in his belly can overwhelm him entirely. “Yes, he says, vehement and sure. “Yes, let’s fucking do that.”
And so they get married. There isn’t a ceremony, because this is a fuckery and entirely predicated on lies. But Lucius writes up the documents that rename Stede to John Edwards, now John Teach. They sign a little certificate and there it is, they’re legally married, at least for some very loose definition of legal. Stede looks at him fondly, once it’s done, and says, “Well, I suppose you’re stuck with me now.”
Ed has no idea what to say to that. Thank fucking god? Until you inevitably realize what a huge mistake you’re making by tying yourself to me? Cheers? He doesn’t say anything at all.
A couple of weeks later they’re en route to their new estate, and Ed is definitely still reeling. The preparation had taken up most of their time together, so it feels like only now is he really able to spend time with Stede, just talking, just existing together. He’d missed it, in all of the hubbub.
They haven’t discussed any of the logistics of being semi-legally married, or at least, none of the ones that make Ed feel a little sweaty when he ruminates on them. He doesn’t think he’s insane-- he’s almost certain he’s seen Stede gazing at him when he doesn’t know Ed is watching, returning the pressure when Ed lets their hands brush together. But now it’s so much more complicated. Now, Stede has signed away his life for Ed. He has re-entered a contract that he fled not so long ago. Now, it feels impossible to say to Stede, yes, but give me more, give me all of you, everything. Ed can’t sleep for thinking about it, though he doesn’t want to think at all.
At least the travel helps occupy his mind. There was a tense journey back to the mother country to fill out all the paperwork, but now they’re traveling by land to reach their final destination. They’re further inland than he’s ever been, though a day’s ride would see them back beside the ocean. It gets cooler as they press on toward the north, and the landscape changes around them from day to day. They’re following a network of roughly marked trails through the forest, and Ed spends a not inconsiderable amount of time reorienting Stede, who while quite enthusiastic, is hilariously bad at reading maps. It feels nice, deciphering it together.
There are a few nights in taverns, but usually they sleep under the trees. Ed would have imagined Stede being rather more prissy about it, and he is a little, but really he seems to enjoy the adventure of it. At night the wind rustles the branches above their heads, and they swaddle themselves in blankets in the back of the wagon, twisted closely together for warmth. Ed thinks, every night, my husband.
It’s not something he ever dared to hope for. He’d thought, sometimes, about a bond sealed on the ocean, sharing a bed and a life and the spoils of plundering. He’d expected to die before too long, and his time with Stede had already seemed stolen from someone else’s life, someone who got to have beautiful, precious things. So there wasn’t much use wishing for anything more formal, more lengthy. Just getting to be near Stede had felt like almost enough. And yet here they are, married.
“Is it weird for you?” he manages to ask, one night. They’re huddled under the blankets like a tent, protecting their faces from the chill night air.
“What’s that?” Stede raises an eyebrow at him sleepily.
Ed regrets it already, but he’s started it so he pushes on. “Being married again,” he clarifies. “Is it weird?”
“Ah.” Stede rolls onto his side, facing Ed. “Do you know, it isn’t?” He passes a hand over his mouth, knuckles against his lips. Ed wants to chase them with his own mouth, badly.
“How’s that?” he says, trying desperately to contain himself.
Stede considers. “With Mary,” he says, “Well, I don’t think we could make each other happy. It just wasn’t what either of us needed, or wanted. It was so difficult to be near each other, and it made us thoughtless and cruel, the both of us. She was willing to keep pretending, for the sake of our life.” He sighs heavily. “I wasn’t.”
Ed watches him quietly, gazing at his furrowed brow, his dark eyes. Stede is biting his lip, thinking.
“This,” Stede continues, after a pause. “This feels rather different.” He glances down at his hands, and Ed can see the ghost of a little smile at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never found it so easy to be near another person in all of my life. I suppose, if that doesn’t make for a marriage, what could?” He coughs, closes his eyes. “Not that this is the same thing at all. I haven’t forgotten the context of this arrangement.”
Ed closes his eyes too, lets himself reach out and rest a palm on Stede’s shoulder, just for a moment. “No, I get it,” he admits. “I get it, it’s easy for me too.” Too easy, if he’s being honest.
“Ah,” Stede says, half a sigh. “Ah, well then.” He breathes, slow and deep. “Good.”
“Good,” Ed echoes, and wonders how it came to be such an ineffectual word.
The land they’ve acquired is nothing particularly special. It’s a reasonable, mostly flat acreage that encircles an old manor house. There’s room for farming and grazing, along with a bit of forest and a windy creek around the southerly side of the house. Lucius has managed to find them an only recently abandoned estate, turning its deceased former owner into the very living John Edwards, or John Teach, or Stede Bonnet, or whatever they’re calling him today. The previous occupant had no children, no will, so there’s nobody to complain about the legal sleight of hand. If the neighbors ask, he’s a second cousin, come to claim his inheritance.
There’s a little town not so far away from the estate, perhaps half an hour on foot. It’s home to a bustling square with a tavern and a milliner, a general store for dry goods and a market for produce. There’s a blacksmith kept in business mainly shoeing horses and repairing farming equipment, a mill on the creek that keeps them in flour, and a joiner who hews together furniture for the locals. They’d discussed it during the planning phase, what they could supply from town, and what they'll produce for themselves. Still, it’s something different to actually be there in the flesh, walking into town.
They pass through it at the end of a hard few days of travel, sick of sleeping on the ground and waking to sore backs and knees. Stede suggests stopping for a midday meal at the tavern, and Ed is happy to agree. The town center is tidily kept, with freshly swept stoops and sturdy buildings bearing decorated storefronts and ornamented garden paths. They follow the carriage road, pointing out the shops that will require further investigation, orienting themselves to this new version of civilization.
The tavern is a block from the commercial center, a squat, sturdy building. It’s all warm wood and freshly whitewashed interior, remarkably clean and inviting. They sit with their backs to the wall in a cozy corner, and Stede is free with his limbs, relaxing into Ed’s side. Ed leans back against him and tries not to make any particularly embarrassing noises.
He’s saved from any mortification by the proprietress, who brings them hot food on trenchers and mugs of foamy ale. She offers them welcomes that feel sincere, tells them she’s glad the old house will be well cared for again. Ed, Ed cannot decide how to feel about that, so he just lets Stede talk, focused on eating his rabbit stew. He shifts fitfully away and then back into Stede’s space again, feeling his warmth, his contentment. Stede returns the contact, just the tiniest bit, and even if this is all Ed ever has, if this is all Stede ever wishes to give him, Ed thinks that might be enough to make him as happy as he’s ever been in his life. The proprietress offers him a warm smile, clucking at their hands, brushing together upon the table.
“Newlyweds,” she says fondly. “Warms the heart, it does.” Stede laughs and agrees, passing a gentle hand over Ed’s hair. Ed very quietly tries not to hyperventilate.
After their meal, they walk the final stretch of the village path to their new home. They’ve two horses now, courtesy of the Crown. Each is huge and sturdy, packed to the bursting with saddlebags full of Stede’s oddities and trinkets. They’re hitched to the little wagon, also hugely over-stuffed with supplies, but after the hearty lunch and several days in the wagon, it feels nice, feels easy, to just walk, one hand resting softly on a horse’s sturdy flank. Stede walks on Ed’s other side, his gait easy and unhurried. Their arms are brushing now and then, the fabric of their sleeves whispering together, and Ed can’t help but chase the sensation, breath catching in his throat.
“They already like you better,” Stede says, sounding fond. “What ought we to call them?”
“Dunno,” Ed says, scuffing a boot against the packed earth of the path. “Reckon we could each name one.”
“That seems awfully fair,” Stede says. “I think Matilda, for our fine lady on the left.”
Ed considers it. “Yeah, that’ll do.”
Stede smiles at him, kind and open. “And yours?”
Ed thinks about it. The sun is warm on his shoulders, and Stede is close by, leaning into his side, and he has a whole life ahead of him, a life where he gets to name horses and live in a house with his name on the deed and fucking farm things. He doesn’t know what to do with the happiness welling up inside of him.
“Sally,” he says, finally. “Her name is Sally.”
“Well,” Stede says, because he is the sunshine, and sugar cubes, and everything good that has ever managed to touch Ed. “Isn’t that just lovely.”
It’s another ten minutes’ walk before the slate roof of the house emerges beyond a dip in the path. Stede casts a worried look in Ed’s direction, when he points it out.
“I know it’s not anything particularly fancy,” he says, sounding a little fretful. “Not exactly the kind of adventure you’ve wanted.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” Ed says, speeding up. That’s their fucking house, that’s a place just for them, a place they can make into whatever they like. “Come on, come on. I want to see it.”
Stede laughs, clucks at the horses, follows Ed. He always fucking does.
Ed likes the manor immediately. He’s never had a house of his own, though his ship was something close to it. This is different, sturdy and unmoving, built right into the land. It’s in poor repair, but the damage seems to be mainly cosmetic. Its stone walls were built to last. Ed likes the way he can see the age baked into them, the places where the sun has bleached patchy designs into the rock. He likes the ramshackle outbuildings, full of mysterious old tools, dirt floors gone weedy. He likes the overgrown garden patch just outside the house, and the real glass windows, and the big tree that throws a canopy of shade a few paces from the side door. The house has side doors. It has so many doors, so many windows, so many things.
Inside the front entryway, the manor hall is thick with dust, but Ed doesn’t, can’t care. The floors are wide wood planks, worn silken by generations of footsteps. There is a staircase, the steps escorted upward by a banister ornamented with wrought metal curlicues, leading up into a second story full of mysterious bed chambers and halls still decorated with moldering old paintings of previous inhabitants. There are huge musty carpets, thick with grime, that promise to be vivid in color once cleaned. There is a kitchen with a giant stone countertop for preparing meals, with a door that leads straight out to a little root cellar, cool enough to store veg in for the winter. There’s a tiny springhouse too, dark and full up with the sound of trickling water. Ed leans down and tastes the cold fresh bite of the mountain spring, and could almost cry.
Back inside, they traverse the upper level, leaving tracks in the dust. In the master bedroom, Stede uncovers a single straw mattress. He hauls in fresh ticking from the wagon, restuffing it with a surprisingly practical level of efficiency. “It seems there’s just the one,” Stede says, a little apologetically. It’s absolutely unnecessary, since Ed was right there with him exploring all the rooms. He’d noticed immediately that there was just the one bed, has indeed been thinking about it ever since, and it’s certainly not something that Stede has to apologize for.
“We’ll have to see about furniture, but this is all there is for now,” Stede repeats. He looks close to wringing his hands.
“It’s twice as big as your bunk on the Revenge, easy,” Ed points out, as casual as he is capable of being. “Reckon it’ll hold us.”
It feels dangerous, too close to asking for more when Stede has already given him so much, but Stede just smiles at him. It’s that warm look again, the one that makes Ed go funny inside. His hands have relaxed, too, no longer pressing wrinkles into the mattress. “I thought I’d need to fight you a bit more than that, to be honest,” Stede says. “Glad I didn’t have to.”
Ed clears his throat and makes himself scarce, limping off to rummage through Matilda’s saddlebags for their provisions. Days of riding in the wagon have left him stiff and aching, but it’s hard to mind in the face of all of this.
By the time they’ve fully explored the house and grounds, dusk is falling. They’ve taken up residence in the master bedroom, and have performed a cursory cleaning of the kitchen and water closet. There’s a giant copper bathtub in an alcove not far off from the well, and Ed has to squeeze his eyes closed against the visceral image of himself heating water to run Stede a bath. He’d help him in, smooth that nice lavender soap over Stede’s chest, follow it so gently with a cloth, or fuck, with his hands. Ed tamps the thought down forcefully, shuddering a little.
“Chilly?” Stede asks, ever aware of him. It sends a warm curl through Ed’s chest, knowing that Stede notices him like this. “Let’s have a little fire in the bedroom, shall we?”
“Yeah, mate,” Ed manages, and it doesn’t come out too breathless at all.
The fire is really fucking nice. Ed coaxes it to life, tossing old bits of kindling on and sighing at the warmth that soothes the ache out of his shoulders. They eat day-old bread and cheese by the fire, and Stede leans comfortably up against Ed’s side, his body a line of soft sturdiness. Ed lets his eyes drift closed, just for a moment. He can’t bring himself to believe that this is for him, that he's allowed to have this. It doesn’t seem real.
“Bedtime,” I think,” Stede says gently. Ed realizes he’s dozed off on Stede’s shoulder, has tipped over half on top of him like a fucking child. Stede is just watching him fondly, though, no hint of mockery or derision or pity. He just looks softly pleased.
Ed sits up, stretching, then pulls himself to his feet. His knee is a ball of pulsing agony, but that’s no different than usual, and the rest of him is still warm from the fire and Stede alike. He feels pleasantly fuzzy, still more than a little asleep.
Stede follows him, blowing out candles in his wake. The only furniture in the room is the recently restuffed mattress, but Stede has heaped it with a comfortable assortment of blankets and rugs from the wagon. He draws off his breeches and stockings and folds them neatly beside what Ed is already, dangerously thinking of as Stede’s side of the bed. Ed does the same from the opposite side, and then Stede is holding up the covers for him, waiting for Ed to slide under. Ed does so, glad of the darkness. The fire is burning low in the hearth, providing just enough smoky glow that he can make out the edges of Stede’s features, fuzzy and indistinct.
“Well,” Stede says, and he’s close enough that Ed can feel his breath, the heat of his body. “I suppose it’s, well.” He pauses, and when he speaks again it comes out fast and a little funny. “Goodnight, husband.”
Ah. Well, that’s what it feels like to have his world fucking upended. “Yeah,” Ed says, throat dry. “Goodnight, husband.”