"Piece of eight for your thoughts," Ed says. Stede leans against the balcony of the quarter deck, watching Alma spar with Jim. They're about evenly matched, no small feat considering how many years' head start Jim has.
"I used to wonder if I'd ever find ways to relate to my children. They seemed so inscrutable, save when we were playing." Every so often Stede gets thoughtful like this, almost talking to himself. Ed is happy to listen.
"Not that I've had much occasion to spend time with kids, but they don't seem terribly complicated? You listen to ‘em about whatever they're telling you about and try to care."
Stede huffs, a small amused sound. "Darling, I think you misunderstand how incredibly self centered and myopic I could be, especially… before." There's a rueful twist of his mouth, and Ed wants to kiss it away, replace it with something more suited to his disposition.
"You weren't happy. Hard to think straight when you feel like you're drowning on dry land."
Stede pats his hand. "Certainly, but I still should have made an effort. It wasn't their fault I felt trapped in my life, to the point I was a better playmate than father."
"But you made up for it. You're making an effort now."
He nods. "Funny how running away from my responsibilities only affirmed why I needed to take them seriously."
"I hope that applies to more than just your children," Ed says, just to be a shit.
"Fuck you," Stede replies, without any heat.
(They've had their serious conversations and tearful fights about what happened. Being able to joke about it robs the memory of any power to still hurt, and Ed is so fucking grateful.)
"I was always so concerned I wouldn't understand them, force them into doing things they didn't want but I thought they should." There's a real thread of pain in Stede's voice at this, and Ed would gladly dig up Stede's piece of shit father so Ed can tell him what he thinks about that.
"Mary would never have let you, that I know." Ed doesn't know the (now twice) Widow Bonnet extremely well, but sometimes he sees Alma make a face she definitely didn't learn from her dad, and his heart swells in admiration for them both.
"Not the Mary of your acquaintance, certainly, but we were both… not our best selves together.” There’s a pinch between his brows, acknowledgement of how miserable it was for both of them. “Social expectation made us play roles that suited neither of us, and it is entirely possible I could have ended up like my father."
"Stede—fuck no! You're telling me you'd look at Louis and decide to treat him the same as you were?" Even after all these years, Ed is frustrated at how little credit Stede gives himself sometimes. But he supposes there’s only so much a person can do to counteract years of being told how little they matter.
"No, you're absolutely right. I would never be that terrible.”
(Louis is much like Ed imagines Stede was as a boy: gentle, quiet, bookish. The first time they met he looked up at Ed and smiled so sweetly Ed would have burned down the entire fucking Spanish armada for him. They spent the afternoon picking flowers while Louis told him about bones of long-dead creatures dug out of the ground.)
“But I don't know if I would have been good either."
"People who are shit at things don't tend to worry about whether they'll be good at them, y'know."
"No, I suppose not."
A roar goes up from the crew, and they look up just in time to see Alma point a blade at Jim’s throat. They yield with a grin.
“Dad! Ed! Did you see?” Alma looks up at them, sweaty and flushed and eyes shining bright.
“We did, my lovely, fierce girl. You were absolutely glorious.” Stede looks so proud of her he could burst, and Ed’s mouth curves into a smile before he realizes.
Alma blows him a kiss before she turns around to receive her congratulations from the crew. Ed leans his shoulder against Stede’s.
“She’s gonna make an incredible captain one day, just like her dad.”
Stede presses a kiss to Ed’s temple. “With role models like us, Mr. Teach? How could she not?”