Archive of Our Own

1

Sunday night is bath night.

That’s what Ed’s mum would always say. End the week by scrubbing off all the dirt and grime that had accumulated from all the fun and play he’d had, and get ready to start the new week literally afresh. She’d take him down to the markets every Sunday morning and let him browse the stall of the soap merchant with their bars and salts, all mixed with various herbs and spices to help wash off the stink and replace it with something nicer on the nose.

Ed would let all the different colours and smells overwhelm him a little, letting his brain decide which ones were good smells and which made his chest itch in a not-so-good way. Every week he’d browse, and every week he’d try to choose something different, something that he liked, but more importantly, something that made his mum’s face scrunch up in the way that Ed knew was happiness.

He didn’t see a lot of that on her face, not really, but the milky purple soap with the lavender in always made her smile. So did the one that smelled sweet, like honey. So Ed always made sure to pick one of them, at least every few weeks, so Mum could have a treat too.

It was satisfying, in a way that made Ed’s entire head and body feel good in the kinds of ways he’s never really found words for, to watch the soap merchants shave scraps off the giant block of soap, weighing them into little paper parcels and tying them up with string. The smell always seeped through the paper a little, and Ed would hold the parcels in his hands like they were the greatest treasure he could possibly own, protecting them all the way home until he could help Mum tie the soap into little cloth bundles, ready to be dipped in warm water and scrubbed over his hair and body.

It was a process. A routine. Something for just Ed and mum. Heat the water over the fire, pour it into the tub, top it up with cold until it was the perfect temperature for sitting in. Ed would slide down under the water until it covered the entirety of his head, his knees poking out further down. Always made his head feel calm, being underwater. All the sounds of the world muffled, his body all floaty like there was nothing holding him down. In the bath he was warm, and safe, and nothing could get at him. Nothing at all.

Mum would always pull him up when he’d been under too long, never believing him when he said he could go for longer, that he could hold his breath forever, that nothing could hurt him under there, not even the water itself. She’d roll her eyes and cup her hand over Ed’s face, rubbing the soap through his hair until all the tangles were loosened and the dirt was scrubbed out.

“Hold your breath,” she’d say, dipping a jug into the water and pouring it over his head to wash out the soap. She’d get the patches behind his ears, scrub the back of his neck clean, then hand him the bundle of cloth so he could finish the job. Top to toe, every little grubby nook and cranny scrubbed clean and rinsed off.

Sunday night meant bath night, and bath night meant clean sleep clothes, warmed next to the fire for after Ed’s bath. Bath night meant herby smelling oil combed through his hair to get rid of the knots. Bath night meant warm milk sweetened with honey and an early night curled up with Mum, listening to bedtime stories and falling asleep to the crackle of the dying fire.

Sunday night was bath night.

2

Ships don’t have bathtubs. Sailors don’t take baths. The days of the week mean nothing on the ocean.

Occasionally, when everyone gets ripe enough, a half-barrel of warm water finds its way beneath deck, dumped in the centre of the quarters where the lowest ranked crewmembers sleep. Warm water and something that vaguely resembles soap. Warm water, soap, and a rag shared between far too many people for Ed’s liking.

It’s not much, but it’s enough to scrub some of the grime from Ed’s face. To get the dirt out from under his fingernails and the stench of sweat from under his arms.

Life at sea isn’t quite what Ed imagined, nor what he expected. Some parts are better, others are much, much worse. He’s dirty, all the fucking time, and his entire body hurts. There’s not a muscle he hasn't pulled, a limb he hasn’t bruised, and he’s already covered in more scars than he imagined possible. A quick brain and a smart mouth puts him at the wrong end of a sword more often than he’d like, but he’s getting quicker. Stronger. Pulling weird little snippets of respect here and there.

He’s doing work his mum would find it difficult to be proud of, but for her, he can do this. For her, he can honour Sunday bathtime, even on a Wednesday. Even over a bucket with cheap, discoloured, unscented soap. Even with a cloth he’s sharing with six others.

For her.

3

Apparently it's customary to spend your first ever share of the spoils on a trip to a brothel. Or a molly house. Depending on the way your persuasion leans and all that.

But if he's honest, Ed’s starting to think he’s not really one for custom.

He has no need, or desire, really, to get naked with someone that couldn’t care less about him, or who he is, or why he’s there. He doesn’t want mechanical, meaningless sex with a complete stranger. He can get that any time he wants, whether he’s on land or at sea. Without paying for the privilege.

Ed doesn’t want to get his dick wet.

He wants a fucking bath.

He wants to soak all the fucking salt and grime out of his hair and skin, wants to sink down until his hair is floating around him like a cloud and his brain goes quiet. He wants a bath, and a fire to sit next to, and a warm fucking bed for the night.

And what Ed wants, he’s beginning to learn, he usually fucking gets.

The tavern is an absolute arse to find, tucked away down a labyrinth of side alleys, some barely wider than Ed’s shoulders. Arse to find out about as well, considering everyone Ed asked was convinced that the bath he was desperate for was some kind of bizarre euphemism. The right information had found its way to him eventually though, and Ed stands outside the building, listening to the hum of people from inside.

Despite the apparent secrecy of the venue, nobody inside bats an eye when Ed slips through the door and across to the bar.

“I’d like a room,” he says, dropping an excessive number of coins onto the bartop. “With a bath.” It takes a second before he remembers that manners will get him everywhere. "Please."

The barkeep looks him up and down before stepping away, and Ed narrows his eyes in response. He has coin. He has more than enough coin to cover a night here. He knows he does, without even asking the rates. He knows he doesn’t look like he’s good for it, knows his hair is matted with salt and his clothes are stiff with dirt. But that’s why he’s here. That’s why he’s asking for the room, why he's specified the bath.

After a minute or two the barkeep returns, pushing a few of his coins back, followed by a key with a heavy wooden tag attached to it.

“Upstairs, left, then right,” she says, gesturing at a staircase to Ed’s right. “Water’ll follow you up in a little while.”

Ed nods, mutters his thanks, and swipes both the key and his coins into his palm, slipping through the crowd and holding his hands in tight fists at his sides until he’s in the safety of the stairwell. There’s a handful of doors at the top, and Ed flips the key and its tag over in his hands, looking for some kind of marker to match to the room that’s his for the night. The tavern seems to have foregone letters or numbers, instead carving intricate little patterns and symbols on each door. Ed’s key has a series of connecting swirls that look almost like a cloud formation. He traces the lines with his fingertips, eyes scanning each door until he finds the one that matches.

The door is a little stiff, and Ed shoulders it open, stumbling a little as he crosses the threshold. Objectively it isn’t much, but for Ed, who’s been sleeping within spitting distance of at least seven other people at any given time, it’s everything. A small bed—an actual bed—with a mattress and a pile of clean looking blankets. A few lanterns hanging from the walls, casting a warm glow over the space. A bucket and washboard, and a rail to presumably hang his clothes from. And the thing Ed’s been waiting for. The thing he begged himself almost desperate for. The thing he received endless mockery for wanting.

A bathtub.

It looks to be about as big as the one Ed remembers from his childhood, but he’s grown now, and he’s sure he’s going to have to fold himself up something odd to fit inside it. But it’s a bathtub. And there’s hot water on its way up to him, and for the first time in fucking months, Ed’s going to feel clean.

He starts stripping down as much as he dares. No one on the crew cares how nude he is at any given time, but he reckons rules might be slightly different on land. Not quite right to answer the door with your cock out, even if it is a nice one. So his underclothes stay on, the rest piled in a bundle in the corner of the room. Half naked, he paces the room a little, unable to fully relax until he knows he’s alone for the rest of the night. Has always made him anxious, the waiting for something he doesn’t have a proper timeline for. Steals hours from him, sometimes, the waiting.

Ed paces, and he checks the oil levels in each lantern, and he shakes out the blankets on the bed, folding and tucking them the way he likes. Or at least, the way he thinks he likes. Been a while since he’s had a bed to make. It’s nice, even if it’s just for a short while, for his life to have such gentle purpose. No blood or guts or swords or guns. Just folding and pacing, and eventually, soaking.

A rap at the door interrupts Ed’s train of thought, and he answers it to be faced with two enormous pails of steaming water and one presumably much cooler one. He thanks the man with a coin and hauls in the pails, setting them down at the side of the tub. From the pockets of his discarded breeches he pulls a small paper parcel tied up with string.

Been a long time since he’s been in possession of one of these.

The bar he’d chosen has streaks of what he was told is honey running through it, gold cutting through the off-white of the soap. It smells sweet and a little earthy, and for a small moment, the memory of being bathed by his mum hits him with such force that he has to swallow back tears that begin to burn in the back of his throat.

Ed picks up the larger of the two pails of hot water, pouring it into the bathtub and adding cold until the overall temperature feels comfortable. He wants it hot, at least to start with. Wants to watch his skin go pink from the heat. Always better to get the dirt off with, hot water. Might ease the aches in his body, too.

He breaks off a small amount of soap from the bar, crumbling it in his hands and swirling it around in the water, watching as it starts to go a little cloudy. Another thing Mum always did. Said it helped soak the dirt off. Ed has no idea how true it is, is sure there’s dirt embedded in him that would take nothing less than a wire brush to get rid of, but there’s no telling how long it will be before he gets another opportunity like this, the freedom of both extended shore leave and a pocketful of coins, so he’s willing to try anything and everything.

Soap dissolved, he strips off the rest of his clothes and dips a first, cautious toe into the water. It’s hot. It’s really hot, and Ed could cry with how good it feels. Limb by limb, he sinks slowly into the water, shuffling down until he’s submerged up to his chin.

Ed moans, and he’d be embarrassed about how wanton it sounds if the sensation of warm water didn’t feel so fucking good on his skin. It’s like he can already feel the dirt soaking off, can already imagine how good he’s going to feel when he’s warm and dry, his skin scrubbed fresh and a little raw. There’s a few still-new wounds he’d like the opportunity to clean out, a handful of scars he’d like to see the healing of underneath the dirt, and more than a few knots he’s desperate to comb out of his hair.

He waits until the tingle of heat fades from his skin before slipping all the way under, letting his hair swirl around him dramatically. It feels good, to go under, to silence the world a little, to let his thoughts go quiet. Good in a way that slipping under the surface of the ocean has never felt.

There’s safety in a tub. Always has been.

The soap is perfect, lathering beautifully when Ed rubs it between his wet palms, and the rag draped over the side of the tub is just rough enough to be a perfect scrubbing cloth. Ed soaks, lathers, scrubs, and rinses. Over and over again until his entire body aches a little. He scrubs at his hair, feeling it get softer as the salt is rinsed out and his fingers work through the knots and tangles. He could cut it. Would make it easier to manage at sea. But it’s becoming part of his identity, in a way. It’s long, and it whips around his face in the wind, makes him feel bigger, more intimidating somehow. So it’ll probably stay. As long as he can find ways to look after it a little better.

He lays in the water, marvelling at the weightlessness of his limbs and the shift of his body hair until the water falls to the wrong side of lukewarm, and the exposed areas of his skin start to prickle like gooseflesh. Ed braces himself for the climb out—he's been in the water long enough that the fire on the other side of the room is starting to die off, and if the chill around his shoulders is any indication, it's going to be an entire bitch when the rest of his body leaves the water.

One last dunk for the road, Ed thinks, folding himself up so he can spend a couple more seconds underwater.

What’s left in the tub has turned a really unfortunate colour, but with the addition of the remaining hot water, it becomes warm and dilute enough that Ed can soak and scrub his clothes a little cleaner than they were when he arrived. It takes a bit of trial and error, but he eventually manages to prop the clothes rack near enough to the fire to dry everything out, or at least, get it dry enough that he can put it back on in the morning. Bed seems clean enough to sleep nude, and Ed’s always liked the feeling of different fabrics on his skin. All his skin. Especially the parts that don’t often get to feel different things.

The fire crackles and pops as it dies down, but the residual heat seeps into the sheets as Ed crawls into the bed he’ll call home for the night. It’s a little scratchy, but the blankets are heavy, and Ed is warm, and more comfortable than he’s been in months. This is a luxury that’ll be few and far between, he knows that. Knows there won’t be many opportunities for shore leave, and even fewer overnight stays, so he makes the most of it. He’s clean, and he’s warm, and he’s comfortable. He makes a pact with himself as he drifts off to sleep: he’ll find time for nights like this whenever he can, wherever he can. He’ll find ways to look after himself better, to find comfort in a life where it so frequently lacks.

That, he can promise himself.

That, he can do.

4

Ed’s a captain.

A motherfucking ship captain. Of a ship he led on the obtaining of. Wasn’t a theft, not really. More that Ed and his men relieved a crew of a ship they no longer had enough men to comfortably sail.

A charitable act, if you really think about it.

The point is, he’s a captain. With captain’s quarters. And one hundred percent of the say regarding what he does with them.

Not only does he have quarters, he has a tub. It’s not much, barely qualifies as one, if he’s completely honest. But he’s the fucking captain of his fucking ship, and he wanted a goddamn tub, so he found a goddamn tub.

He doesn’t keep it a secret, not really. But he does want to keep it for himself. So it gets tucked into a corner of his cabin, covered with various detritus most of the time, filled high enough that anyone given permission to enter the room would barely give it a second glance.

But once in a while, Ed clears and fills it. Heats pails of water, crumbles soap until it dissolves, and sinks down until as much of his body as possible is submerged. Not that he can get that far under: the thing is small enough that it’s impossible to get his legs straight, his knees always poking up over the waterline. Does fuck all to help the ache he’s starting to get behind one of his kneecaps, and he knows that if he could just get the damn thing underwater to soak in the heat it’d feel a thousand times better. But it is what it fucking is. And what it fucking is is a too-small tub that he has to hide away so nobody fucks with it.

But it’s a bathtub. Ed finally has his own bathtub. And a bed. And privacy. And when he needs to, hell, even when he just wants to, he has the opportunity to scrub the day—the week, sometimes—from his body. He can wash the blood from his hands, can soak the remnants of a raid from the more absorbent pieces of clothing he’s been wearing. Leather doesn’t need cleaning as often, it turns out. Lasts longer, looks more intimidating, doesn’t need cleaning. Just things to make Ed’s life a little more comfortable where possible.

There isn’t much comfort in Ed’s life these days, but he does the best he can with the life he's built around himself. These days there's a lot of expectations, one hell of a reputation, and too many responsibilities that fall solely on him. Not much time for comfort. Not a lot of acceptance for comfort.

No comfort in a pirate’s life.

Most pirate lives, anyway.

5

The Gentleman Pirate has a proper fucking bathtub.

Proper fucking bathroom and all. Ensuite, he’d called it, face all bright and proud and pleased when he’d swung the door open and ushered Ed in with a grin. A bathroom with a door, and a mirror, and a bathtub that Ed can fit his entire body into. Legs mostly straight and everything.

Full of surprises and secrets, Stede’s ship. Secret cupboards and secret hallways, false walls and hidden compartments and doors that lead to seemingly impossible spaces. Secrets that he’s shared with Ed, for some fucking reason. Like Ed’s a safe secret keeper, like Ed is worthy of all the things Stede wants to show him.

Stede has a bathtub. And somehow, inexplicably, enough fresh water to fill it on a regular basis. Enough fresh water to waste, objectively, on a bath. A bath that he’s drawn for Ed, just because he wanted to. Just because he thought it would be something Ed would enjoy. Something he wanted to share with a fellow captain.

Ed has no fucking idea what Stede’s entire deal is. He has no idea if what's going on between them is flirting or courtship or some other strange ritual of the fancy folk. Perhaps it’s just kindness. Even if it is just kindness, it's not something Ed has been afforded in a very long fucking time. The kindness of a bath. A bath, and an array of soaps and salts and oils. A robe, to wear when he gets out, to keep the warmth trapped against his body. Rough sponges and soft cloths to wash himself with.

Soap with flecks of lavender, just like his mum liked.

The bathroom is candlelit, warm light that flickers around the room and somehow calms the buzzing in Ed’s head. Been a long time since anything has managed that. He shifts in the water, sliding down the curve of the tub until he’s chin deep, then nose deep, forehead deep, and under. The world goes quiet, and Ed counts the seconds in his head, wondering how long he can manage these days. At forty-seven seconds he resurfaces, just enough to take a breath and sink beneath the surface again. He can feel his hair going weightless around him, his muscles relaxing in the heat of the water, the dull ache in his knee easing.

If this is what being a gentleman is, sign Ed right the fuck up. Puts his tub to absolute shame, this does. All rolled top and high back and space for fucking days. Ed hates to think how much water it actually took to fill the fucking thing, let alone the firewood it would have taken to heat it. Extravagance like he’s never really considered, for all his riches and treasures. Clean water, hot enough and in enough volume for this kind of luxury. A lock on the door, and a promise of privacy. Privacy. Actual fucking privacy that for once, even Izzy can’t disturb.

And for once, he’s able to take his time. He’s able to let his hands sit under the water until they go plump and wrinkly, until the dirt becomes easier to clean out from under his fingernails. Until the chewed edges of his fingertips soften and smooth out. Until the salt and dead skin has soaked away and his tattoos are bold and bright against his skin again.

He lathers and rinses and finger combs his hair, pushing it back from his face and giving in to the temptation to give himself one hell of a scalp massage. He spotted a couple of promising looking oils among Stede’s soaps and bath potions, and it’ll be nice to give his hair a seriously good treatment once he’s finished bathing.

It’s good, for once, to have the time to spend on all these things. Perhaps that’s a lesson Ed can take away from this whole experience: that it’s okay to take time. That it’s okay to slow down. That it’s okay to allow yourself the finer things in life.

That sometimes, it’s okay to just fucking enjoy things.

There’s something about Stede’s tub. Something Ed’s sure can be explained away by science, but he doesn’t want to know the secrets of how it manages to keep water so warm for so long. The water is so warm, and Ed’s so fucking comfortable, and he’s so fucking relaxed. Heat, time, and effort have left his skin is so fucking clean and soft he can’t help but run his hands up and down the length of his body, tracing over old scars and new wounds and curling various patches of body hair around his fingertips. He’s so fucking relaxed, with the safety of a door that locks from the inside, and it’s like Ed’s entire body is trying to relearn what it means to truly rest.

His cock, however, doesn't seem to have received the message.

It’s almost comical, the way it pokes up above the water, almost like it’s judging him, questioning why it’s been so long since Ed’s given it any kind of attention. Like Ed’s had any kind of interest in getting himself off when it’s a struggle to give a shit about getting out of bed each morning.

Except the whole reason for living thing has shifted perspective a little in recent weeks, and his dick seems to have decided it wants to join the party.

Ed has a locked door, and a squeaky clean dick, and a crush that is getting worse by the day. And with all those ducks successfully in a row, there’s no fucking time like the present to do something about it, he figures. The water splashes gently as he takes his cock in hand and starts working himself slowly, and the sound is probably more than a little conspicuous, but from what Ed can gather, he’s tucked away in a corner of the ship that barely anyone knows the existence of. The only person likely to hear him is Stede, and it’s not like it would be the worst thing to be caught by the most recent subject of literally all of Ed’s desires. Might actually prompt something. Might actually make all of Ed’s flirting and seducing and increasingly unsubtle gestures worth it. Starting to get a bit undignified, really. Ed can’t really make it much more obvious that he wants Stede without actually coming outright and fucking saying it. And he’s not going to do that, fucking hell. Gotta retain some kind of dignity here. Gentleman Pirate or not, Ed's still got a reputation to maintain.

So a slightly pathetic, blissfully secret wank in the bath it is.

Doesn’t last anywhere near as long as Ed wants it to, in the end. Something about the bath, the proximity to Stede, the self-imposed dry spell Ed is putting an end to, and the risk of being caught combines in a far too sudden panic that Ed’s right on the edge, right on the fucking verge of coming in Stede’s lovely fucking bathtub. He curls his toes, squeezes at the base of his cock, and clenches all the muscles he has below the waist, willing himself to hold on just a little longer. Just enough for him to get out of the water. Stede poured a lot of different soaps and salts into the bath before Ed got in, but none of them will hide how cloudy it will get if Ed just goes ahead and shoots his fucking load into it.

That, and Ed doesn’t really fancy bathing in his own spend.

He breathes, and squeezes, and when he’s absolutely sure his dick can cope with the brief period of travel, he eases himself up and out of the water, climbing over the edge of the tub one foot at a time until he’s standing safely on the little rug Stede keeps next to the tub. To dry your feet off, he’d explained, the first time Ed had questioned it. Another weird little luxury of Stede’s ship Ed would never have thought of himself, but now can’t imagine life without.

Almost like Stede himself.

Ed pulls on the robe Stede had left for him, sinking down onto the rug and leaning back against the side of the tub. The water inside is still warm enough that Ed can feel the heat against his back, even through the heavy fabric. He sits still for a moment, listening carefully for sounds of movement outside the door, any kind of signal that Stede might be around, that he’s heard Ed get out of the bath and is readying himself to play host again. He’s met with blissful silence, broken only by the simultaneous lapping of the ocean against the ship’s hull and the remaining bathwater against the walls of the tub. It’s a white noise that Ed has become accustomed to over the years, a sound he doesn’t really hear unless he’s trying to do so, and it relaxes his brain enough for him to take his cock back in hand, spreading his legs and letting his knees drop to the floor.

It doesn’t take much to bring himself back to the edge, a dozen tugs at most before he’s reaching behind his head to grip at the edge of the bathtub, his toes curling into the soft pile of the rug. He’s trying to stay quiet, he really fucking is, but the process of pausing this whole wank to get out of the bath has had some kind of edging effect on him, and he’s barrelling towards an orgasm for the fucking books, from the feel of it.

Ed makes a valiant effort to think about something other than Stede as he works himself with fervour, but it's an ultimately useless gesture. Almost every single thought Ed has had over the last few weeks has, in some way, been populated by Stede, and this occasion is no exception. Ed’s trying, he really is, but the pictures flash through his head like some kind of erotic picturebook: Stede stripping down slowly, Stede climbing into the bath, all ruddy-pink and fucking delicious. Stede all water-slick and soft, his skin all freckled and honey-sweet from sun exposure.

Stede, wrapping a hand around his own cock and working himself to completion, all for Ed’s viewing pleasure. Stede the exhibitionist, the participant, the partner to Ed’s pleasure seeking.

His grip tightens, and a small whine escapes him through gritted teeth, and it’s like the fucking floodgates open, his volume filter completely fucking shot. His balls throb, and he squeezes at the crown of his cock on the next upstroke, and he’s fucking done for. The desperate, broken moan that falls from him bounces around the small space of the bathroom, echoing back at him as he comes all over his own hand, spend dripping down his fingers and over the folds of his belly where he’s hunched over.

“Fuck,” he breathes, laying his palm flat across his stomach. His head starts to clear, the sounds of everything around him beginning to fade back in, and there’s the unmistakable sound of movement now coming from within Stede’s cabin.

Fuck knows how long that’s been going on, how long Stede’s been pottering around in there, whether he overheard any of Ed’s indiscretions.

Then again, Ed thinks, pulling himself to his feet and wetting a cloth to clean himself off, wouldn’t be the worst thing, being overheard that way. Could be a good thing. Might be the push Stede needs to realise Ed really is into him like that.

Might be the best thing Ed’s ever done.

6

Stede’s back.

Stede’s back, and he’s in love with Ed, and Ed’s very much still desperately in love with him too, despite it all. Stede’s back, and Ed’s not the same person as he was the last time they were together, and there are still so many tiny fractured parts of him that need to heal, but Stede is back.

And he’s drawn Ed a bath.

A hot, sweet smelling, steamy bath, filled with soap that foams on the surface of the water.

And Ed’s going to take it alone.

Stede presses a soft, tentative kiss to Ed’s temple as he leaves, pulling the door closed gently behind him and leaving Ed alone in the en-suite.

Alone for his bath.

A routine, a ritual he’s never shared. Never wanted to. Until now.

The bath itself is long overdue, but something about the way Stede had suggested it tugs painfully in Ed’s chest. It wasn’t prompted by disgust at the visible dirt Ed has allowed to build up a little under his nails, in the creases of his elbows and the collar of the shirt he’s been wearing day in, day out. It wasn’t that Ed smells unpleasant, or has managed to get himself coated in something unsavoury that needs washing off. It was the knowledge that Ed has always enjoyed a bath, that he’s always tried to keep himself clean and well kept. The knowledge that there weren’t many plague-like emotions that couldn’t be eased or soothed by hot water and the silence of going under for a moment. The knowledge that it’s a ritual he doesn’t share, has never shared, that had Stede heating water and crumbling soap and not once suggesting or alluding to the idea that he was inviting himself to join.

Through everything, through abandonment and betrayal and the audacity of return, Stede’s kept safe the little bits of information that made Ed feel most known. Most cared for.

Most loved.

And finally, that’s something that feels good more than it hurts.

Ed sinks slowly into the water, groaning at both the heat and the way the salts Stede has added make the water feel almost silky on his skin. The worst of the dirt starts flaking off as soon as he settles down, and he takes one of the cloths from behind his head and methodically starts washing himself down, from head to toe. He wipes under each of his eyes, the creases of his nose, the line of his jaw. Scrubs behind his ears, and under his arms. Lathers soap and rubs across the hair under his navel, above his cock, between his thighs.

He’s always done this alone. Always. Ever since he got old enough for mum to leave him to it. Baths are for him, and him alone.

He runs his fingertips over the scar tissue Stede left him with, a small cluster to join the rest on his belly, and despite everything, he wishes Stede was in here. In the ensuite, sitting next to the tub and making small talk as Ed washes. Sitting next to the tub and helping Ed wash.

He wishes Stede was right here in the bath with him.

Probably not big enough to fit two, but he’d make it happen. Shuffle himself forward and tuck his knees to his chest so Stede could slip in behind him, wrap his arms around him and hold him close.

He hasn’t seen Stede fully naked since he’s been back, hasn’t dared try anything more intimate than kissing and a few half dressed, frustrated handjobs. He hasn’t dared let Stede close enough to hurt him again. Not yet. But because his heart is a giant fucking traitor and his emotions are about as controllable as they were when he was fifteen, he’s stuck wishing Stede was here. With Ed. At a time and in a place he feels most vulnerable, where his guard is at its weakest.

Perhaps they’ll get there eventually.

Perhaps Ed’s traitorous little heart will get what it desires.

Perhaps, everything will be okay in the end.

+1

Ed wants a fucking bath.

He’s cold, and he’s sweaty, and he’s covered in the blood of at least five different Spaniards. He’s been standing up for what feels like hours. His heart is racing, his knee is fucking killing him, and all he fucking wants right now is a really good, really hot, really bubbly fucking bath.

He wants to soak, and maybe have a cathartic little cry, and when he’s clean and warm and comfortable again, he wants to throw on a giant fucking robe and be done with the day.

As per his own protocol, he’s the last off the now ransacked Spanish ship, walking backwards along the connecting boards and planks until he feels Stede’s hand at his back, supporting him as he climbs back down onto their own deck. Safe, intact, and home.

There’s always a moment after a raid, a teetering point where Ed’s emotions go one of two ways. Either ratcheting up into something wild and feral inside him, the emotion of a victory swirling up around inside and leaving him bursting with energy, or dipping into an unexplainable sadness, an anger and fear induced melancholy that Ed has never quite found the words to describe, especially when it comes off the back of an inarguable win. The episodes of sadness have been fewer and further between since he and Stede figured out how to work as a team again, but it still rears its head once in a while, and it’s always tricky for Ed, balancing on the tightrope while his brain decides which way he’s going to fall.

A bath would fix it, he thinks. A bath would trigger the secret third option: settled and calm and able to process.

But a bath doesn’t fit into the raid day agenda.

Instead, Ed looks at Stede, takes a moment to read his body language. He looks as wrecked as Ed feels, his hair plastered to his head, face and arms splattered with red-brown stains. Stede isn’t reading as anything as simple or obvious as happy or sad. Neither calm nor agitated. Stede’s body is a mix of what looks like fifty different feelings, and he’s visibly, to Ed at least, working to channel all his pent up aggression and emotion into the right places. He’s trying to decide what he should do with all his residual energy. Ed catches his eye, and swallows. Stede tracks the movement, and Ed knows exactly where Stede’s decisions are heading.

Ed wants a bath. He’s going to have a bath, agenda be fucking damned. But he’s willing to make one small detour along the way, for Stede’s sake.

He scans over the crew: intact; and the spoils of the raid: already being organised and divided for storage; and decides that any kind of debrief Stede might be planning to deliver can wait. It can wait as long as it needs to.

It’s a short distance from where Ed’s standing to the door that will take him in the direction of the captain’s cabin, but he takes slow steps, careful not to draw any unnecessary attention to himself. The haul is big, unusually so, and the crew are well occupied. Jim glances at Ed as he looks over his shoulder and there's a knowing look on their face. A look that says Ed is far too predictable and far too easy to read these days. Within five minutes, the entire crew will have figured out where their captains have disappeared to, will already be making bets on how long it will take them to reappear. But Ed trusts Jim, and by extension Oluwande, to manage them as a group, to keep them busy enough to maintain Ed and Stede's privacy for just a little longer than they can manage alone.

Ed's barely out of sight of the deck before Stede is appearing through the door and crashing against him, slamming Ed up against a wall and kissing him with a ferocity that Ed hasn't experienced from him in months. It's messy, badly aimed, and Stede's teeth clash against Ed's as he opens his mouth to add his tongue to the mix, and Ed knows, without a single word being said, that Stede has landed on the exact same page as him. Same line, even. Same goddamn word. Stede's full of the same confusing energy that Ed can feel swirling in his belly, and like Ed, he's decided exactly where he wants to channel it.

Ed lets his body go slightly lax where he's pinned between the solid planes of Stede's chest and the panelled wall behind him, hands fisting in Stede's clothes and willing to let Stede take and take and take.

And take Stede does.

The Revenge has seen its fair share of aggression and warfare, from both internal and external forces, but it's the combined high of her captains' victory that becomes the downfall of the main corridor. Stede pulls away for a moment, casting a look over Ed’s face, reading his expression and waiting, so patiently, for Ed to give some kind of indication of his enjoyment. Ed nods, a tiny but noticeable gesture that Stede picks up on immediately. From there, it's like something unlocks inside him, and Ed meets him tit for tat as Stede all but drags him down the corridor towards their cabin, crashing against paintings and lanterns as the control sways back and forth between them. At least one frame collapses to the floor, a wall mounted lantern knocked sideways, a display cabinet shunted a few feet to the left. Ed pulls desperately at Stede's clothes, removing his shirt from his waistband and shoving his hands underneath so he can run his fingernails across the warm skin of Stede's back. In turn, Stede pulls at the buckles and buttons of Ed's jacket, pulling it open and making good work of the fall front of Ed's trousers before they've even managed to get to the door of their quarters.

Ed chances a look back down the hallway as Stede opens the door, and winces, just a little. The Revenge has weathered literal storms, has survived attacks from the navies of multiple nations, and somehow, the interior has remained completely intact through it all. And yet, the power of Ed and Stede's combined arousal is the thing that ends up fucking it up.

There's a trail of their carnage, punctuated by the handful of buttons that give away their path of destruction like some kind of horny Hansel and Gretel. Stede's too cock drunk to notice, but Ed's going to get hell for the damage to their clothes once Stede has eventually sobered up.

At least Ed's a little more handy with a needle and thread these days.

"Fuck me," Stede mutters under his breath, and Ed turns to figure out the source of the swear. Stede's fussing with the lock he insisted be installed on the door of their cabin, a necessity he demanded after realising the crew's propensity for walking in unannounced wasn't appearing to fade after his and Ed's emotional and physical reconciliation.

Apparently, the risk of an eyeful was not enough of a deterrent for most of them.

Ed's still half convinced Lucius is doing it on purpose.

"Whose fucking idea was this?" Stede says, rattling the key inside the lock and kicking the base of the door, like he thinks that's going to do any good.

"Yours, love," Ed mumbles, pressing himself against Stede's back and rolling his hips. "You wanted the privacy."

Stede presses back against Ed's cock, moaning low in his throat, and Ed would tease him further about his apparent lack of key skills, but the reality is, they're still half dressed in the hallway, the crew will only stay occupied on deck for so long, and Ed needed to get his dick inside of Stede at least five minutes ago.

"Let me," he says, batting Stede's hand away from the door and shaking the key gently in the lock. He feels something give inside the mechanism and twists the handle, all but falling through the door with Stede when it finally opens.

Ed loves the push and pull of being with Stede like this, loves the way Stede can meet him as an equal, both physically and emotionally. There's strength underneath all of Stede's fabrics and frills and fancy language. Strength that's becoming more evident to the crew as they see Stede fight and work. Strength that Ed loves to push the limits of when they're alone, when he can tempt and taunt and tease Stede into manhandling him in bed, into behaving a little rougher, into lifting him and flipping him and pinning him to the mattress like it's nothing. Ed loves the slower, more romantic side to the relationship. He loves being wooed and softly flirted with, and taken slowly apart in the dead of night by Stede's most delicate words and talented fingers. But there's a different kind of love for this, the place where Stede's residual fight gets channelled into something playful and fun and carnal.

Multiple pieces of furniture end up as casualties as Ed meanders haphazardly across the room, dragging Stede in his tow: a chair knocked to the side with a crack, a footstool kicked unceremoniously out of the way, a thankfully unlit lantern rolling across the floor. Stede’s shirt gets tugged over his head, the front-falls of both pairs of trousers fumbled fully open and allowed to drop, movements punctuated by biting kisses and fingernail scratches across newly exposed skin. Ed eventually gets Stede pinned to a wall, chest pressed against the soft fabric of a tapestry, his wrists held above his head. Ed's going to fuck him. Right here, right against this wall. He’s going to fuck him until Stede’s absolutely desperate to come, and if he’s able to wait long enough for Ed to finish, Ed’ll let Stede fuck him right back.

Stede moans and rolls his arse back against Ed's barely clothed cock, and for a split second, Ed wonders if he's been babbling out loud. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Want me to fuck you?" Ed murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Stede's ear. "Right here? Right up against the wall? Right up against this beautiful wall hanging?"

"Tapestry," Stede whines, and Ed can hear the petulance in his tone. "It's a tapestry, Edward."

Ed knows it's a tapestry, but he loves when Stede gets all indignant and snippy about things.

"You want to get fucked up against it or not?"

Stede pauses, body stilling.

“Actually…” he starts, turning in place. “No.”

No.

“Changed your mind?”

Fine if he has. Always fine if he has. Happens sometimes, to Ed more so than Stede. Bodies getting a little ahead of their brains, letting a situation tumble a little out of control and away from what they actually want before they can even really process it.

Stede kisses him slowly, the change of pace a little like whiplash, but not entirely unwelcome. It’s the middle ground, the no-man’s-land between the high and the drop.

“Today was a lot,” he says, brushing his nose against Ed’s. “Let’s take our time. I want to take my time with you.”

His words are gentle, but his cock is still comically hard, poking Ed in the belly as Stede pulls him close. His words are gentle, and it’s not long before the rest of his body relaxes and follows suit, the leftover fight or flight from the raid dissipating from his bones.

He wants time. He wants to fuck Ed instead, if his body language is anything to go by. And those, at least, are things that Ed can give him.

“Slow,” Ed says, taking a deep breath through his nose and waiting for his heart to slow a little. “We’ll go slow.”

Stede exhales and closes his eyes. When he reopens them, he’s focused and determined. “On the bed, Edward.”

Full name and everything.

Ed walks backwards towards the bed nook, dragging Stede in his tow and smiling into every off-centre kiss Stede plants on him as they move. Fucking a little fast and nasty is great, fucking brilliant when the moment is right, but this is what makes Ed’s knees go a little weak: Stede’s aimless, soft little kisses, scattered across whatever areas of Ed’s face he deems fit.

“I want to watch,” Stede murmurs, collapsing down on top of Ed when they finally reach the bed. “Face to face. I want to see you.”

It’s easy, from there, to fall into familiar routine: Ed pulling his knees up and apart, Stede fumbling under the pillows for oil, shifting himself into position and working Ed until he’s writhing and begging for something more. The careful, careful, careful push of Stede into his body until he’s flush with the back of Ed’s thighs and sweating from the exertion of not moving.

“Move,” Ed whispers, permission and a request all rolled into one.

And god-fucking-damn does Stede deliver on the request. Ed lets his thoughts drift, just a little. He makes sure to stay present enough to answer any of Stede’s questions, and react to all of Stede’s cues, but it’s so fucking good to just let everything go a little fuzzy around the edges while Stede takes what he needs from Ed's body.

His orgasm builds slowly, completely effortlessly, the energy left from the action of the day pooling in his groin and rolling in waves down his thighs. When he feels like he’s on the brink, when his legs start to tremble and his toes begin to curl in the sheets, he pulls Stede down and close, trapping his cock under the soft swell of Stede’s belly.

“Keep going,” he murmurs, pressing his hips up to meet Stede’s long, rolling thrusts.

He comes without even trying, spilling messily across his own chest with a whimper as Stede continues his steady, consistent movements inside him.

When Stede eventually comes, it’s with a long, drawn out moan, his face pressed to Ed’s throat, his arms bracketing Ed’s head. It’s fucking wonderful in its intimacy, but the proximity of Stede’s entire body to his as he comes down only seems to emphasise to Ed just how disgusting the pair of them are.

Ed’s now sticky with come in multiple places, he’s sweated and dried off more times in a row than he wants to think about, and based on what he can see of Stede’s body, there’s still more than a few blood splatters coating the skin he had exposed during the raid.

“I love you,” Stede mumbles into his neck, and Ed loves him too, loves him so fucking much, but they’re absolutely disgusting, and every second Stede is flopped down on top of him, still inside him even, is another second that Ed wants to spend crawling out of his own skin.

"We gotta clean up, love," he mumbles into Stede's hair. Ed loves Stede's hair. Loves the colour and the way it waves and curls, and the various creams and pomades Stede uses usually have it smelling fucking delicious for days on end. But even his hair hasn't managed to escape the effects of hard work and a good fuck. "We're really fucking disgusting right now."

"Later," Stede whines, probably because from where he’s laying, he's comfortable and in the perfect place for a nap. But Ed's not having that. He's not laying here pinned underneath his sweaty, nasty, deadweight of a lover.

He has a plan, a plan he’s been trying to put into action for what feels like hours. And he’s damn well going to see it through.

"Nope," he says, smacking Stede gently on the backside. "Now."

Stede whines again, the sound somehow even more pitiful than before.

"Gotta clean up, love. We don't wanna sleep like this. Imagine how good you'll feel after a nice fucking bath. Hot water and all your salts and soaps. Nice clean bedding. Fucking lovely, hm?"

Stede groans. "Bath sounds nice."

"Bath sounds really fucking nice. You just gotta get off me, Stede, love. You get off, we'll put a bath together, and we'll feel like new fucking men before you know it."

"Shall I get someone to heat water?" Stede asks, and it's a shame his face is still smushed against Ed's shoulder, because the side eye Ed wants to level him with is a fucking award winner.

"Reckon we can manage that ourselves. Literally no one on the crew deserves that job."

“That’s fair,” Stede says, but he still makes no move to get up.

“You’ve got ten seconds,” Ed says, running his fingers featherlight down Stede’s sides. “Ten seconds to get up before I put you on the floor.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Stede grumbles low in his throat, and Ed starts to count.

“Ten…nine…”

“Okay, okay okay,” Stede says, finally pulling back and extracting himself from Ed’s embrace. “I’m moving. You happy now?”

“Always,” Ed grins, wriggling in the mess of the blankets before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Do we have water barrels in here?”

“I believe so,” Stede says, wrapping a sheet around his shoulders and heading in the direction of the ensuite on slightly wobbly legs. Always spikes a little pride in Ed’s belly, that sight does. His fancy Gentleman Pirate all fucked out and unsteady.

“Heat a small bit first,” Ed calls after him, foregoing the sheet robe that Stede had chosen to adorn himself with and stalking across the cabin completely nude. Anyone who ends up with an eyeful is only getting what they deserve, be fucking batshit to come busting in to the cabin after overhearing the last hour or so. “Salt water if need be. We’ll have a pre-wash.”

“Pre-wash?”

“You wanna have a good soak in sweat and come and Spanish blood?” Ed asks, wincing as at least one of the mentioned starts running down his leg.

“Good point, excellently made,” Stede says, reappearing with a small pail, halfway full with water.

It takes a while to heat sufficient water for a proper bath, but it gives Ed time to carefully wash the worst of the day off of Stede’s skin, checking him over for any cuts or scrapes the thrill in his blood might have masked the pain of.

He carefully cleans Stede’s face, rubbing the cloth over his eyelids and across his cheekbones, removing streaks of sweat and blood from his skin. Next, his hands and forearms, the places that took the brunt of Stede’s new skill with a sword. The cloth stains brown, and Ed switches it out for a new one, folding one corner to clean underneath Stede’s nails and between his fingers. He rinses the cloth out and gives Stede’s cock a cursory clean, wiping the worst of oil and come off him before it dries and ends up too tacky to clean off without discomfort.

Once Stede has reached Ed’s exacting pre-bath standards of cleanliness, they trade places, and Ed moans at the first drag of a warm, wet cloth over his shoulders.

“Feels nice?” Stede asks, like he hasn’t just gone through the entire process himself. Knows exactly how fucking good this feels.

“Feels fucking lovely,” Ed sighs. “It’ll feel even better when I’m in it.”

“The bath?”

“The bath,” Ed confirms.

The bathtub itself is a beauty, big enough for two with a little room to spare, and commissioned with some urgency when Ed realised that as lovely as Stede’s original tub was, it certainly wasn’t big enough for two grown men to share. Ed pours buckets of hot and warm water into it in turn, letting Stede pick salts and powdered soaps to dissolve into the water and watching as bubbles start to form on the surface. Gonna be the fucking bath of a lifetime, this one is.

Ed lights a few candles, scattering them across the top of Stede’s dressing table so the light fills the room as best it can. The light from outside is already starting to fade, and Ed reckons it won’t be long before the sun sets completely. He sits back while Stede fusses with the bath and watches the light flicker across the curves and planes of Stede’s body. It’s changed a lot since they first met, muscle forming under soft fat as he’s become more adept at physical work. He’s still soft though, that’s the important part. He could throw Ed halfway across the deck if he wanted to, but he’s still soft and delicate in all the right fucking places, still makes a fucking brilliant pillow when Ed wants a nap.

Stede’s body contains multitudes. And Ed loves every single fucking one of them.

Eventually, the water level, temperature and bubble volume meet Stede’s standards, and Ed holds out a hand so Stede can take the first cautious step into the depths, letting him settle with his back against the wall of the tub before climbing in after him and snuggling down against Stede’s chest until he’s shoulder deep and surrounded by warmth.

“Fuck yes,” Ed moans, earning a giggle from Stede.

“You okay there?”

“Fuckin’ peachy,” Ed sighs, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against Stede’s shoulder.

He could fall asleep. Right here, right now. He’s warm, and he’s safe, and he’s so fucking content he could cry. Ed takes a deep breath and sinks down below the surface, the crown of his head resting on Stede’s ribs. There isn’t much room for his hair to swirl around the way he likes, but it’s calm, and Stede’s right there behind him, and everything falls so wonderfully, beautifully still.

In his head he counts, but he’s barely at twenty seconds before Stede’s hauling him back above the surface, high enough that he can press a kiss behind Ed’s ear and scold him in a whisper.

“You’ll drown, you maniac.”

“You’d never let me, love,” Ed says, twisting his neck so he can pull Stede into a kiss, all filthy and warm. Stede hums against his lips, then he’s pulling away, scattering gentle little presses of his mouth to Ed’s temple, his jaw, the shell of his ear. It’s so soft that it activates every tickle response in Ed’s body, and he squirms, doing his best to twist out of Stede’s attack without sending water all over the floor.

Ed’s squirms and subsequent splashes devolve into a minor war zone of flicked water and underhand attacks that do, in the end, result in both a decent loss of water from the tub and Ed almost receiving a knee to the head when he ducks under the water to poke at Stede’s belly.

“This isn’t the relaxing bath I thought you were proposing,” Stede pants, arms braced against the edges of the tub, his biceps bulging obscenely. His tone is similar to the one used when the crew are fucking around a little too irresponsibly, but he’s smiling, and Ed knows that he’d continue playing, if that’s what Ed chose.

“Truce?” Ed offers, holding his hands up in front of his face. “No more dicking around, I swear.”

Stede eyes him warily, but nods, lowering himself back into the water and spreading his knees so Ed can lay between them. The water is a little lower now, lapping gently at Ed’s chest as he settles down, but it’s still warm, and it gives Stede a little more freedom to trace aimlessly over Ed’s body, following the lines of tattoos and scars Ed knows he can’t see right now.

Strange, to be so intimately known like that.

Strange, but so fucking wonderful.

When the water cools a little, Stede selects a bar from the selection of soaps next to the rub, lathering it up and guiding Ed to tilt his head back slightly, just enough for Stede to start rubbing the suds through his hair, finally cleaning it of sea salt and sweat.

Ed dunks his head when Stede asks him to, closing his eyes so Stede can rub his fingertips over Ed’s head, working the soap right into his roots. He moans a little at the contact, he can’t help it. Having his hair washed by another person is a hundred times better than doing it himself, and Stede’s knowledge of the right pressure and pattern to use amplifies that feeling tenfold. Stede smacks him gently on the shoulder when Ed lets his groans get a little wanton, but makes no move to stop the massage, instead rounding off his work on Ed’s scalp so he can move to the stiffness in his shoulders.

Ed’s cock perks up a little with how relaxed he’s feeling, and there’s no chance in hell of him coming again, but he lets it make a valiant attempt at sitting somewhere between half and full mast as Stede works magic with his hands. At least Stede will know his work is appreciated.

Took a little while to get used to the idea of bathing with Stede, to let him into an intimate ritual that has felt so personal and so sacred for so many years. Felt like one of his last big secrets, one of Ed’s last protected vulnerabilities. It’s not like Stede would have mocked him for it, the man built multiple ensuite bathrooms into his ship, for fuck’s sake. But still, Ed kept it close, private.

He’s told Stede the stories, regaled the anecdotes of choosing scraps of soap as a kid, of stories and hairwashes and sleeping by the fire. Of bucket washes, and tavern rooms and the non negotiable luxuries he commanded for himself as he rose the ranks.

He still takes most of his baths alone, behind a closed, but unlocked door. Still takes the time for himself, to process and relax and let the noise in his brain run itself down to a gentle hum.

But it’s nice, once in a while, to share. To let Stede wash his hair and his back, to talk through the day as the aches and pains ease, to let the world that they traverse together shrink down into the four walls of their shared ensuite.

Stede rubs at Ed’s hip under the water, fingertips trailing along the crease of his thigh, and there are a thousand and one scenarios in which Ed would let it become more, where he’d let Stede trace his hand a little further, let him grip a little harder, let him work him until his heart is racing and his breaths are laboured again.

Instead, he relaxes back into Stede’s embrace and nuzzles softly at Stede’s jaw, pressing kisses to every place he can reach.

This isn’t how Ed’s night ends, he knows that. He knows they have to make an appearance back out with the crew at some point, check the new inventory, assign night crew duties, and receive a gentle ribbing for their activities. There’ll be dinner waiting for them, regardless of how late they make it to the table. Something special, rich and spiced and in large enough volumes to offset the energy spent on the raid.

Stede will want to soak some of his clothes before he attempts washing them, and they’ll need to change the bedding, and the cabin needs to be put back together now Hurricane Ed and Stede has fully passed, but those are all jobs for later. Those are all jobs for after. None of those jobs matter right now.

Because right now, it's bath night.

Everything else can wait.