Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blackbeard, it was widely accepted, was one of the best thieves in the world. More prolific than Frank Abagnale, more elusive than D.B. Cooper, and as clever as he was ruthless, he was famous as much for his methods–which trended toward the quick, violent, and brutally effective–as he was for the wide variety of jobs that he’d pulled off. Robbed a casino, stolen art from the Louvre, robbed seven banks at once–you name it, he’d done it.

First-hand accounts of Blackbeard varied. Some said Blackbeard was tall, some said short. Some claimed that Blackbeard was actually a woman. Some said he was brown and covered in tattoos, others said he was sallow-skinned and pale. Some even described him as a phantom wreathed in smoke, with glowing, coal-red eyes.

All the accounts agreed on one thing, however: the beard.

“It’s big, and black, and super bushy, and it hides his face so well that security cameras can never get a good picture of him. That’s why they haven’t caught him yet,” said Pete, who claimed that he’d worked with Blackbeard on countless different heists, and who might have even been telling the truth about one or two of them.

“Wow,” Stede breathed. “Did you hear that, guys? Should I grow a beard, d’you think?”

The assembled crew gave a variety of halfhearted responses. Jim, who was seated with their boots up on the coffee table while they sharpened their knives, merely shrugged. Lucius grimaced. Frenchie had his cat-eared headphones on, as he typed something on his laptop, and either he couldn't hear the question, or he pretended not to. The rest of the crew looked uncomfortably around the plush and comfortable lounge, like they’d rather be anywhere else.

“Oh, come on, guys!” Stede exclaimed. “I think I’d look rather dashing in a beard!”

“You’d look pretty dashing, boss,” Pete said.

“Thank you, Pete.”

“You wouldn’t be as intimidating as Blackbeard, though. Just the rumor that he’s coming is enough that museums will pull all the art they have on display, if they hear about it.”

“Goodness,” said Stede, “That is quite the reputation!" It was almost too much for any one man. Blackbeard must live for the thrill of the crime, Stede thought dreamily, must live for the big, flashy, reckless game of it.

“Yeah, I mean he’s Blackbeard,” said Pete, like that was obvious. “He’s the most famous thief in the whole world, probably.”

This was all only half true, but Stede didn’t know that yet.

What he did know was that he was more enraptured with the idea of Blackbeard than he’d ever been with anything else in his life.

Sure, he’d watched To Catch a Thief, and he’d read The Thomas Crown Affair, and he’d made a scrapbook out of clippings about the Gardner Museum Heist, and he’d quite annoyed his ex-wife by “playing thieves” with the children–but that was all behind him now, and what mattered was becoming a world-famous Gentleman Thief, just like Blackbeard.

"You know, boss," said Oluande, "word is, Blackbeard's in London right now."

"London?" Stede perked up. "We're not far from London. Do you think Blackbeard would like to meet up? Plan some co-robbery?”

Once again, the crew shifted around noncommittally.

Frenchie proved that he had in fact been listening the whole time by pulling down his headphones and saying, “Don’t take this the wrong way, it’s just that you’re so new at this, and Blackbeard is a world-famous thief.”

Stede scoffed. “Well, we have a world-class thief on our crew, don’t we? Look at the Swede! He’s wanted by Interpol!”

“That’s true!” the Swede put in. “They want their orange back.”

“Yeah…” Frenchie trailed off. It was clear from the look on his face that he lacked confidence in their crew. Stede would have to inject some confidence of his own.

"If ye want to make a contact in London, ye want Jackie’s Bar," Mr. Buttons said wisely. "It's the best thief bar in the city."

"Oh no," said Olu. "No, er, didn't they close?"

"I didnae think so."

"No, I thought they sold out. Got gentrified.”

"They're still open," Jim said. Their boots hit the ground. "We should go."

While Olu mouthed wordlessly at them, Stede's mind was made up. A trip to a thief bar! It would be the perfect bonding experience for the new and uncertain crew. “Lucius! Come with me. I have something very special in mind. We’re going shopping!”

He pretended not to hear as Lucius hid his face behind the pages of his sketchbook and muttered “fuuuuck.”

Meanwhile, the famous Blackbeard–or rather, Edward Teach–was staring discontentedly into the bottom of an empty milk jug, standing in front of the open fridge.

“Izzy!” he shouted. “Izzy! We’re out of milk.”

“Fuck do you want me to do about it?” Izzy asked, disgruntled. “Put it on the shopping list."

Ed stuck his head out the kitchen door to cast puppy dog eyes at him. “How am I supposed to drink my tea without milk in it?”

Izzy was sat at the table, focused on the same museum floor plans that they’d been staring at for the past four hours straight. “Drink it black like a normal person,” he grunted. There was an empty coffee cup at his elbow, and deep bags under his eyes, and his graying hair, usually neat, was falling into his face.

"Izzy…"

"No."

"Izzyyyy…"

“This is important, Edward,” Izzy said. “We’ve got to figure out this security camera set up so we can tell the boys where to park the lorry.”

“Please?” Ed tried. His partner in crime–and a little more, now and again–looked up and finally caught the pleading look that Ed was sending him, and rolled his eyes.

“You fucking twat,” he grumbled, dropping the plans. He picked up his keys from the hook on the wall and cast about the entryway of their shitty little flat. “Where the fuck are my shoes.”

Izzy was on his way back to the flat with a carton of milk and a pack of cigarettes when he saw a commotion on the sidewalk ahead. Some idiot had upended a whole shopping bag full of clothes all over the sidewalk. Flashy jewelry, shoes, brightly colored clothes–everything rolled and tumbled merrily across the busy sidewalk, forcing the stream of pedestrians to divert and go around. Some pieces rolled threateningly towards the busy road.

The Idiot–a blond, middle-aged man wearing a cream-colored silk suit over a fucking powder-blue turtleneck of all things–was dancing around, gathering up fallen merchandise in his arms. “Oh! Lucius! Don’t let anything get stepped on. We need to make a good impression.” He seemed to be speaking to a younger man, who was standing by, dutifully holding his own armful of bags and packages. A personal assistant, maybe? The turtleneck-wearing ponce had the look of some rich twat getting ready for some fancy outing, maybe a party or a gala. Izzy looked him over more carefully. The cut of his suit said tailored, not rack-fit, and the clothes on the ground sported price tags from a variety of small and expensive boutiques. This man was somebody who knew about clothes, then, and he certainly had the money to buy them.

Could be an easy mark.

Izzy walked with the crowd of passers-by for a few paces, but instead of passing reluctantly around the two men, Izzy made straight for them, taking care not to step on their massive pile of fallen clothing. He’d just about made it when the Idiot dropped a shiny silver scarf on the ground right in front of him, and, as the man turned to pick it up, they came face-to-face.

“Excuse me,” the Idiot said, affronted. “Could you please go around? I’m afraid we’re having a bit of a fashion emergency here, if you catch my meaning.”

Izzy sneered. “Of course.” He brushed past the Idiot, reaching into his pocket as he did so and pulling out a slim wallet. He walked on a few paces more before flipping the wallet open and looking inside. The ID read Stede Bonnet.

Well. He didn’t recognize the surname, but he could look him up once he got home, see if the Idiot himself or whoever it was holding the party he was going to had anything worth stealing.

“Um, Stede?” he heard a voice from behind him speak. “That man just stole your wallet.”

What the fuck? Who the fuck had seen that? How the fuck had they seen that? Izzy dropped his hand to his side, casually letting the wallet fall into his shopping bag as he picked up his pace, walking determinedly for the alley that ran behind the butcher’s and the swanky dry cleaning service.

He heard shouting, and confusion, and he ducked into the alley ready to run. He didn’t get the chance, however; there were footsteps right behind him. He spun around and raised an elbow up, driving his opponent into the brick wall, and sliding a knife out of his pocket with the other hand and pressing it to the man’s stomach.

It was the Idiot, Stede Bonnet. “Turn around and walk back,” Izzy growled.

Stede Bonnet, in a truly baffling turn of events, fucking smiled at him. “Oh, I think not,” he said. “You have something of mine, and I would like it back, please.”

“Walk away or get cut,” Izzy said. Bonnet started to move, and so Izzy slid the knife up, slicing cleanly through the blue turtleneck without touching the man’s skin. He left the knife nestled softly against Bonnet’s throat. “This is your warning.”

The shirt draped open, revealing a plump and well-muscled chest. Bonnet stilled and put up his hands.

“Don’t fucking do that,” Izzy said, conscious of how the scene would look if anyone passed by. He pushed Bonnet away, keeping the knife handy and half-hidden at his side. “Run.”

Bonnet was sure to run straight to the police, but Izzy could probably cut through the alleys and make it home before he raised the alarm. So much for the idea about sneaking into his party. He wondered if Bonnet could give a fair description of him to the police. All his tattoos were currently covered by his long sleeves and the collar of his shirt–except for the tiny X on his cheek.

Bonnet didn’t run. He didn’t go anywhere. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own knife, looking smug, as from the other end of the alley, the younger man who had been with him ran up, puffing.

“I was a pickpocket for a hot minute,” the younger man panted. “You’re good.”

Bonnet brandished his knife at Izzy, swinging his arm around wildly like someone with absolutely no training–that made him easy to hit, but hard to predict. “Give us back the wallet, and we won’t call the police.”

Stede Bonnet continued to surprise.

Izzy weighed his options. He'd won fights with worse odds before. Both men were bigger than him, but that didn't mean much. Bonnet clearly wasn't a fighter, though the Personal Assistant was a wild card, and every second they were here was another chance that a witness would round the corner and catch them.

"Fine." He reached slowly into the bag, telegraphing his movements carefully, and pulled out the wallet, handing it back to its owner.

"Thanks," said Bonnet, rifling through the wallet as if to check it was all still there. He pulled out a fifty pound bank note and handed it to Izzy. "For your trouble," he said cheerfully, and then called, "Come on, Lucius," and walked back the way he came.

He turned back at the corner of the street. “Oh, and by the way, let me know if you ever want to do this again. To be honest, I’ve kind of enjoyed it. We’ll be at Jackie's Bar tomorrow night. Just ask for the Gentleman Thief!

The younger man, Lucius, muttered something that Izzy half caught like, “Stede, don’t tell him where we…” They turned the corner and were gone.

"What the fuck?" Izzy said aloud to the empty alleyway.

It took Izzy longer than it should have done to pop down the shop and come back. Ed spent the time lying back across the sofa, smoking lazily and watching the smoke curl as it drifted up toward the ceiling. Some days, when it felt like everything was just a gray drag of more of the same, this was the only break he got from the monotony. Ordering Izzy around was the only interesting thing there was to do, besides trying to predict what shapes the smoke would make as it left the tip of his cigarette, or listening to the buzzing static inside his own head.

Still, he worried about him.

When he finally heard the jingle of keys and the scrape of the door opening, he waited for the complaining to start about how long the lines at the shops had been, how many stupid pedestrians Izzy had encountered, the grumbly but affectionate here’s your milk you arsehole, but it didn’t come. He heard the door close and the bolt slide shut, heard a plastic bag rustle, and then the clatter of keys as Izzy fumbled them, then hung them on their hook by the door.

Something had him rattled. That was rare.

“Took you long enough,” he said vaguely to the ceiling.

“I went round the block a couple times before coming up. Ran into some trouble.”

There was a rustle from the bag, and then Izzy dropped the milk carton unceremoniously on top of Ed’s head. Ed sat up with a start.

“You won’t fucking believe this idiot I just met,” Izzy was saying. His hair was falling across his face, and his shirt and leather vest were disheveled. "Threatened me with a fucking knife." He ran his hands through his hair, agitated.

Ed listened with curiosity and concern that grew into genuine interest as Izzy went on about the strange encounter he’d had with Stede Bonnet.

“And then this fucking ponce,” Izzy went on heatedly, “had the fucking gall to tell me to meet him at Jackie’s bar, said he was calling himself the Gentleman Thief. Who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Iz,” Ed interrupted. “We’re going.”

“What?” Izzy did a double take. “Oh, Ed, you're not serious, are you?”

"Definitely serious. Serious as anything. This is my serious face." He pointed to his own face to demonstrate.

"Do I have to go? The man almost knifed me."

“Of course, Iz. I need you to do the introductions."

“Can’t you just leave it alone?” Izzy said hopelessly.

And miss out on the only exciting thing that had happened in the last month–the last year, maybe? Absolutely not.

Ed swung his legs off the sofa. “Get ready to drink like a pirate,” he grinned.

Izzy groaned. “God, I hate that place.”

Chapter Text

Jackie’s Bar, alternately known as Spanish Jackie’s, Jackie’s, the Republic of Pirates, or a half-dozen other less complimentary names, was small, dimly-lit, and bursting from floor to ceiling with tacky, pirate-themed decor. A curtain of plastic skulls rattled as Stede and crew walked through the door. A large anchor was embedded into the bar, and a wooden barrel held a sheaf of laminated drink menus advertising such cocktails as “Pirate Punch,” “The Tropical Storm,” “The Shipwrecked Sailor,” and something simply and ominously called, “The Revenge.”

“This looks totally undrinkable,” said Lucius, skimming through the menu. “Olu, you used to work here. Is there anything here that won’t just give you an immediate hangover?”

“Shut up,” said Olu, who seemed to be trying to hide behind Wee John. “Please, just pretend I’m not here.”

Stede was enraptured. He was the only thing that was dressed, perhaps, more gaudily than the bar itself. He wore a gold and white brocade suit jacket, with white trousers and a white shirt, a white cravat tied jauntily around his neck. “Wow!” he exclaimed, “what a fun theme! I like the commitment.”

“Stede,” Lucius tried, “don’t you think we’re a bit overdressed?” He had escaped with only a white shirt, white trousers, and a silver scarf. The rest of the crew were dressed more plainly, but Stede had gotten to them as well, and they were all uncomfortably sporting his accessories, except for Jim, who had flatly refused.

“Nonsense,” said Stede. “There’s no such thing as being overdressed.”

“Yeah, but we look like we’re going to a wedding,” Lucius hissed.

“It’s a power move,” Stede said breezily. “Oh, bartender! Bring me a glass of your finest red wine.”

“We don’t have wine,” said the bartender. “The drinks menu is right there.” He pointed at the laminated paper in Lucius’s hand. Behind him, a tank of live lobsters crawled over each other and snapped their claws ominously.

“You don’t have wine?” Stede echoed, aghast. “Not even a cabernet sauvignon? A nice merlot?”

“The drinks menu–” the bartender started again.

“Is in my hand. Thanks,” Lucius gave him a forced smile. “What’ll you have, boss? The Pirate Punch?”

Stede read over the menu, frowning. “Mr. Bartender–”

“Geraldo.” The bartender pointed. “It’s on my name tag.”

“Mr. Geraldo,” Stede smiled. “Let it be known that the Gentleman Thief will drink one ‘Hearrrrty Flagon’ of your finest Pirate Punch, please.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

A few seats down, a man’s head had suddenly turned. He was handsome, with curly, silvering black hair and a bit of scruff around his jawline, and wore a black leather jacket and a deep purple t-shirt. Was he a fellow thief, perhaps? Stede wondered. He supposed it was as good a place to start networking as any.

The drink came with a large paper umbrella and an entire jelly creature floating sadly on top of the ice, which might have been meant to represent a parrot, or, with a little imagination, perhaps a sinking ship, or a shark attack. The melting red sugar certainly created a blood-like stain in the violently blue drink.

He sat down next to the handsome stranger. “Isn’t this festive?” he asked, twisting his glass so the colors caught in the light. “What do you think it looks more like, a parrot or a sinking ship?”

The man looked very carefully at his drink. “A sunset over the water,” he said confidently after a minute or two. “See, here, the blue’s a reflection of the sky, and the jelly’s the sun, leaving a fiery trail on the water. Just like San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk.” His voice was warm and husky, with a hint of a lilting New Zealand accent.

“Are you a fan of Monet?” Stede asked him excitedly.

“Yeah,” the man said, sounding surprised. “Well, I like the Water Lilies, anyhow. He’s a bit overrated, though. I prefer the Pre-Raphaelites over the Impressionists.”

“John William Waterhouse,” Stede said pensively. “You have good taste.” He considered the drink again. “Maybe it’s poor Hylas being drowned.”

“Poor Hylas,” the man snorted. “‘S what he gets for pining after the water nymphs when Heracles was right there.” His half-lidded eyes slyly found Stede’s. “Don’t you think?”

Stede felt himself blushing. “Oh! Well! I–ah,” he stammered. It was just like Romeo and Juliet, he suddenly thought, when the two eponymous lovers first met and fell at once into such perfect synchronization that their first conversation formed a perfect sonnet. My lips two blushing pilgrims stand. “Saints have hands, that pilgrims’ hands do touch,” he said nonsensically.

The man cocked his head to the side. “Which is Hylas, the saint or the pilgrim?” he asked.

Stede felt hot. “Excuse me,” he said, and stood up. Before the man could say another word, Stede was gone, rushing over to where the rest of the crew had commandeered a table.

“You guys! I need help! Immediately!”

“What needs doing, boss?” Pete asked. “Are you making contact with Blackbeard? Want a show of strength? I can rip someone’s head off, just say the word.”

“No, it’s not that! I am talking to a very attractive man,” Stede dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “And I think he might be picking up what I am putting down, if you know what I mean. I’ve never done this before! What do I do?”

“Oh, that’s excellent, boss.” said Frenchie while the other crew members cooed, interested. “Ask for his number!”

“Like with this?” Stede pulled his trusty flip phone.

“Oh, no,” said Wee John. “Not with that.”

“Absolutely not,” said Frenchie, taking the phone from his hand and flinging it into the lobster tank.

“Hey!”

“We’ll get you a new phone,” Frenchie said. “Don’t worry about it. In the meantime, ask him to write it on a napkin or something.”

“Anything’s better than that,” Lucius agreed.

“Do you have any more tips?” Stede asked anxiously. “I haven’t really…dated, you know, since my divorce…”

“Be confident,” Frenchie said. “But like, not too confidendent.”

“If you can undo just like one button, right at the top?” said John. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

“Just be yourself,” said Lucius.

“Why even bother with the flirting?” Jim said. “Just take him into the bathroom and fuck him.”

“Jim,” Lucius said, “I don’t think that’s the right advice for this particular situation.”

Jim shrugged. “Works for me.”

Olu seemed to inhale some of his drink.

Roach clapped him on the back. “Show him your knife collection,” he advised Stede. “Guys love knives.”

Jim said, “That’s true.”

“I don’t have a knife collection!” Stede fretted. “Why are you just telling me this now?”

While the crew counseled Stede on the intricacies of gay hookup culture, Izzy made his way over to Ed. “Have any luck finding this Gentleman Thief? Geraldo said he was here, somewhere.”

“Yeah,” said Ed, sipping his drink and watching the man in question, looking amused. “I’ve just been talking to him.”

Izzy followed his gaze. “That fucking twat,” he said. “Remind me again what we’re doing here?”

Ed willfully misinterpreted that request. “What you're doing is you're going to go over there and tell him I have a business proposition for him.”

“Oh, Edward,” Izzy groaned. “Really?”

“Really,” Ed said. “He knows about art. He’ll be a perfect fit for the gallery job. And who knows? He beat you in a back-alley brawl. Maybe he’ll even be useful. Might even have to keep him around.”

“He didn’t beat me,” Izzy said, going red in the face. “He just has no situational awareness or concern for getting caught. Completely unprofessional.”

“Whatever you say, Iz. Pip pip.” Ed nudged him on with his elbow.

Izzy growled under his breath, “shit fucking bitch of a–” and did as he was told.

“Stede Bonnet.”

Stede recognized the short, leather-vest-wearing man from the alleyway, though he had swapped out his long sleeves for a black t-shirt, and had neatened up his graying hair and his short beard. “Not now, whatever your name was.”

“Izzy,” the man growled.

“Not now, Iggy,” Stede said carelessly.

“It’s Izzy,” the man repeated dangerously. “I didn’t kill a man for this name just to let you get it wrong.”

Stede rolled his eyes. “Is it always the theatrics, with you? Out of my way, please, I have some serious wooing to do.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your love life,” Izzy said, getting right up in Stede’s face. “I have a proposition for you. My boss wants to hire you. God knows why. London Gallery. Are you in?”

“I don’t know how to say this any more clearly, Izzy,” Stede said, “but I’m not interested.”

“So I’ll just tell my boss you’re declining, then?”

“Yes,” said Stede emphatically. “Now please, kindly piss off.”

“Gladly,” Izzy smirked.

Stede did not have time for him. He needed to get back to the bar, to the mysterious and good-looking stranger and get his number while being confident, but not too confident, and keeping his shirt unbuttoned, and a million other things he was already struggling to keep straight in his mind. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing Izzy aside, but when he got back to the bar, the man was gone. There was just Stede’s own sad, melting drink, the top of which was slowly turning a brownish red.

“Damn!”

Ed was smoking on the sidewalk outside the bar when Izzy found him. “Well?”

“He said no.”

“What?!”

“He said no,” Izzy said, pulling a cigarette out of his own pocket and letting Ed light it for him. He ran his fingers over the tip, letting the burn prick him lightly before bringing it to his mouth. “Said to piss off, actually.”

“Did he know who I am?” Ed demanded.

“Seemed to, yeah,” Izzy lied. The guilt pricked him too, but he told himself it was for Ed’s own good that he keep Stede Bonnet out of the picture. The man was an idiot, take him on a job and he’d only be dead weight. Or worse, he’d get them all killed. “He said he wasn’t interested in collaborating.”

“Hmm,” said Ed meditatively. “Fascinating.” He had a certain light in his eye, a spark of excitement like the flame of a lighter, a flame that Izzy had come to know and to dread.

“What do you want to do, boss? Want me to kill him for the insult?”

“No, there's no need for that,” said Ed. “Not yet. I want you to wait here until he comes out. Follow him. Text me when you find out where he's hiding out, okay?”

“What are you gonna do?” asked Izzy warily.

Ed didn't answer. He dropped his cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out under his heel, leaving only the faint trace of glowing ashes in the air. “Text me when it's done,” he said, and turned with a toss of his mane of hair, and the shadows swallowed him.

“Fucking menace,” Izzy grumbled, settling into a dark corner to wait and leaning casually against the wall, and he wasn't sure whether he meant Bonnet or Edward.

Stede slumped back to the crew and sank dejectedly into a sparkly, blue, faintly sticky plastic chair at their table.

“How’d it go?” called Roach.

“It didn’t,” said Stede mournfully, stirring his drink with the paper umbrella.

“Oh, bad luck,” said Frenchie comfortingly.

“Remember, there are always other fish in the, well…” Lucius glanced around at the ocean-themed decor. “In the proverbial sea.”

“But I want my fish!” Stede exclaimed.

Meanwhile, the rest of the crew had been getting steadily drunk on the drink called The Revenge.

“Cheers, m’dears,” said John, coming back with another round for everyone.

“What’s in this stuff?” Jim asked loudly.

“I don’t know, it’s like, fruity, kind of?” said John.

“Olu?” Jim nudged him.

He jumped. He’d been fixated anxiously on the bar. “What?”

“What’s in the Revenge?”

“Oh. Um, I think it's rum, mostly.”

“Oluwande.”

Olu froze. Jim ducked out of sight under the table.

“Jackie would like a word,” the bartender, Geraldo, said.

“Yeah, sure. Tell her I’m free to–to talk to her, whenever–”

“In the back. Now,” said Geraldo, and Olu reluctantly got up and followed him into the back.

Jim popped back up as soon as he was gone. “Yikes,” they said.

“I just don’t see why I have to find another fish,” Stede was going on. “If I already found one fish that I liked, and we were really hitting it off!”

“What about that little angry fecker?” John asked. “Izzy? What did he want?”

“Oh, something about a job at the London Gallery.”

“Oh yeah? What are they stealing?”

“You know, I didn’t ask.” Stede sat up straighter, looking thoughtful. “What if we, you know, beat them to the punch? That would really show him, wouldn’t it?”

“Finally, some real thieving!” said Pete. “I’m in.”

“Can I bring my knives?” Roach asked.

“Of course,” Stede said. “The more knives, the merrier, I always say!”

“Excellent,” said Roach, rubbing his hands together.

“What do you think, Mr. Buttons?” Stede asked. “You’re the most experienced person on the team."

Buttons, several cups deep in the Revenge, was staring aimlessly at the lobster tank. “They long to be free,” he declared.

“What? The lobsters?” Stede said doubtfully. “Do you think so?”

“Oh, aye. They long for the sea.”

“...And does this have anything to do with–?”

“They do look a bit crowded,” Frenchie said. “Poor things.”

“How would you like to be all cooped up in a little cage all day?” John put in reasonably. “Just waitin’ to be picked off for supper?”

“Well, I suppose…”

“We should knock the tank over,” said Pete. “Set them loose all over everyone.”

Jim stood up. “I’ll do it. Olu’s been gone too long, and if I know Jackie, he could really use an exit right about now.”

“Wait, you know Jackie?” Frenchie asked.

“In a manner of speaking.” Jim drained their glass and set it down decisively, then swaggered up to the bar.

“Oh, dear,” said Stede, craning his neck to watch.

In the back room of Jackie’s bar, Olu was sweating.

“Bonafacia Jimenez,” Jackie growled. “That bitch stole my life. My love. My favorite husband–no offense,” she added.

“No, none taken,” said Geraldo.

“But before she skipped town–with you–she stole something else, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Olu laughed nervously. “What's that–”

“She stole my favorite painting. My husband loved that painting.”

“What painting was that?” said Olu, caught off guard.

“It was a painting of a pirate ship. He gifted it to me on our first anniversary. Used to have it hanging right over the bar.”

Olu struggled to pick out the painting in question from a plethora of other, similar pirate-themed items in his memory. “Oh, right. Jackie, that's awful. I had no idea–”

“But you know where she is, right?” Jackie said. “So you can get it back for me, and then I won't have to kill you.”

“Yeah, totally. Love that for me,” Olu said.

“Oh, you do know where she is?” said Jackie. “So you can tell me that, too?”

“No, I uh–I uh–Actually, I killed her,” Olu blurted. “But I know some places where she keeps–I mean, kept her loot. I can find the painting for you.”

“Good, good. It means a lot to me to hear that, Olu.”

Olu tried to smile. “I’m glad, yeah.”

There was a resounding crash from the restaurant floor, like breaking glass, then the sound of customers screaming. “What the sam hell?” Jackie said. She pointed at Oluwande. “Stay here. I'm not done with you yet.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She went out, calling, “What is going on–”

Olu was left alone with Geraldo and a painfully awkward silence. “So, how have things been going?” he tried.

“Oh, great, great. Business has been good, except, you know, for my metamor getting murdered by your friend.”

“Listen,” Olu said, “it's not really like that–”

He was saved from having to grovel further, because Geraldo let out a grunt, and suddenly collapsed, and Jim appeared out of nowhere behind him.

“Come on, let's go!” they said.

Olu hopped up, “Jim, did you kill him? Jackie's gonna be so pissed–”

“Nah, he'll be fine,” Jim said. “Just a little light stabbing. Vamos, let’s go.”

Outside, the place was in pandemonium. A wave of briny water had flooded the bar and was seeping out onto the floor, and people were yelling and standing on tables as a pack of wild lobsters swarmed free.

“I'll save ye!” shouted Buttons, wading into the sea and scooping live lobsters up in his arms.

“Let's go out the back,” said Jim.

“Get out,” Jackie was saying to Stede's intoxicated crew. “And never darken my doorstep again.”

“That's quite uncalled for,” Stede frowned.

“Now!” Jackie said, and the crew all piled, helter-skelter, out the door and onto the dark street.

Unnoticed in the confusion as Stede said, “Is everybody here? Are we missing anyone? Who knows when the next bus is? Olu? Where’s Jim and Oluwande?” and the crew cast about for phones and directions and Buttons shouted, “That’s what ye get for keepin’ a wild beast locked up!” a shadow detached itself from the wall and quietly followed them.

Chapter Text

Stede’s crew woke up the next morning hungover. Very literally–Stede found them draped over every available surface of the old country house he’d bought and converted into their base of operations. Frenchie and John and Roach were all sacked out over plush chairs and couches up in the lounge, Pete and Lucius had passed out under the nodding palm fronds in the conservatory, the Swede was curled up under the billiards table, and Oluwande and Jim seemed to be blearily waking up in the ballroom.

Stede walked into his bathroom and stopped short with a small scream that had half the crew by his side in a matter of seconds.

“What is it, boss?” Roach asked. Jim already had their knives handy. The question hardly needed answering though, and together they surveyed the scene in the bathroom.

“Mr. Buttons, why is there a lobster in my bathtub?” Stede asked.

Buttons, who Stede had for one horrible moment thought was dead and drowned face-down in the shallow bathwater, popped his head up. “This is Karl,” he said cheerfully. He was not wearing much in the way of clothes. That didn’t seem to bother him, nor did the fact he was on display in front of half the crew, and he sat up, cross-legged in the bath.

“And the rest of the lobsters…?” Stede hardly dared to guess what Buttons had done with them.

“Safely returned to the sea,” Buttons said. “Karl here wanted to stick around. See a little bit o’ the world.” He patted the lobster gently on the back of its shell, and Stede had to assume that the lobster wasn’t too unhappy, because its claws were mere inches from Buttons’ exposed fingers, and yet it wasn’t putting them to use.

“That’s good to hear,” Stede said. “Well, I’m sure you won’t mind moving Karl into a nice big tank or something so that I can take a bath?”

“Oh, no,” said Buttons firmly, shaking his head. “Karl’s been through quite the ordeal. He needs rest.”

“He’s got a point,” Frenchie said.

“It was a pretty wild night,” Jim said with a slow smile.

Roach clapped Stede on the back. “I think that Karl lives here now.”

“What? In my bathtub?” Stede cried. “You’re not serious, are you?”

They were.

“When I suggested the outing, I wanted the crew to bond,” he complained to Lucius, as Roach took to the kitchen to start frying up toast and eggs. “But I didn’t think they’d gang up on me!”

“God, now I know why it’s called the Revenge,” Lucius said, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I’m serious, Lucius!” Stede wrapped his yellow dressing gown more firmly around himself and allowed himself the luxury of a sulk. “I didn’t make contact with Blackbeard, I didn’t get the number of the one very nice man I was talking to, and now I can’t even take a bath–I’m a failure! The whole trip was a failure.”

Lucius sighed. “Look at the bright side,” he said.

“What bright side?”

“I don’t know. You’re supposed to find it. That’s how this works.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Lucius!” Stede opened his mouth, affronted, as Lucius walked wordlessly away from him and into the dining room, where Roach was serving up plates of eggs. His thoughts were diverted, however, as he followed him with his gaze. One by one, the crew were stumbling sleepily into the dining room. They sat down together, knocking elbows, laughing and joking about the night’s events. The image suddenly flashed before his eyes of the large, whitewashed, empty table he had used to share with Mary and the kids. This was quite different. Everyone was talking over each other, and there were no empty gaps, no awkward silences–it was packed full to bursting.

While he watched, Pete and the Swede nearly came to blows over the butter dish, and he felt he had better step in.

“Alright, alright! Share it, you can share it, remember? There’s plenty to go around.”

They subsided, seeming to relax at the reminder that there was enough for everyone, and as Roach brought in the next round of toast, Stede thought that maybe the night hadn’t been a complete waste after all.

“Oi, boss!” John called. “What about that gallery job we were talkin’ about?”

“The gallery job!” He had almost forgotten. “Right! We should make a plan for that, shouldn’t we?”

He made his way to his own chair and sat down, smiling as the eyes of the crew followed him and their overlapping voices immediately started making suggestions, or demanding to know what gallery and what was going on.

“One at a time!” he said. He picked up his knife and fork to cut into his eggs, and found he couldn’t move without knocking elbows with Buttons–fully clothed, at last–and Pete on the other side. He found this quite cheering. “To answer your questions, we are going to rob the London Gallery, as soon as we can. We’ve got to beat another team to the art! Now, who’s got an idea?” He smiled as the crew enthusiastically began discussing options.

“We could tunnel in from underground,” Pete said. “That’s what Blackbeard would do.”

“Or I could paint a forgery,” Lucius offered, “And we could sneak into the gallery when they go to put it on exhibit.

“Sounds time consuming,” Stede frowned. “I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a tight schedule. Thanks for the ideas, though.”

“We could just pick off the guards, one by one,” Jim said. They drew their finger across their throat. “Go in nice and quiet.”

“Nae, the roof is always the best way in,” Buttons said confidently.

Stede’s mind was filled with visions of himself, rappelling smoothly down from an open skylight. “Oh, the roof! Let's go with that!” he said.

“We’ll need blueprints,” said Buttons, and together, the crew began planning out how to rob the London Gallery.

As the crew cleaned up the breakfast table and got to work planning the heist, Olu grabbed Jim’s arm. “Hey, can I talk to you for a second.”

“Sure.” They followed him out to the hall. “What’s up?”

“We have a big problem. Did you steal a painting from Jackie’s, before we went on the run?”

“Oh, yeah.” They laughed. “Wait, why is that a problem?”

“Because Jackie wants it back, and she thinks I can get it for her!”

Jim did not look sufficiently dismayed by this news.

“This is bad, Jim!”

Jim said, “Why? Who cares if Jackie’s mad at me. She’ll never recognize me, now that I’ve transitioned.”

“It’s not you she’s gonna be mad at! I told her you’re dead. But if I don’t come up with the painting, she’s gonna come after me, if she doesn’t already since you stabbed another one of her husbands!”

Jim shrugged. “She hasn’t caught up with us yet. If she does, I’ll just stab her.”

“Jim, that’s not a plan!” Olu smoothed down his orange beanie, thinking. “Tell me you at least still have the painting.”

“What? No way,” Jim said. “We’re not giving it back.”

“Why not?”

“Ese pendejo killed my family. That painting is mine.”

“But you do still have it?”

“No,” they said unconvincingly.

“Jim, you’re obviously lying.”

“Who cares? It’s my painting,” they said. They were coiled tight and spring-loaded like an unhappy cat.

“Why is it so important?” he asked.

“Olu?” Stede shouted from the other room.

“Yeah, coming. Just a minute,” he called back, and when he turned around, Jim was gone.

Ed didn’t get back in until nearly morning. After tailing Stede Bonnet and co. back to their old country house, texting Ed the address, and making it all the way back home on the bus, Izzy had given up waiting up for him and just gone the fuck to bed, dozing lightly and listening for the door, and when he had vaguely heard Ed clattering around in the early hours of the morning, he’d turned over and gone back to sleep.

When Ed stumbled into the kitchen at half-past eleven–that was when Izzy decided to pounce.

“Where’d you go, last night?” he asked.

“Nowhere.” Ed made a beeline for the coffee maker, then stopped short with a puzzled frown. “Izzy? Where’s the coffee pot?”

Izzy dangled it from his fingers, then snatched it away when Ed tried to make a grab at it. Izzy had always had the faster reflexes of the two. “I’m used to you keeping things from me,” he said, “But a text back would have been nice, after riding the bus around for two fucking hours for you at arse o’clock in the morning.”

“Give me that,” Ed scowled. “I’m not keeping anything from you. I walked around for a bit, then doubled back to ask Jackie to keep an eye out for the Gentleman Thief.”

Izzy let him wrench the coffee pot away. “See, that would have been nice to know, before I stayed up half the night worrying about you.”

“Sorry,” Ed muttered, shoving the pot roughly into the machine and turning it on, “You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

“I wouldn’t if you would just tell me things,” Izzy shot back, but he relented and handed Ed the coffee mug and the bag of sugar he’d been hiding behind his back.

“Fuck off,” Ed muttered. He pushed back his hair, letting it fall in messy curls around his tired face.

Izzy let him make his coffee, lounging at the table, waiting. “Don’t you want to hear what else I did?” he asked.

“What did you do?” Ed seemed more alert with a few gulps of coffee in his system.

Izzy grinned. “Got bored waiting for the bus to come and snuck back to Bonnet’s place after they’d all gone to sleep. I picked the lock on the back door and called myself from their landline.” He held up his cell phone and wiggled it. “They haven’t noticed yet. I’ve had the call on all morning, recording.”

Ed’s features changed all in an instant. “Iz, you are fucking brilliant,” he said, and kissed Izzy hard on the lips. “What are they saying?”

“You’ll never fucking believe this,” Izzy said, “But they’re planning to rob the London Gallery.”

Ed was all animated excitement. “What day? We’ve got to plan around them, get to the paintings first. Fuck, I love a good challenge. Where are those floor plans?” He was off like a shot, and Izzy only felt a little resentful that he had to stoop to such low fucking measures just to keep Ed interested in him–in his job–in this life they’d built together.

“Did Jackie have anything to say?” he sighed, following Ed like he always did. “When you went back to talk with her?”

“What?” Ed was distracted, all of his genius now laser-focused on the gallery’s floorplans. “No, she was a bit busy. Apparently someone stabbed Geraldo and let loose an army of lobsters in the bar. Can you believe it?”

Despite having only had a taste of the chaos that Stede Bonnet brought in his wake, Izzy very well could.

Some time later, the Swede walked past the hall telephone, on his way out to get climbing rope and harnesses, and happened to notice that the receiver was off its hook, just laying on its side on the table.

He picked it up. “Hello?” he said into it.

There was only silence on the other end of the line.

Shrugging to himself, the Swede put the telephone back on the hook and carried on, whistling quietly to himself and wondering what Roach was making for dinner.

Chapter Text

Stede's crew approached the gallery after sundown. Well, first they skirted around a large lorry parked in the alley–"Do you mind?" Stede exclaimed in annoyance. "We're trying to do a robbery, here! Can't exactly make a daring getaway with this great big van sitting right in the way!"

"I got it, boss," said Wee John, walking confidently up to the driver's side door.

"'Do a robbery?'" Pete said. "I'm pretty sure it's 'make a robbery.'"

"Is it?"

Frenchie's voice crackled in over the coms, from where he was set up across the street with his computer ready to hack into the art gallery's security system. "Fabricate a robbery?"

"It's 'commit,'" said Lucius, "as in, could you talk a little louder about the crime we're about to commit?"

Wee John banged on the lorry's door. "Oi! You can't park here."

A man wearing a black leather headband stuck his head out the window. Some tense words were exchanged.

"Yeah, we've got a delivery coming," John called. "You'll have to go park 'round the corner."

After some more negotiation, the man in the window withdrew, and the lorry slowly backed out.

John returned triumphant.

"Wee John!" Stede exclaimed. "That was quite impressive!"

"Oh, thanks," he said bashfully. "I used to work as a security guard for me mum's theater. You wouldn't believe the number of people I had to shout at to move their cars."

"Well done!"

Stede's crew invaded the alley.

"There's an old fire escape," Olu said, reading off the bloodstained blueprints that Buttons had somehow obtained–Stede was still a little foggy on the details. "It should be right about–oh."

The fire escape was there, alright, but the ladder was folded up a story or more above their heads.

Stede attempted a leap. He flailed through the air, fingers reaching for the bottom rung of the ladder, and landed heavily on his feet. "How was that, guys?" he panted, "Did you see that? How close did I get?"

"Not really very close at all," Lucius said.

Frenchie's voice came through the coms. "Alright! Cameras are off all over the building."

Jim appeared out of the shadows like a wraith. "We need to hurry."

"Not to worry," Roach took a few steps back, and then with a running start, he went right up the side of the building like a tree frog.

"Oh, my!"

Roach caught the fire escape with one hand and swung there for a moment. There was a clunk, and then a horrible shriek of metal grinding against rusted metal, and the ladder began to slowly descend.

"Well, that was quite impressive," Stede said. "Did anyone else know that he could do that?"

Roach dropped to the ground with a grin. "I am a man of many talents."

"Ready to go, everyone? Do we have the ropes and harnesses?"

There was a chorus of affirmatives.

"Then let's get robbing!"

A rusty, metallic shriek rent the quiet air of the sleeping London street. Izzy winced. "Other team's here."

Ed was busy setting his watch, his long hair falling over his face. "Countdown starts now," he said. "Ready?"

Izzy turned to the assembled crew they'd thrown together for this heist. "Countdown begins now! Everybody, synchronize your watches! Team A, with us! Team B, ready the equipment!"

"On my mark," Edward said. "Three, two, one."

Izzy clicked his watch.

Ed pulled the bushy, black beard up over his face. His eyes came alive in the special kind of way they only ever did on a job. "Showtime."

Stede struggled over the top of the fire escape and onto the roof and paused to catch his breath. "Wow!" he said, as Pete and the Swede unloaded bags of climbing gear and passed out harnesses. "Look at the stars! Don't they look lovely up here?"

Jim slammed a harness into his chest. "Put it on."

There were a few more lines and ropes involved in the affair than Stede had anticipated. He stared at the tangle in his hands. "Oh dear."

Ed's team went in through the building next door. The security guard was out in under ninety seconds, and they were in the basement in next to no time. Ed wanted to laugh, and would have if it wouldn't have alerted the guards. He was floating on an electric cloud of adrenaline, about to come alight just like the det cord they were fusing to the wall.

He kept the count running effortlessly in the back of his head. Three, two, one–

"Could someone please give me a hand over here?" Stede had somehow gotten the line tangled around his ankle, and the rest was stuck behind his back. "Lucius!"

"I am a forger," snarled Lucius, who seemed to be having a fair amount of trouble with his own line. "Do you think I know how to rappel?"

Olu sighed and went over to help him.

"Really, I just need a little bit of help…" He lifted the line experimentally over his head just to see whether that loosened anything. It didn't.

Jim was looking at their watch. "We are wasting time."

A resounding boom shook the roof beneath their feet and rattled the open skylight. A shower of silver sparks shot up into the air from the front of the building.

"Are those…fireworks?" Stede asked breathlessly.

The rest of the team began to drop one-by-one through the skylight and into the atrium.

"Wee-hee!" cried Buttons as he positioned himself above the opening.

"Time to go," Jim said, and gave Stede a hard shove.

"Wait, I'm not ready!" he cried. But he was already falling.

Blackbeard's team swarmed up from the basement, a black-clad menace. Edward was alight, as always, and fucking beautiful. He practically danced between flashlight beams and laser tripwires, taking out guards swiftly and brutally as he went.

"You having fun yet, Iz?" he breathed in Izzy's ear before grabbing a security guard and beaning him with his own flashlight.

Izzy swallowed. "We want the new wing," he said, looking for a doorway into the atrium. "Modern art. Just up this way…" he trailed off.

Rappelling, as it turned out, felt exactly like Stede imagined flying did. He slid smoothly down the line, cool air ruffling his hair, and the darkness of the gallery rose up around him, the dim blinking lights promising intrigue and adventure.

Then he felt a sudden tug on his harness, and the line caught, flipping him upside down, and he was dangling with his head feet away from the floor.

"Guys," he hissed, "a little help here?"

"Er, team?" Frenchie's voice crackled in his ear. "The other crew is here. I've just lost control of the security system."

All around him, alarms started to blare. Red emergency lights flashed on.

Stede lunged upwards, trying to free himself, but he missed, and the flashing lights dazzled him. He felt the rope twist around his throat. "Guys!" he gasped, but it was lost amid the sudden sound of shouting as flashlight beams swept the room.

As he writhed and twisted in midair, he briefly caught a glimpse of Jim stabbing a security guard. Pete leapt on another and a shot rang out. Stede felt a shock as searing pain bloomed in his side.

He made some choking noise, drowning in the confusion and the pain. Oh God, he thought. Oh God, I'm going to die.

A shadow passed beneath him. It leapt into the air like smoke, passing from line to line like it weighed nothing at all. Stede's eyes followed, and he felt a heavy jolt as it attached itself to his line.

"Izzy!" A voice floated down from above. "Catch!"

Suddenly, he felt the pressure from his harness release, and he dropped to the floor, cracking his head on the tile.

An apparition appeared above him, unearthly and pale. A bushy, black beard obscured most of its face.

"Are you Blackbeard?" he asked as the edges of his vision began to go dark.

A familiar, raspy voice said, "Oh for fuck's sake."