Chapter Text
Windswept and smelling entirely too much of fish, the seaside town of Revenge has exactly one thing going for it, and that is its absolute lack of charm. For all its dramatic rock beaches and scenic shops straight out of a Nicholas Spark novel, there’s a gleam in the eyes of the townies that screams you are getting cast in the remake of “Get Out” the second you pass the city limits. The air holds the promise of ocean breeze, and the resident fishermen down on the wharf sharpen their gutting knives without breaking eye contact. Rumour has it they have a knife-wielding maniac living in a cabin in the woods off the orange-tree grove. There are only so many antique shop signs and 1850s lighthouses that can make up for the sheer inhospitable atmosphere. Which is why the cabbie refuses to drive them past the town sign: a wooden lighthouse half-submerged in a poorly drawn swatch of dark waves, looking decidedly phallic with its red painted cap.
‘You have to be kidding me,’ Lucius says the moment he steps out the cramped backseat. The meter’s running upwards of two hundred pounds and Stede is perched between the front seats figuring out the tip on his phone. He ends up giving a clip of cash to the guy without counting.
‘Keep the change, Charlie! And do have Moira send along pictures of her pastiche works,’ he says. They had, of course, become grand friends in the three-hour drive up from the nearest landing field. Charlie helps them with their luggage—no less than two suitcases a piece, three duffles, and a backpack each. Lucius had a crate of books balanced on his knees the whole ride. Their departure had been rather hasty, and Stede was forced to downsize his library to what he could conceivably carry: a few classics (Peter Pan, Pinocchio, the likes), the whole signed Lord of the Rings trilogy, some Shakespeare if only for the clout, Little Women, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and a few Jane Austen “for the road”. The rest, Stede would have to ship from London, or buy new. Though Lucius doubts Revenge had any first editions within its two-mile radius.
Charlie waves from the cab and leaves them by the side of the road, luggage in a neat pile on the bank. Stede stands beside him under the phallic town side and inhales a lung full of seaweed and salt. He has a shine in his eye Lucius recognizes from exactly two past occasions: the day Stede hired him, and the day Stede decided to implode his life, and Lucius’ right along with it.
‘Well, I think this is quite quaint!’ He says, the vest of his suit folded over his arm, mud on his Valentino loafers. His smile is genuine, blond hair catching in the faint sea breeze wafting in from the beach. Lucius is too stunned to speak. He shoves the books at Stede and hefts his bags onto his shoulders, turning on his heel to follow the winding gravel road into town.
‘Remind me to quit once we reach civilization.’
‘Oh come on,’ Stede hurries to catch up, juggling the books to grab his suitcases, ‘it’s not that bad!’
‘Stede,’ Lucius turns about-face, ‘there’s a dick on the town sign.’
‘Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, that’s just an unfortunate bit of painting!’
‘The town is literally called Revenge. Couldn’t pick something more subtle for your midlife crisis?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Nope. No, don’t say anything else. There is literally nothing you can say right now that will make up for the last week of our lives.’ Stede’s mouth clamps shut. He sucks in his lips and his big brown eyes start to gleam in the afternoon light glinting off the waves. Lucius stares straight at the sky so as not to give in to the clawing guilt steadily rising in his gut. He makes the mistake of catching Stede’s slumped shoulders out of the corner of his eye, and sighs.
‘Alright, maybe one thing.’
‘Raise?’ Stede says all too hopefully. Lucius starts walking again, putting all the pep he can into his step.
‘Five percent, nothing less. In cash, none of that deductible for tax reasons. Now get moving. We want to find shelter before dark, that’s what they say on Survivor.’ Stede slots the crate of books against his hip and skips behind.
The road runs along the ocean for half a mile before becoming Only Road, at which point the handful of shops crop up, their brightly coloured fronts and cheerful artisanal signs matching the Hallmark aesthetic to a tee. Even the church has been painted a churlish sunset orange. Only Road hits a Y-bend in front of it, and the right branch curves away from the main street to head to the wharf a few hundred metres from the town centre. Fishing boats bob along the docks in the late afternoon, bright colours peeling from the wear and tear. The left side of the road heads up into the thick pine trees lining the waterfront, cottage roofs peeking through the canopy. In the distance, a pier breaks against the waves, a red and white lighthouse standing erect against the elements.
The temperature drops steadily throughout the afternoon, and Lucius is shivering through the loose knit of his pullover by the time they reach the first few shops. The cashmere is feeling particularly thin against the hard stares of the few locals on the street. Suddenly, it’s not just the Atlantic winds that are icy. Stede walks on, perfectly oblivious to the glares tracking their movements. He flags down the first person he sees, a scowling man with a greying goatee and a hefty serving of ire in his gaze, and Lucius seriously considers tying the suitcase to his legs and throwing himself off the pier.
‘Hello good sir!’ Stede walks up, all smiles and good-natured. The man’s scowl deepens, beady eyes sizing up Stede like he’s trying to decide whether he can get away with homicide in plain daylight. Based on the similar looks of displeasure from the other people stopped in the street to watch the spectacle, Lucius is unsure if the town would let him, as the sole witness, live. Lucius is trying to make eye contact with the nearest person to request humane treatment through blinking Morse code when the man’s scowl finally dislodges.
‘Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?’ It’s a feat in and of itself that the man can talk so clearly through gritted teeth.
‘Oh, well, we’re just tourists!’ Exclaims Stede. It’s the wrong thing to say, the whole of Only Road bristling as one like an angered street cat. He plows on. ‘We’re hoping to stay around here. We actually… Lucius?’ Lucius is interrupted mid prayer for leniency by Stede’s outstretched hand. ‘The note?’
‘Oh,’ Lucius remembers himself and pulls a Post-it with a hastily scrawled address and name from his pocket. ‘Here.’
‘We’re looking for one Ed Teach? We were told over the phone to meet him at “Blackbeard’s Bar & Grill & Other Delicacies & Delights & Fishing Equipment”?’ Stede finishes with a raised brow to the scowling man. Lucius, until that very moment, had somehow not realized how very ridiculous his situation is, and promptly tries to self-combust. Goatee’s scowl impossibly deepens, something dark clouding his already thundersome expression.
‘Doesn’t exist.’ He snaps, and turns on his heel.
‘Oh, but,’ Stede doesn’t have time to argue, the angry man disappears through the door of a shop with a dark purple coat. The wind catches the swinging sign: a large octopus curling around a stylized letters spelling out Kraken.
‘Well, I think we gave it the good old college try. Should I schedule the Heli to pick us up at the field then?’ Lucius quips, but Stede isn’t paying attention.
‘Wonder what bit him…’ He’s saying to himself, eyes casting across the rest of the street for his next prey. The passers who had all stopped to gawk all suddenly return to their tasks, avoiding eye contact.
’Stede c’mon. You were clearly scammed. Don’t shoot the messenger. Let’s just go home. Stede—’
‘Excuse me? Sir?’ A voice pipes up behind them. Lucius clutches his pearls.
‘Jesus.’ There’s an honest-to-God nun standing between their suitcases and bags, sweet face in stark contrast to the outline of a hunting knife strapped to her hip under her habit.
‘Oh hello,’ Stede turns with a congenial smile.
‘I heard you asking after Mr. Teach?’ She raises a brow. Lucius can’t be sure but he swears she says it as a threat.
‘Why yes,’ Stede beams, ‘I’m Stede Bonnet, and this is Lucius Spriggs. We were asked to meet with him about lodging?’
‘He’s down by the docks at the moment, went to help the boys with a stuck winch.’ She points down the road and towards the water. ‘You’ll find him there, just take a right at the multifaith centre.’
‘The… Multifaith centre?’ Lucius interjects.
‘Yes, the orange building down by the intersection,’ nods the nun.
‘The… Church?’ Lucius clarifies. Her eye twitches. ‘Is a multifaith and spirituality centre now?’ He tacks on quickly.
‘How progressive,’ claps Stede, all smiles. ‘Thank you…’
‘Everyone round here calls me Nana,’ she waves aside. ’You can leave your luggage here if you want, I’ll have the boys at the Kraken take ’em inside.’
‘Oh, no, that’s really not—’ Lucius is already holding his suitcase in a death grip.
‘Why thank you, that’s most hospitable,’ Stede interjects, propping the crate of books on one of the barrels stacked out front. ‘Though we would hate to inconvenience the owner.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that, the man’s more bark than bite.’
‘He did seem rather sour…’ Says Stede, looking to where Goatee has disappeared behind grimy windows.
‘Oh that’s Izzy, he’s just the barback. He’s always been a piece of shit,’ Nana states matter-of-factly. Stede’s eyebrows shoot up, but he nods along.
‘Ah.’
‘Don’t worry about Izzy, if Mr. Teach is having you then he’ll be happy to keep an eye on your bags while you find him.’
‘I really don’t—’ Lucius is shaking his head but Stede talks over him.
‘Well, that settles it. Thank you so much Nana, you’ve been so welcoming.’
‘Someone has to be. Town’s full of hermits. It’ll do them some good to have some new folks around. Come by the centre if you need anything alright?’
‘Of course. We’ll be sure to!’ Stede waves as the nun shuffles into the Kraken. ‘Well,’ he says, turning to Lucius, ‘shall we?’
By the time Stede and Lucius reach the mangled wooden wharf, the entirety of Revenge has heard of the arrival of the well-to-do gentleman and his angry assistant. Rumours travel faster than fleet feet on a town too small to feature on even a regional map. The wind whips their forms and eyes track them as Stede and Lucius pick their way across the rotting planks. They skirt around the ice boxes, and Stede offers quiet hellos while Lucius gives his own quiet apologies.
‘Stede,’ he calls, ‘Stede. Stede. This is a terrible idea. That nun probably just stole all our stuff. I have a Prada shirt in my suitcase Stede.’
‘She’s a nun, I’m sure that’s frowned upon.’
‘What? Wearing Prada under their habits?’
‘I’m telling you, this place is perfectly quaint! Nothing bad will happen.’
‘Quaint? Quaint? Stede there are literal fish guts. On my shoes,’ Lucius hisses under his breath, offering a wave and a strained smile to the fisherman staring at them as they walk by.
‘It’s a fishing town, this is all about naturalizing ourselves. Living amongst the natives.’
‘Then I can watch CODA on the flat screen back in your apartment while you’re out. I’m going back to London.’
‘Don’t be silly Lucius, take a breath of that fresh ocean air!’ Stede gives an example, cheeks rosy in the sea breeze. Lucius hopes he choked on his own bowtie.
‘Again, fish guts. I think my hair is starting to smell of it.’
‘I hear the salt is good for your skin.’
‘You can order salt on Amazon, Stede. Stede? Stede, where are you going?’
Stede prances over to a cluster of people standing around an old fishing vessel. A couple heads pick up at their approach and Stede lifts a hand in greeting. Lucius jogs to catch up.
‘Howdy!’
‘Dear God,’ mutters Lucius. Faces frown back, but Stede is undeterred.
‘We were told we might find one Ed Teach around here?’ That elicits a few snickers. The handful of fishermen look at each other, elbowing one another. A stout guy with a leather armless jacket and waders shouts over his shoulder.
‘Oy, Blackbeard! Ever heard of an Ed Teach?’
There’s a rustle of laughs among those gathered and they part like the sea, allowing Stede (and Lucius) a direct line of sight with the man hunched over the rigging. A head of salt and pepper hair, cued back with a hair tie, is ducked looking over the machinery. He gives a wrench a good tug, sweat gleaming on his exposed shoulders, before rolling back on his heels. Stretching to his full height, leather slacks straining, he cleans the oil stains from his hands with a rag. There’s a joke in the corner of his mouth, thick dark beard cascading down his chest. His eyes cut to the side, gaze sharp and calculating on Lucius, before catching on Stede. Something flashes impossibly quick across the man’s expression, before it pulls into a languid smirk. He hops from the ship to the docks, boots making a mat sound where they hit the wooden planks, and chucks the rag to one of the fishermen. He swaggers over, and stops a few steps from the two newcomers, eyes assessing and amused.
‘Ed Teach?’ Says Blackbeard. ‘Never heard of him.’