#;; ough... i told myself I'll be able to write this month

[oletus-manors-log]

Writer's block sucks ;;;

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

I'm loving all your wonderful fics. If you are still interested in prompts, would you consider one that relates to your recent sick fic: Ed telling Stede about the past situation where he had to juggle leading his crew through a storm while stitching himself up?

Ough yes good prompt!! This one made me sad, I love it.

Send me a prompt and I'll write a 1k word fic! (still accepting prompts btw, can't promise I'll get to all of them but if I'm inspired I'm doing it!)

--

Ed told the story like he thought it was supposed to be funny.

“So there we are,” he said, leaning over the dinner table. They’d just finished eating, and Ed had lit his pipe, and yeah, at first, the story had been fun. “Now, remember, I’ve been a captain for all of-”

“Three months,” Stede nodded, demonstrating his active listening to Ed’s story.

“Three months,” Ed repeated. “Maybe ninety days strung together, right? I’m barely twenty-five. Barely even had Blackbeard’s black beard. Mostly just a scraggly thing stuck to my chin. And that raid fuckin’ rung me out. But I made it! Not a single casualty on my crew, not one.”

“Bet the other crew couldn’t say the same,” Stede laughed, and Ed laughed with him, and Stede was dreamily thinking about how Ed must have looked, so young but already so brilliant, so confident, so-

“But I didn’t know then what I know now,” Ed went on, taking a couple puffs from his pipe. “And I didn’t notice my helmsman pointing us right into the squall. Barely had time to get away from the ship we’d been scrapping with before we hit it, head-on.”

Stede shivered. Ed’s storytelling voice never failed to capture his attention.

“And, remember,” Ed continued, “I’m trying to hide that I’m bleeding all over the fuckin’ place.”

“Wait,” Stede interrupted, raising a hand before Ed could continue. “Bleeding?”

“Well, yeah, I told you the raid rung me out pretty good,” Ed shrugged. “I’d been so busy watching what my crew were doing I was hardly paying attention to myself. Reckon I still - yeah, look.”

Ed adjusted in his seat, hitching up his shirt and pulling the waistband of his pants down with his thumb, running his finger along the faded, jagged scar that ran from right under his ribs to to the top of his hip. 

“Got me pretty good,” Ed said with a chuckle.

Stede kissed his fingers, then reached out to press them to the old scar, and Ed covered Stede’s hand with his own to keep it there.

“What did you do?” Stede asked.

“What I had to,” Ed said, pulling his shirt back down, taking another puff of his pipe, and getting right back into his storytelling voice. “I’d been thinking I needed to go and stitch myself up, right? But by the time we’re in it, rain’s already coming down in sheets, and this crew is still new to my ship, and they’re new to me, and I’m new to them. So I tied myself to the wheel, and-”

Stede felt his eyes get wider and the pain in his chest get deeper as Ed went on with the story, telling Stede about how he’d tied himself to the wheel to avoid sliding right off, shouting orders to his crew, yelling at his first mate to take some younger sailors who were panicking below decks before they got everyone killed.

He told him about how he’d only stopped once he was starting to get dizzy from how much he was bleeding. He’d made up some excuse to run below decks, grab a sewing needle, and get about halfway through sewing himself up before someone called for him.

He told him how he’d had to cling to the railing for dear life because his legs were so shaky.

He’d tied a scrap of canvas, torn from a sail by the winds, around his middle to try and control the bleeding.

By the time he’d been able to finish stitching himself back up, he said, laughing like it was just some slight misfortune, he’d been so weak he’d tied himself to the wheel again, just to stay upright. It had been hours after that until he’d been able to sit down.

And Ed must have realized, finally, Stede didn’t think this story was as fun as he did, because he was frowning, by then. “Pretty cool, right? Tell ya, I was a tough little fucker.”

“How are you laughing at this?” Stede finally managed to ask.

Ed looked surprised. “I mean, if you can’t laugh, what can you do?”

Stede pursed his lips. “Why didn’t you get help?”

Ed blinked.

“Couldn’t,” he said, like it was obvious. “Told you, I was young, most of these guys were twice my age. Any weakness and…y’know.”

Stede swallowed, imagining it. Ed gritting his teeth through the pain, afraid to let anyone see. Slipping on the deck, unsure if it was the rain or his own blood wetting the boards. Hinging his bets on a scrap of canvas tied around his waist.

“Hey, Stede, babe!” Ed snuffed out his pipe and reached across the table, taking one of Stede’s hands to press to his own chest, so Stede could feel the steady heartbeat beneath his palm. “I’m alright, see? I’m right here.”

Stede clenched his fingers in Ed’s shirt. “You know,” he said, “that you can come to me if you need anything? Anything at all? You know that, right?”

“Yeah, of course I know that.” When Stede cupped Ed’s face in his hand, Ed’s hand came up to cover his, nuzzling his face into his palm. “I know I’m safe with you.”

And Stede wished he could go back, to save Ed from all that pain, but - he could be there for him now, and that would have to be enough.

A few days later, while working on repairing a section of their roof, Ed hit his thumb with a hammer.

It was a tiny injury. Barely anything at all, especially not compared to that story.

But Ed came down to find Stede, working on the walls, and he showed him his bruised, sore thumb.

“Kiss it better?” Ed asked.

Stede obliged happily, of course, and Ed might’ve looked sheepish at first, but soon he was soaking up the attention. Stede couldn’t go back and fix everything, couldn’t save Ed from any pain, but he could help him feel safe now - and that was enough.