Archive of Our Own ^beta

1

Ed's busy strangling the shit out of some blubbering English prick—fucking fuck these guys—and Stede's actually holding his own pretty damn well, almost gracefully sidestepping a musket before he rams his elbow into his attacker’s face. There's an impressive spray of blood as Stede spins away, grinning giddily as he repositions himself, and Ed freezes, stunned.

It's not double vision, exactly, not like when he's wasted beyond belief and can't even see straight, and not like whenever he gets knocked over the head a bit too hard, either. He doesn't feel nauseous or dizzy, but he definitely feels really fucking strange, all of a sudden.

Because Ed knows that fancy footwork, even if he usually sees it executed much more precise and practised, and he's lost count of how many times he's dropped a sword or rapier because of the subtle little twist of the wrist Stede uses to disarm the next Englishman running at him.

For a moment, it's as if he sees both Stede and Izzy, layered over one another, moving in almost complete, eerie unison.

Then Stede calls, "Ed?" all worried, and Ed blinks away the weird asynchrony, yells back, "All good, babe!" and then, "Shitfuck, no you don't!" when the guy he's still holding starts struggling again.

And after, they make friends with the Pirate Queen of China, watch Spanish Jackie poison a couple dozen soldiers, plan an impossible escape back to the ship with their crew, Izzy almost dies in Ed's arms—no, seriously, fuck the fucking Crown—and amidst all the chaos, asking Stede when the hell he's had time to train with Izzy, of all people, eventually slips Ed's mind.

2

Izzy's teetering on the brink of death, clinging to life only due to what Ed thinks must be sheer, bullheaded stubbornness. He's ghostly pale, looking small and vulnerable like Israel Hands is never supposed to look, ever, and Ed takes one glance at him before he has to turn away so he doesn't empty out his guts all over the table Roach's got Izzy on.

He spits, once he's finished, then gags again at the phantom smell of rotting flesh, bile burning in his throat and tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.

No one in the room says anything.

Ed can't bring himself to go visit Izzy again, after that.

Not until he's woken up by frantic yelling several nights later, stumbling out of the Captain's cabin half-dressed, with an equally confused Stede in tow.

Roach is hissing hurried instructions at a shaky Frenchie when they reach the rec room turned infirmary, while Fang's hovering behind them with his arms full of fresh bandages, clearly trying not to cry outright.

And Izzy—

Seeing Izzy still and lifeless had been fucking terrifying. Seeing him seize and convulse, frothy blood bubbling down his chin as he shouts in agony, is infinitely worse.

“Hold him down,” Roach snaps at Ed, when he notices him hovering uncertainly in the doorway, “or get the fuck out. Both of you.”

Frenchie steps back hurriedly, releasing Izzy’s arms to Ed, while Stede grabs onto Izzy’s ankles, a determined set to his pursed mouth. Ed curls his fingers around Izzy’s wrists, gentle at first, then bruisingly tight when Izzy starts thrashing around even harder, fever-glazed eyes flickering around unseeingly.

The infection is ugly, in every sense of the word.

Stede averts his eyes with a choked, “Good Lord,” once Roach has the old, bloody bandages peeled away. Ed can’t blame him. But he can’t look away, either. Not when Roach dumps near boiling water over the festering wound, making Izzy sob incoherently, and not once Roach starts cutting away the blackened edges of dead skin, the fucking smell all too real again this time around.

Izzy loses what little consciousness he’d gained as Roach works away at him.

Ed’s hands are cramping, his fingers are trembling, but he keeps his hold on Izzy, thumb against his pulse.

“Chances are he’ll pull through, given that his fever breaks and he makes it through the night,” Roach decides, after what feels like forever, stepping back from the table. Ed pretends he can’t hear the doubt in his voice. Roach pulls a cigarillo from behind his ear with a weary sigh, uncaring of the blood covering his hands. “I need a fucking drink.”

“Amen to that,” Frenchie mutters. He takes a sniffling Fang by the hand as he follows Roach out into the hallway.

Ed looks back down at Izzy’s slack face.

“Darling.” Stede’s hands settle on Ed’s shoulders as he steps behind Ed, and Ed tips his head back, resting it against Stede’s chest. Stede presses a lingering kiss to the top of Ed’s head. “He’s one of the most resilient people I know.”

“Indestructible little fucker, yeah,” Ed tries to say, but it comes out all wet and wrong.

Stede’s arms move to wrap around him properly. Ed turns his face into the crook of his arm, breathing shakily.

Eventually, Lucius pokes his head into the room, clearly having been chosen by the rest of the crew to inquire about Izzy. Stede sighs, beyond exhausted, but promises to be there shortly. Ed doesn’t say anything at all.

“Try to get some rest,” Stede tells Ed, brushing another kiss over his forehead, and Ed says, “Yeah, ‘course,” even though they both know Ed’s probably not going to get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night, most likely longer.

It’s a tight fit, but Ed manages to squeeze onto the table next to Izzy without jostling Izzy too much in the process, pressing close against his uninjured side. He rests one hand over Izzy’s heart, and tucks his nose into Izzy’s neck.

Izzy smells like sweat and blood, which is expected. Like leather and sea salt and dark coffee, like himself, but there’s something else underneath all that, a scent Ed can’t place, at first. It’s mild, almost too mild amidst everything else, but also familiar; nutty and sweet, and immediately comforting.

Ed chases it, mouth open against Izzy’s clammy skin, until he’s half-draped over Izzy with his face well and truly hidden away. Letting his eyes flutter shut, Ed breathes slow and deep, a steady in and out, and tries to focus on the stuttering rise and fall of Izzy’s chest, silently counting his pained, raspy breaths.

Despite his earlier predictions, Ed finds himself lulled into a light doze with Izzy warm against him, the combination of sound and smell enough to quiet his mind. The last thing he remembers thinking about, before sleep does take him at last, is Stede carefully rubbing oatmilk salve into the irritated skin around the stab wound Ed had goaded him into giving him, way back when.

3

It takes weeks for Izzy to recover to a point where Ed starts to believe that he won’t suddenly fall over dead after all. But even when he’s back to bitching at everything and everyone under the sun—a good sign, for sure—he’s still too weak to stand or even sit up for long. It grates on him, Ed can tell, and he does feel for him, he really does, but Ed’s also never been known for his patience and—

The slam of the door isn’t nearly as satisfying as Ed had hoped it would be. Partially because Izzy can’t actually follow him, which is what usually happens when Ed storms off in a fit of entirely warranted pique, but mostly because it’s his own cabin he’s just argued his way out of.

Leaving him standing in the hallway, scowling down at his clenched fists, with both Izzy and Stede on the other side of the door.

“Fuck.”

“You got terrible bedside manner,” Fang pipes up from where he's coming down the stairs, making Ed yelp. Fang smiles apologetically. “Sorry, boss.”

“‘S fine,” Ed mumbles, then sighs, and makes an effort to relax his hands so he can rub them over his face. “He’s driving me fucking crazy, mate.”

“Not so different from his normal, then.” Ed snorts, acknowledging. “C’mon, boss, we’re about to have dinner. Maybe some stew will help settle your nerves.”

Ed does perk up, at that. “Roach’s goat stew?”

They’ve all just sat down around the big table in the galley with their bowls when a sudden hush falls over the crew. Ed ladles a spoonful of hot soup into his mouth before he looks up, and immediately regrets it when it ends up going down the wrong pipe at the sight of Izzy shuffling into the room.

Jim pats him on the back, radiating amusement, as Ed hacks up a lung.

Stede is following after Izzy, practically hovering, hands fluttering about nervously, like he’s thinking about putting them on Izzy’s sides or back. Ed’s grown frustratingly acquainted with the feeling over the last few days. He’s learned better, though, after the dozenth time Izzy’d nearly bitten his head off about the whole thing.

Little prick.

Izzy’s progress is halting, his brow sweaty and his jaw clenched in pain, but everyone knows better than to offer help or assistance. Well, Ed amends, wincing when Izzy’s wooden leg catches on an uneven floorboard, everyone but Stede, apparently.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, man,” Stede tuts at Izzy, and actually does grab one of Izzy’s hands to firmly place it on his own arm, “you’re being absolutely impossible, Israel.”

Wee John’s eyebrows have vanished somewhere up in his hair, they’ve shot up so high. Frenchie’s got a hand clasped over his mouth. Lucius is watching the whole scene unfold in obvious, fascinated glee, because, well. He’s Lucius.

And Ed waits, gaze flickering back and forth between Stede and Izzy’s faces, ready to intervene in case of sudden violence. Because Izzy does look like he’s about to reach for one of the daggers he’s undoubtedly got stashed somewhere on his person, even out of his leathers, but then Stede nudges him, gently, towards the table, and Izzy blows out a frustrated breath, and that’s that.

Just like that.

Stede manoeuvres Izzy onto the bench next to Ed, and Ed refuses to react when Izzy uses his free hand to brace himself on Ed’s shoulder. He stays perfectly still, barely dares to breathe until Izzy’s settled, panting faintly from the exertion. Stede takes a seat on Izzy’s other side, entirely oblivious to the way everyone’s doing a shit job of not staring at the three of them too openly.

It’s Roach who breaks the tension, by plopping two more bowls down on the table. Stede beams up at him, and slowly, the conversation around them picks up again.

Ed glares into his stew.

“The fuck’s the food done to you?” Izzy mutters, accidentally on purpose kicking at Ed’s leg under the table. But then he starts fishing chunks of meat out of his bowl, moving them over to Ed’s, and Ed huffs, starts picking the carrots out of his bowl to dump them into Izzy’s.

It’s—whatever.

4

“—is rather—ow, that really does sting, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t fucking say.”

“Well, excuse me, this is my first time, you know—”

“Never would’ve guessed.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Rude.”

They’re out in the open, so it isn’t really eavesdropping, is it? Sure, Stede and Izzy haven’t noticed Ed coming up from below deck, but if they’d wanted whatever they’re doing to remain private, they should’ve taken it to one of their cabins.

Or, actually, wait.

What the fuck are they doing?

Ed creeps closer to where Stede’s perched on the stairs to the quarter deck, mysteriously shirtless. Izzy’s leaning in close, squinting, needle in hand. Next to his hip sits a bottle of ink, and there’s a damp, dark-stained cloth draped over his knee.

As Ed watches, Izzy brings the needle back to Stede’s skin, brows furrowed in concentration. Stede grunts, clearly uncomfortable, which has Izzy pause and glance up at him. “All right?”

Stede smiles, somewhat strained but genuine. “Keep going,” he insists, but then immediately follows that with a somewhat whiney, “We’re almost done, right?”

Izzy huffs out a quiet little laugh. “Just about, yeah.”

True to his word, it doesn’t take more than another few minutes until Izzy puts the needle aside in favour of the cloth. He wipes it over Stede’s pec, making Stede hiss and reach up towards the freshly inked skin.

Izzy slaps his hand away. “No.”

Stede’s mouth purses into a pout. “It itches.”

“Gonna be doing that for a couple weeks,” Izzy informs him, and rolls his eyes when Stede sighs dramatically. “It’s a scratch wound, Bonnet. The fuck did you expect?”

But even as he’s scolding Stede—and batting his curious fingers away again—he keeps cleaning around the tattoo, wiping away blood and ink. Once he’s satisfied, he leans back, observing his work with a small, proud smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It’s deserved, Ed knows, even without having seen the design. Izzy’s a perfectionist bastard, in this as much as anything, and there’s absolutely no doubt in Ed’s mind that the tattoo’s turned out impeccable. In fact, Ed’s fairly sure he’s got the only shitty tattoos Izzy’s ever done inked into his own skin, done in dim candlelight in their tiny bunk back on Hornigold’s ship, half a bottle deep into cheap rum with Ed perched in Izzy’s lap, wheedling until Izzy’d relented with a muttered, slightly slurred, “You realise I’ve never done this before, you twat, yeah?”

Absently, Ed rubs a finger over the wobbly, crooked stars above his knuckles.

Then, before either Stede or Izzy do spot him, after all, Ed turns around and heads back to the Captain’s quarters. He doesn’t realise he’s shaking until he’s struggling with getting out of his jacket, fumbling with the clasps and straps. Frustrated, he abandons the task of undressing, and flops down on the bed fully clothed instead, pushing his face into the pillows.

The lighthouse is indeed beautiful, when Stede excitedly shows it to him that night, and Ed does get a little choked up about his initials cleverly hidden in a suspiciously heart-shaped rock at the bottom of the tower. It’s romantic as fuck, and Ed loves the gesture, loves Stede so damn much, he can’t do anything but kiss him silly about the whole thing.

5

The crew’s in a spectacular mood, as they fucking should be.

The Revenge is tied to Zheng’s new ship, gangplanks connecting the two, with people hurrying back and forth between the vessels as they set up for a well-earned celebration. Black Pete nearly stumbles into the sea under the bulk of the paper garlands he’s carrying, Archie and Jim have vanished somewhere in the rigging to hang up lanterns—or make out in peace, more likely—and Lucius is laying out cushions on the deck, Olu trailing after him with his arms full of fuzzy blankets.

From up in the crow’s nest, a disturbingly humanlike seagull is watching the proceedings with interest.

And a good hundred yards off, far enough away that the wind won’t carry over any sparks or embers, the Navy frigate is burning brightly in the night, and with it Richard fucking Banes’ corpse.

Ed is at peace with it.

Content with the fact that Izzy got to be the one to do the deed, in the end, in an appropriately Izzy fashion.

Stede had wrinkled his nose at the gory nature of it, though he’d been entirely sincere when he’d proclaimed, “Good riddance.”

Ed agrees.

Good fucking riddance, indeed.

Leaning on the helm, Ed’s got the perfect vantage point when the two men in question appear on the main deck, Stede in an entirely fresh set of clothes, and Izzy washed up at least, his vest missing and the sleeves of his shirt pushed back. He looks lighter than Ed’s seen him in years, like some invisible weight’s been lifted from his shoulders, younger and just plain happier.

He’s smiling indulgently at whatever Stede’s gesturing at him about, letting him ramble as they make their way toward the tables that have been set up. He mutters something undoubtedly bitchy, going by the satisfied crinkling of his eyes, and Stede throws his head back with a laugh, nudging their shoulders together.

Izzy elbows him, which has Stede throw an arm around his shoulders to pull him in close again, grinning down at him giddily. He says something else, and Izzy barely has time to start rolling his eyes before Stede’s turned and pulled him into a hug.

It looks awkward, even from a distance.

Only for a moment, however, before Izzy’s stiff posture loosens. He doesn’t hug back, not really, but he does give Stede’s side a brief pat, and he drops his forehead against Stede’s shoulder for a long moment before he steps back.

Stede’s still smiling at him.

Izzy smiles back.

+1

“Are you fucking him?”

Ed doesn’t know what he’s more shocked about; the threat in his own voice, or the fact that he’s growling it at Stede. It’s nearly enough to snap him out of his rapidly growing rage, to stop his furious stalk across the cabin, but then Izzy moves to step in front of Stede, putting himself between Ed and Stede, and Ed sees red.

Not metaphorically, either, but literally. His vision grows hazy and blurry around the edges, and he feels like he’s about to boil over, to lose his tentative hold over his anger and—

“Don’t be a fucking dick.”

Ed’s gaze zeroes in on Izzy, who’s got one hand on Stede’s chest, a silent appeal to stay back, and the other held up towards Ed, palm out, unthreatening. “You need to calm the fuck down, Edward. You know he’s not. You know that.”

And Ed would know it, if he were thinking rationally. Would know that Izzy’s half naked because Stede’s been helping him with the oil that’s supposed to be good for his still healing muscles, the vial’s right there on the chaise, but that doesn’t actually make anything better, does it, because Izzy’s still half naked, and Stede’s hands had still been all over Izzy’s skin when Ed had walked in, and it’s not the first time, either, he’s had to watch them grow closer and closer and—

“Ed, darling.” Ed does deflate somewhat at the sound of Stede’s voice. There’s no anger in it, but the faint, sad disappointment is almost worse, makes Ed want to curl in on himself a little bit. “What is it you’re upset about, love?”

Ed licks his lips. Considers his words carefully, but doesn’t say any of them, instead blurts out, a quick snarl, “He’s supposed to be mine!”

There’s a moment of tense, suffocating silence before Stede admonishes, “He’s not a possession, Edward,” at the same time as Izzy says, as if it’s the most commonly known thing in the world, “I am, Eddie.”

Stede looks mildly disapproving. “Izzy—”

“Why do you think I’m still here, hm?” Izzy interrupts, brows raised at Ed. “Why do you think I’ve stayed, all this time? After all the terrible, shitty fucking things we’ve put each other through?”

Ed’s swallows hard, throat tight. “Izzy,” he rasps, and when he holds out a trembling hand, Izzy takes it without hesitation, squeezing it between both of his. “Iz.”

Izzy shrugs one shoulder, mouth quirking into a tiny, lovely smile, one Ed hasn’t been privy to in way too fucking long. “It’s been you and me for thirty fucking years, you daft twat. You and me, Eddie. ‘Course I’m fucking yours, always have been.”

“Izzy,” Stede says, again, but different this time. Softer, but also knowing. Izzy glances back at him, and they share a look Ed can’t read, but before Ed gets the chance to figure out if he’s pissed about that, too, Izzy tugs at their joint hands, Ed takes a stumbling step forward, Izzy tilts up his head, and then they’re kissing.

It’s familiar, because it’s Izzy.

And it’s entirely new, because it’s soft, gentle, loving, like they’ve never known how to be with each other, before.

Ed shudders into the contact, tangles his free hand in Izzy’s hair, and presses closer until their faces are smooshed together uncomfortably, noses digging into cheeks and beards scratching lips. Izzy’s face is wet, or maybe, probably it’s Ed’s, but Ed doesn’t give a shit.

He keeps kissing Izzy, breathing him in, holding him close.

Never fucking letting him go again.

Ever.

He does blink open one eye, though, when Izzy makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat. Then he pulls back, just enough to see Stede, who’s moved up right into Izzy’s space, just shy of being flush against his back, hands on Izzy’s shoulders.

Ed blinks at Izzy. Izzy huffs back at Ed.

“Yeah,” Ed says, and Izzy says, “Yes,” and Stede beams, bright as the fucking sun, and closes the final distance between them, crushing Izzy between himself and Ed, arms around the both of them.

Izzy doesn’t seem to mind.

Ed fucking loves it.

Loves them.

He lets his eyes flutter shut again, curls one hand over Stede’s hip, and buries his face in Izzy’s throat.

Yes, he thinks, as sure as he’s ever been of anything, this.