#but deleted because I realized reposting without permission was SUPER shitty of me

[leupagus]

Anything involving Mary meeting Ed. I am but a weak Claudia O'Doherty fan.

Inspired by this glorious artwork:

If really pressed to think on it, Doug probably would have admitted that he considered Stede Bonnet a bit mad. In a genteel sort of way, although he'd never quite understood the chatter in town about how Stede was harmless. Sometimes Doug fancied he could still feel the bite of metal against his neck, Stede hissing down at him with the blank fury of someone who could do something very rash indeed.

The first time Stede died, Doug had rather thought that Mary and the children were avoiding his name as if they might summon him back into their lives, the way his grandmother never spoke of sea-monsters while his grandfather was out on the water. Which had given Doug a rather bleak view of what kind of husband and father Stede might have been, though it turned out that their misery was more akin to a canvas stretched badly on a frame unsuited to bear its tension; you could paint what you liked on its surface, but the picture itself would never hold fast.

But when Stede had died again, riding off with nothing more than half of Alma's orange, the remains of his family mentioned him freely, even fondly; his penchant for storytelling that would often give Louis nightmares and give Alma ideas; his high clear voice that would lead them in song at church, sometimes warbling a bit to make the children giggle when the service dragged on; his fumbling kindness that they knew was borne of love, but a stifled, miserable sort that could never find the right words. A dreamer, longing for something over the horizon, but anchored to a place that he could never call home.

So, yes, a bit mad, to want to leave Mary and Alma and Louis for the sea; but Doug wanted to leave his studio and his work for Mary and Alma and Louis, so perhaps all men were mad, in the end.

Then Doug realized what madness truly looked like.

"You would think, wouldn't you," said Edward "Blackbeard" Teach, terror of the West Indies, brigand and murderer, wanted by every navy in the civilized world, "You would think that the bastard would have the, the, the guts to sit down and tell you what he's feeling, wouldn't you?" He slammed his hand on the table, making his empty glass jump and tumble sideways. “Be a bit fucking emotionally available!”

"You would!" exclaimed Mary, righting and refilling it with whatever vile liquid was in that bottle Blackbeard had brought with him. One of the bottles, at least — Blackbeard had brought a lot of bottles, when he'd washed up at the Bonnet estate a few hours ago, a muddled mess of black leather and ash and hair, demanding to be taken to Stede Bonnet's grave so he could piss on it.

"Or cry, that's still possible," he'd admitted, swaying slightly on Mary's doorstep. Doug and Mary had reached out to catch him — but Stede, hurrying up from God only knew where, had beaten them to it.

"You can cry or relieve yourself on it if you like, but I’d rather you didn’t vomit on it," he'd huffed, slinging Blackbeard's arm around his shoulder with the ease of what looked like long practice. "Mary, my apologies for this, but he really kept insisting that he'd only forgive my corpse, and I thought this might be a good compromise."

"I've done the first two myself," Mary had said, holding the door open. “Haven’t tried the vomiting, though. Might help.”

Blackbeard had squinted muzzily at her. "I love you," he said, with the air of someone making a profound discovery.

Now, Stede and Doug were banished to the parlor while Blackbeard and Mary shouted gleefully at each other in the salon, though occasionally Doug peered through the doorway to see how things were progressing. There hadn't been any talk of going out to the gravesite yet, at least, and no one had vomited or relieved themselves. There had been a bit of crying.

"I'm sure Mary's just humoring him," Doug told Stede, wondering if he should pat him on the back. Blackbeard was roaring something about Stede's huge...solutions, or something.

Stede sighed, clutching at the tray of water glasses. “No, no,” he said, “I deserve this.” And in a show of bravery fit to rival any of the stories he’d told of derring-do on the high seas, he lifted his chin and said, “Refreshments, anyone?” as he ventured into the salon.