Archive of Our Own ^beta

Life as an inkeeper is quiet, and that's just the way Ed likes it.

He used to think he wanted adventure, dreamed of sailing the seven seas, of perhaps making a name for himself in the world as some sort of legendary pirate. He loved the water, after all, so what better life to live than one spent out upon it each and every day? He'd spent years as a fisherman, the life more achingly dull than it had ever been in any of his fantasies, and found he was absolutely terrible about it. Turns out you have to be quiet for a job like that, and quiet Ed is not. One day he woke up and decided that perhaps his life was better spent beside the sea instead.

So now he runs an inn along the shore with his friend Stede, and together they make pretty fuckin' good innkeepers if Ed says so himself. Ed is all charisma, winning over the guests with his warm smiles and witty anecdotes, even if he knows fuck all about running an inn, honestly. Stede, a former high society guy who's still recovering from the constant urge to stick his nose in the air and be bitchy all the time, brings to the table a sense of finery that Ed could never accomplish. Together, they run the kind of inn that anyone would be glad to stay at and tell all their friends later what a wonderful time they had during their stay. Ed's happy, in this life.

Of course, no one much comes to visit, which means that Ed has to make ends meet by selling herbs from his vegetable garden and Stede works part time as a scribe in the nearest town, but that's alright. It's only because they're so out of the way that hardly anyone ever wanders through needing a place to stay. Most of the time it's just quiet here, and Ed kind of likes it this way. Quiet is good. Quiet is peaceful.

He's startled when the door to the inn opens, almost dropping his knitting needle, which would have ruined the lovely purple scarf he was working on behind the counter. Luckily he catches it just in time to be able to set it aside and rise to his feet to greet the first guest they've seen in nearly two months. 

"Welcome to Blackbeard's Bed and Breakfast and Herbal Remedies and Other Dabbles and Delights," he says cheerfully, squinting against the light suddenly flooding in through the door. "I'm Ed How can I help you today?"

"I need a fuckin' room, what the fuck else would I be here for?" the visitor gripes, voice raspy and low. The door closes behind them and Ed can see properly now, making out the shape of a shorter man dressed in all black leather, his graying hair Indicating he’s around Ed’s own age, maybe a little older. He looks tired and cranky, with an enormous rucksack over one shoulder and a limping sort of gait as he steps up to the other side of the counter. “Do you have one to rent, or not?”

Normally Ed might take offense to that sort of tone –Ed the innkeeper does not like rude customers—but he’s distracted by the man’s appearance. He looks like someone with a story to tell, someone interesting and exciting and seasoned in the ways of the world. Not to mention, he’s kind of fuckin’ cute. He decides to let the attitude pass. This time. “Sure thing, mate. Just you?”

“Don’t have anyone else with me, do I?”

Okay, being rude twice is stretching the limits of Ed’s benevolence, but still, money’s money and the inn could use some new curtains, according to Stede. He turns and grabs one of the keys off the row of neat little hooks behind him. “Alright, not a problem. You can stay in Room 1. Five dubloons a night, up front. Go ahead and sign the guest book, it’s right upstairs.”

The man sighs as he looks to the stairs Ed indicates, shoulders slumping, but nods, pulling out his coin purse and counting out the coins. Ed watches as he takes the little charcoal pencil and scribbles his name in the large book on the counter—Izzy Hands.

“You’re all set, Izzy, here’s the key. If you need anything, just give a shout, myself or Stede is usually within earshot.”

“Thanks,” Izzy grunts, proving he does at least know what manners are, grabbing the key from Ed’s dangling finger and moving towards the stairs. He’s limping again, and it isn’t until he passes the counter that Ed notices why. One of his legs is missing from the knee down, replaced with a wooden prosthetic that looks a bit like a horse leg with a golden hoof. A man with stories, indeed.

He doesn’t comment --he'll save the questions for after dinner, probably-- but he does watch with interest as Izzy approaches the stairs and looks up at them like an old foe. Izzy shifts the bag on his shoulder and clutches the railing firmly in one gloved hand, taking the first step with a muffled grunt of pain and a dangerous wobble. He takes a moment to steady himself, breathing heavily, then takes the next step, and then another. It’s slow going, clearly painful, and every time the bag shifts on his shoulder and threatens his balance Izzy’s whole body tenses up like he’s expecting to pitch backwards down the stairs.

Ed clears his throat as delicately as he can. “I could give you a room downstairs, if you’d rather—”

“Fuck you, I’ll take the room I’ve got,” Izzy snaps at once, like he was just waiting for Ed to say something about it.

“It’s no problem, really—”

“Fuck off, I don’t need your pity.”

Swallowing the flash of anger at Izzy’s tone, Ed replies, “What about fucking empathy, you bag of dicks? I know firsthand how bad those stairs hurt when your leg’s fucked.”

Okay, so maybe he hadn’t quite swallowed his anger. So fuckin’ sue him.

He sees the words hit and Izzy turns to look at him again, eyes glancing downward to where Ed’s knee brace is clearly visible over his trousers. It’s an old injury, from a childhood incident of trying to climb a tree he had no business climbing, but it still gives out on him sometimes when he’s been spending too much time on his feet. Not the same as an amputation by any stretch, but still. He can relate to the feeling of dread when faced with a set of stairs after a long day.

“I don’t have a leg left to be fucked,” Izzy grumbles, but Ed can see the begrudging gratitude behind his eyes, and that’s good enough for him.

“Hey, Stede?” he calls out as he approaches Izzy, snatching the key from his hand and offering his arm to help Izzy back down the stairs instead.

“Just a moment,” Stede calls back from the other room, emerging a moment later as Izzy is leaning on Ed for support and clambering his way back down to ground level. “Yes? Oh, hello!”

“Would you mind putting some fresh sheets on the bed downstairs?” Ed asks him, shooting him a look that says keep your commentary to yourself. Stede must get the message, because his jaw snaps shut around whatever questions he was about to raise. “This is Izzy, he’s our new guest. He’s gonna sleep down here.”

Stede’s gaze flickers between the two of them and down to Izzy’s leg for just a moment before he politely raises his eyes to Ed’s face once more. “But it’s so dark in there,” Stede merely protests. “The blackout curtains make it like a dreadful little cave, Ed, it’s not suitable for—”

“So open the fuckin’ curtains then, if you want,” Ed grouses. “Whatever. Please?”

“Of course,” Stede says happily. He’s probably thrilled at the opportunity to spruce up the downstairs room, which he likes to describe as a ‘dungeon of depression’ and which Ed has steadfastly refused to allow him to redecorate for years now. “Welcome, Izzy, give me just a moment and I’ll get the room ready for you.”

He skitters off to go get the room ready, and Ed jerks his chin towards an armchair in the lobby that Izzy can sit in. “Probably be more than a minute, might as well take a load off. He’ll want to dust and shit, bring in some more flowers. All about the aesthetic, that one.”

“I don’t give a damn about the aesthetic, I just want a bed to sleep in,” Izzy grunts as he falls into the chair with a sigh of relief.

“Me neither, but it makes him happy,” Ed shrugs. “Best to just let him do his thing.”

Izzy pauses for a moment as Stede re-enters with an armful of linens and then makes his way into the only downstairs bedroom with them, humming cheerfully as he goes. When Stede is once more out of sight, Izzy turns to Ed. “Is he your… partner, then?”

“Only in business,” Ed answers quietly. “And in friendship. I prefer the strong, silent type when it comes to my men.”

Is it just his imagination, or does Izzy give a little half nod of approval at Ed’s words? There’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. “A man of good taste.”

It’s nearly dinnertime, so Ed helps Izzy get his bag into the room and gets him settled, promising that Stede will bring him a tray of dinner later if he’d like. On the house, on account of Izzy being a first-time guest. Izzy gladly agrees, even thanking Ed for it, and Ed shuffles off to get cooking. There’s a new crab cake recipe he’s been wanting to try, anyways.

It’s only later, when Stede is coming in to say goodnight to Ed before returning to his own room, that Ed’s partner leans against the doorframe with a curious expression. “You gave him the downstairs room,” Stede comments significantly.

Ed averts his gaze, pretending a sudden, intense interest in the painting of a seagull on the wall opposite the bed he’s settled into. “Yeah. And?”

“Could be a while before he checks out.” Stede raises his eyebrows. “He’s got the look of someone trying to start a new life. Might be in that room for days, maybe weeks. Months, even, depending on how much coin he has saved up.”

He’d seen the weight of the world on Izzy’s shoulders, and he’d heard the rattle of a fair amount of coins in Izzy’s purse, and Ed knows that Stede could very well be right. “Maybe so. What of it?”

Stede smiles. “It’s not every day you give up your own bedroom for a guest, Ed.”

It’s the first time, actually, because Ed also prefers a room that doesn’t mean dragging himself up and down the stairs all day. Nearly ten years they’ve been running this inn, and never once has Ed offered his own bedroom to a guest. “Just didn’t want to lose out on any potential business, that’s all,” he says gruffly. “Shut the fuck up about it, will you?”

Stede crosses the room to extinguish the lantern for him, because he has a sixth sense for when Ed’s joints are hurting from the autumn chill and because he knows how much Ed hates to be vulnerable in the face of truth. He drops a friendly pat onto Ed’s shoulder as he goes. “I think that was very kind of you,” he says fondly into the now-dark room, retreating towards the door once more.

“No one asked what you think,” Ed huffs, pulling the blankets up around him.

A soft laugh floats across the room from the direction of the threshold. “Goodnight, Ed. I’ll see you at breakfast. With our new extra-special guest, I imagine.”

“Fuck you,” Ed mumbles, holding back a smile. “Goodnight, Stede.”