Archive of Our Own

It’s not a Mayday call – it’s not like there’s an imminent threat to human life.

Well, Iz might kill him, but that’s just a regular Thursday. Fuck knows how they’ve made it around the world three times together with no lives lost.

But they are stuck well into the ocean, fifty nautical miles from even the nearest bit of shore, floating towards a shipping lane, and their rudder is what Ed would class as totally fucked.

Not bloody optimal, to be quite honest.

So not a super big emergency, just a bit of a snag. Might need a bit of help. Ed reckons that’s what’s got Izzy as pissed off as he is. It’s one thing to need help in the Roaring Forties, the strong westerlies that rage unimpeded by land across the Southern Ocean. It’s something different to need help in the Bay of fucking Biscay with civilisation just over the horizon.

The boat they’re currently adrift in is barely more than a dinghy.

But it’s not like they’re getting themselves out of trouble with no fucking steering.

So he activates the radio, and makes his distress call.

“Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan.

This is sailboat La Concorde, La Concorde, La Concorde.

Call sign Quebec Alpha Romeo One -”

Watches Izzy pace up and down the deck through the window as he reels off the MMSI to ID the ship, and their location.

“We have a broken rudder and are drifting towards shipping lane, require tow to safety. Two adults on board.

Over.”

He waits. Izzy glares at him from the deck, through the window of the cockpit. He shrugs. Like, what’s he gonna do about this? He’s either getting a reply, or he’s not getting a reply. Swears to fuck Izzy’s like a cat that gets mad when the weather changes, like it’s a controllable thing.

The radio crackles into life.

“Pan-pan,” the voice on the other end says. Male. Kiwi. Bit odd, in this part of the world. A bit nervous, but then, maybe that’s not surprising. Not an everyday thing, even when it’s not a more urgent Mayday call.

“La Concorde QAR-1, La Concorde QAR-1, La Concorde QAR-1.

This is the sailboat Revenge SBT2, Revenge SBT2, Revenge SBT2.

Received, pan-pan.

Would you like a tug? Over.”

Ed grins. “Never been one to say no to that, Revenge, over,” he drawls down the radio. Gives Izzy a thumbs up and gets a curt nod in response. It’s hard to look brooding in nearly-fluorescent red oilskins, but Izzy’ll be fucked if he’s not willing to give it a go.

Revenge gives her position, and speed, and then hesitates.

“I’m not actually very good, at the navigation parts,” Revenge says apologetically. “Our ETA should be… twenty minutes? Over.”

“Reckon you’re about right, mate, over,” Ed says. About sixteen, if Revenge is correct about her position and speed.

There’s a pause, then. Awkward, filled with silence.

“You want me to stay on this channel? Do check ins?” Ed prompts, because despite his reputation he’s not actually a dick. Not when the stakes are low, anyway. And he probably knows the protocol way better than this dude. They’re far from shore, but not so far that this guy couldn’t be a casual day tripper. Sounds like one.

“Oh! Yes! Please! Thank you, that would be wonderful.”

They lapse into a silence then. Ed pops his head out, lets Izzy know what's going on. Izzy just gives a curt nod, keeps his eye on the horizon for trouble. Ed leaves him be; there's not much to gain with an Izzy Hands that can't make himself useful unless you enjoy watching a man slowly lose his mind.

***

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Ed says after a timely fifteen minutes. He’s expecting a joke. Or occasionally he’ll get something risque back. Or sometimes just a gruff retort that suggests that the hearer doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

“Well! Funny story, actually!” Revenge says, like he’s taking it as just a straight up question. “We’re on a bit of a test run right now.”

“A test run?”

“Very much a restoration refit sort of situation, and we’re out of dry docks. Needed to test her seaworthiness before we find a full crew and go for the big one!”

“I hope she’s up to scratch mate, or we’re both buggered.”

“Happy to report that she’s flying!” And Revenge has got a note to his voice that Ed recognises - the silky feeling of a vessel sliding through the waves in the way that she was meant to. Ed’s mum used to say that he looked at his yachts like most men looked at their dates. She’d said it in a slightly despairing tone of voice, resigned to the fact that no person was ever going to tolerate playing second fiddle to this. She’d always worried that he’d have a lonely future if he followed his dreams, had always hated to see him leave harbour for the open ocean.

He’d pushed back a lot, when he was a kid. Had fucked off with Hornigold, aware of where the money for all this was coming from.

But now he’s pushing fifty and he can’t remember the last time he felt like that. Maybe it would have been like this with a person, too - the fizz of something new making way to the crushing drudgery of routine and expectation.

“You been waiting a while for this?” Ed asks.

“Years,” Revenge says. “It feels like Christmas morning. Except you’ve watched the present come together slowly, piece by piece, and know every piece of her from her keel to her crow’s nest. It feels worth the wait, today.”

Guy sounds head over heels for her. It’s kinda nice. Ed doesn’t get to hear that much, these days. These days it’s about schmoozing with sponsors, who are concerned about ROI and public image, and fellow competitors, who put their joy away as competitive deadweight.

You wouldn’t catch Izzy waxing lyrical about any of their hulls.

It’s a long time since Ed’s met anyone over the age of about eight who was in it for the sheer rollercoaster ride of elation and despair.

It’s fucking fascinating.

“So what’s your girl like?” he asks.

“If you fancy looking to your portside, I believe I can do a rather dramatic reveal.”

“Fancy a dramatic reveal, do you?”

“La Concorde, you have no idea.”

Except Ed does. He can feel the excitement vibrating through the radio waves, even through the lost nuances and the crackles.

He turns. He looks.

He looks again.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I’m afraid not!”

“What is that?” It’s a fucking big, giant, humungous, ship is what it is. A fucking sailboat, he’d said.

Well, Ed can’t fault him for his technical accuracy. Technically, it’s a fucking sailing boat. It’s got fucking sails. From its three huge fucking masts built of full grown trees. With their sails full of the prevailing wind. Because it’s a fucking tall ship. Plunging towards them, and still it nears and nears.

It’s ploughing towards them across the open ocean like Ed’s in some sort of fever dream or poem. Ghosts of ages past coming for him, an unearthly sight. There’s no way it’s original – nothing that old is seaworthy, nothing anywhere near that old is anywhere but a museum – but she sure as fuck looks like the real thing.

It’s - he has to admit to himself - very Jack sodding Sparrow, which technically ticks off something that shouldn’t be a fantasy considering his job, and the reality of pirates, and dying at fucking sea. But hey, fantasy’s not reality, right?

His fantasy version hadn’t been so chipper, but that’s a fault in the limitations of his own imagination. He’d thought tall ship captains might be brooding and sweep him off his feet, he hadn’t thought they’d be enthusiastic in a sunny way.

“My ex-wife calls it my mid-life crisis.”

Ex-wife for a reason, Ed supposes. A project like this isn’t something that's achieved without going all-in. “You don’t think so?”

“I rather thought I’d ticked that box by coming out and divorcing her, but she seems to think I have more to give in that area.”

“Two midlife crises? That’s overkill, man.”

The voice laughs, but there’s not really much humour in it. “I can be a lot.”

“Lucky for me, then, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“You think?”

“Takes a lot of man to get out there and do something different. Plenty of blokes go out there and buy a boat – seen that a thousand times. Never seen anyone restore a three masted tallship and then swoop to the rescue in it before.”

“Oh! I suppose we are rather dashing, sailing in to your aid! Makes it all worthwhile!”

“My hero,” Ed says, and he’s only half joking as the radio falls silent again. Not about the rudder - they’d be fine, someone would have come along eventually - but he can’t even begin to comprehend how brave you’d have to be to change so much about everything you had and everything you were perceived to be.

Braver than Ed, anyway. For all his drive he’s never been able to steer a new course - has spent his life being carried by the current and making the most of it. And he doesn’t regret it - most of it, anyway - but sometimes he thinks that maybe there’s more out there than endless races. And he’s done it all – Olympics, round-the-world, America’s Cup – and he’s worked fucking hard to make them all happen, but they were in front of him, ready for the taking, right from being a kid fucking about on boats. There’s always been a clear path, dictated by the funding, dictated by the glory. He’s never forged one of his own.

***

“We’ll throw a line over,” Revenge says, a little while later. He sounds slightly out of breath, like he's left his post and returned. There’s some noise in the background, like someone else is there in whatever sort of cockpit or bridge a ship like that has. Ed’s got no idea how many people a tallship might need - everything he’s ever sailed seriously has been cutting edge technology.

Ed watches as the Revenge manoeuvres herself into position. A person appears on her stern. It should be ridiculous, a small fluorescent blob in modern oilskins, standing at the railings of an ancient hull. A deckhand, dressed out of a catalogue. When Ed cracks open the door of his cockpit, he can hear the creak of her hull as she moves in the water, the flap of her sails. He almost fancies that he can smell her; tar and wood and history.

Izzy waves, and the person throws a rope over. It's not the first time Iz has done this. Won't be the last. Probably the first time he's done it with something quite so imposing though.

“Look, I don’t know how to ask this,” Ed says, reopening the channel. “But you’re pretty big, as far as sailing boats go. We can’t keep up with you. We'll capsize.” La Concorde is a nice little craft in her own way, but she’s not meant for the speed of transcontinental voyages, even historical ones.

“Oh gosh, of course,” Revenge says. “I'm meant to let them know. I think they're trimming the sails already. Don't worry, my crew will look after you!”

They swap details then, Revenge reassuring Ed all the way as if he’s the rank amateur. It’s kinda nice, really. A long time since someone asked Ed where his comfort zone was without any attempts to push at it.

They drift a little, the Revenge doing her best to match the aimless course of La Concorde through a thousand tiny adjustments. It's wild, seeing how much effort it really takes to do something Ed can achieve on even La Concorde at the push of a button. She ends up slightly broadside, leaving Ed space to admire her in full. She’s sleek, she’s beautiful, is what she is. She’s not like anything he’s seen on the open water.

Revenge gives the signal and they start moving, Ed pushed back into his seat slightly by the force of movement beginning as the line between them pulls taut, conveying the pull of the wind in her sails. Just one simple thing linking their destinies together. It's fucking strange. No engine noise, no mechanics. Just the sound of the waves as they cut through them. Through the open cockpit door he fancies he can hear the creak of the ropes and the shouting of people. He can't close his eyes, not really, not while he's sat with a finger over the engine ready to cut in should it be needed. But he can relax his lids slightly and remember to breathe the salt permeating through the boat, taking in the air that he's stopped noticing at some point in the last three decades.

***

“Tell me about her,” he says, at their next check in. Hour one complete. Izzy’s been outside, monitoring the tow line, and Ed’s stayed inside the cockpit. Most of it staring at the stern of Revenge, questions spinning in his head. “How..? I mean, tell me about you. And her.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re asking?” Revenge asks. “I’m told I do go on, rather.” Even across the radio there’s a note of trepidation. As if other people have asked and then cut him off afterwards.

“Mate,” Ed says. Because he knows. He knows. It’s a long time since he’s felt it himself, but there’s a memory, there, tucked away. The first time he stepped foot on Blackbeard, before the big record attempt, the way that she moved under his feet. He’s felt that before, even if he’s long past the point of feeling it now. “Trust me on this.”

And so Revenge starts talking, about a tallship that he passed by every day on his commute into the office. Moored by the riverside. Of the way he’d daydream about it. Of the way that one day, he chose not to stay on the train into the commercial centre, but disembarked to see it closer.

Of the way that up close, it looked tired, and sad, and he’d realised that it wasn’t seaworthy at all, despite her beauty.

Of the way that one day bunking off work had become more. How even when he was in the office, his thoughts weren’t. How he’d read about her; her original voyages, the long search for her wreck. The careful excavation of her and preservation of every single detail. How whole communities had come together to raise the funds to build her, timber by timber. How every piece of her second life had been made with the craftsmanship of her first – traditional methods, handmade. How her launch had been celebrated, but then the funding had disappeared, and she’d been left high and dry to be forgotten a second time.

The way that one day he’d found something - a name - and had called them, hands trembling.

And all through this, Ed’s sat by the controls, resting his fingers there absently, as if he has any power over this situation.

“You just rang someone up and bought a ship?” Ed asks. Absolute fucking nutter. He loves it.

“In hindsight, the names that my wife called me weren’t entirely unjustified,” Revenge says, wry tone threading through his words.

“She didn’t get it?”

“She didn’t get me. I didn’t get her. And I think, really, the boat was the final straw?”

“She left you?”

“I left her, actually. Just ran away. Unfair, really, but again at the time…”

“No, I get that,” Ed says. “My mum didn’t want me to make a career out of this. Wanted me to stay safe.” And this is the part of the story where everyone reassures him that mums just want their sons to be safe, and that she did and said everything out of love for him. That she side-eyed his love of the sea because she was scared for him.

“Stifling, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ed croaks, a sudden lump in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know what to do with anything he’s feeling right now. Has no idea how to respond to an answer that doesn’t make him feel guilty for fighting what she laid on him.

“I think Mary cared, in her own way, even if we didn’t love each other. But she wanted me to be something I couldn’t be.” There’s a pause. “I did try.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “I’m sure you did.” And he lets the conversation lapse into silence. Because he’d tried, too. He’d tried so hard. He’d come back, after his stint with Hornigold, when he was a bit more independent financially and could negotiate with sponsors. He’d avoided the round-the-world trips. He’d done the Olympics to please her, really, given her something that he hoped she could understand. And she’d seemed proud, and she’d shown her friends his medals.

And then she’d ask him when he was giving it up.

And now, okay now, that’s a question he’s willing to consider. Now he’s old and tired and his bones creak and he’s fed up. But then? Then he had the world at his feet and fire in his belly and Izzy pushing by his side felt like a lift rather than a drag, because he was pushing where Ed wanted to go anyway.

So he’d fucked off and broken the round-the-world world record, because if he didn’t know how to make her happy he sure as fuck knew how to push all her buttons. And yeah, weather and prevailing winds helped, but the twins known as spite and guilt sure as fuck pushed him on as well. Queen Anne's Revenge, he'd called that ship, and he's regretted that dig ever since. She never said anything. Never. Perhaps if she had it wouldn't feel so bad.

***

“You hit a point, though, don’t you?” he says, sixty minutes later to the dot. He's had time to think about it. Nothing else to do. “When you’re just there, drifting to their current, and you’re not making them happy, and you think: why?”

“I’m not very good at this, either,” Revenge says immediately, clearing waiting for the communication. “But I tell myself, at least I’m happy, being terrible. Most of the time, anyway.”

“Mate, owning a boat isn’t about being happy,” Ed says. “It makes you happy on two days.”

“The day you buy it and the day you sell it,” Revenge says at the same time that Ed does, slightly disjointed through the radio.

“It makes me feel… something though. Every time we found someone that could still work the techniques we needed. Every time we signed off a piece of work. Or figured out how to work a shower room into an eighteenth century aesthetic. The day we realised that crossing an ocean and replicating her voyage to China could be possible. Every step we take that gets us a day closer to that. Pride. Achievement. Satisfaction. Those are all happiness, too, in their own ways.”

“Yeah, okay, you got me there,” Ed says, because he gets that. He wouldn’t say he was happy, all the time he’s stepped off a boat and felt those combination of things. But they were worth feeling. They were the emotions that he'd worked towards.

***

Hour three complete. He’s been staring at the rope, watching Izzy check it. It’s bulky, but compared to the two vessels it’s binding together it’s a tenuous, fragile thing. “I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with W,” Ed throws out as an opening gambit.

“Gosh,” Revenge says dryly, presumably seeing the same nothingness to the horizon as Ed is. “That’s a hard one.”

“That’s what she said,” Ed says, startling a laugh out of Revenge that he lets roll down the radio channel.

“Hmm, let me see…”

Ed leans back in his seat, looks across the expanse of water.

“Weevils?”

“Got an infestation, mate?” He thinks those were a thing on long sea voyages. Something to do with oranges as well.

“Who knows how long you’ve been trapped out here on the open ocean.” Too long. Not long enough.

“Nope.”

“Worms?”

“Very creepy crawly-fixated, here.”

“Shipworms are a nightmare, ask me how I know.”

Ed winces. He’s never sailed a wooden vessel, but he doesn’t need to when the pain leeches through Revenge’s voice. “You get something thrown in for free when you bought her?”

“Apparently the easiest way to get rid of them is to sell your ship to a hapless weirdo. Wait. W. Weirdo?”

Ed almost wants to argue, because he’s always heard that word as a negative. He’s weird, when he chooses another adventure to push himself. He’s weird, because he’s never settled down. Doesn’t feel like it’s wrong for Revenge, but doesn’t feel like a bad thing, either. Interesting. Curious. Fascinating.

“Can’t see you, mate,” Ed says. A shame. He wants to know what Revenge looks like. Wants to see the expressions, see if he’s as open in his face as he is with his words and his tone. “And no mirror in here.”

“I refuse to believe that of you. Washbasin?”

“W– no.”

“Wardrobe?”

“Wait, what?” Who the fuck has a wardrobe on their ship? A great big ocean liner from eighteen hundred and fuckity something, that’s who.

“That’s two w’s in one sentence. Greedy.”

“How fancy is your ship?”

“Exceedingly.” Smug git. He’s proud of it too. Quite right, with his wardrobe and his whatever the fuck else he’s got going on there. Games room? Cannons?

“We’re living with the basics out here, mate.”

“You’ll have to let me introduce you to my wardrobe.”

“And your washbasin?”

“Exactly.”

They lapse into a silence then. It’s not uncomfortable, and Revenge is still there, Ed’s sure. Maybe run out of crazy things he owns that begin with the letter W.

The message drops into the silence between them. “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”

“Good guess.” Ed says, as if it weren’t the only thing they could both see, outside their respective ships.

Revenge chuckles. “Apt, really, given the circumstances.”

“I’m nicer to birds than the mariner, I’ll have you know.”

“Glad to hear it! Obviously that’s why we’re here to save you.”

“Checked out my seabird record before you decided to answer the pan?”

“Keep a log of all vessels, obviously. If the bird quotient goes into the red, I’m afraid it’s the sails that glance into the Sun, like restless gossameres.”

“Gotta say mate, when I first caught sight of you I did wonder.”

“If you’d forgotten a bit of seagull assault?”

“Easily done, in the moment.”

“Fistfight with a cormorant weighing on your mind?”

“Slanging match with a guillemot, does that count?”

“I’m not sure where emotional damage lies on the scale of saved to eternal damnation.”

“I’ll have you know, he made several cutting remarks that I can’t get over.”

“What an absolute arsehole.”

“Appreciate your support, mate.”

“Anytime you need backup, you let me know.”

***

“How did you do it, though?” he asks. Hour four. It’s summer, but the night’s drawing in anyway. Izzy’s still prowling the deck intermittently – frankly a relief when any time he’s spent in the cockpit has brought his mood in with him. “Get from running away, to here?”

“Well, I lived on a leaky boat for several weeks.”

“Fuck off, that’s insane.”

“I know, I didn’t think anything through.” Revenge sounds a bit despondent at that. “It’s been said before, don’t worry. I just kind of… fumbled my way through it? Found people, who knew other people? And time, lots of time. Rebuilt her, and rebuilt me bit by bit.”

“How long?” Ed asks. Soft.

“Four years.”

“How’s it going?”

“Well, the ship’s all, well, shipshape.” There’s a pause, and an awkward chuckle. “I’m a work in progress, I suppose.”

“Reckon you must be doing okay.”

“Well, I found my crew! Or, really, it feels like they found me. But there’s still something missing, it feels.”

“Something?”

Revenge gives a rueful huff. “Someone, then.”

“Not easy, putting yourself out there. Trust me, I know that one.” And look, there have been flings, along the way. Jack, Annie, even hooked up with Izzy a time or two when they were both going through dry spells. “At least you know how to have a relationship, though, even if it wasn’t a great one.”

Not like Ed. Ed, who doesn’t know how to mold his life around another person. Ed, who has been an athlete with a team of people bowing to his every whim and making sure that he does what he needs to at every step. Ed, who has never had to compromise or back out of an argument.

“I’m sure you do better than you think,” Revenge says.

“Never been able to make anything stick,” Ed says. “Mister Easy Come, Easy Go, over here.”

“Well, I’ve never been Mister Easy Peasy Anything, so you’ve the advantage on me,” Revenge says. “Just Mister Difficult Difficult Lemon Difficult over here.”

“Mister Easy To Talk To,” Ed counters.

“Says Mister Smooth Talker over there,” Revenge says. “I’m starting to see how the easy come part of this works, now.”

“Is it working?” Ed asks, teasingly.

There’s a lot of crackles, then, as if a radio was being clicked off and on repeatedly, and then, cautiously, “You don’t know anything about me. How do you know you want it to work?”

“I know if you’re half as good as doing yourself up as you are a historical, old, ship, you’re doing okay,” Ed says.

There’s a nervous chuckle. “She’s only thirty, actually. Quite young, for a replica.”

“She’s a fucking good one,” Ed says. He can’t see much of her beyond her stern right now, as they bounce in her wake. But he’s never seen anything like her before – nothing quite so big, nothing quite so ostentatious. Not out on the water. Not doing what Revenge is planning on doing with her. “Dolls up real nice.”

“Yes, well, it’s easy to do that when you’re thirty,” Revenge says in a wry tone that suggests that he’s considerably older than that. How old, Ed wonders. His age? Older? He sounded like he’d been trapped in that marriage for a while, probably. Has money, clearly - look at his ship - but that doesn’t mean anything. Trust fund kid, burned out city bankers - all young-ish with more money than they know what to do with.

“Tell me about it,” Ed chooses to say flippantly, instead of any of the questions he does have. “Bet her keel doesn’t scream when she sleeps in a funny position.”

“She wakes up raring to go and fully functional,” Revenge says. “Not something I can claim, I’m afraid.”

And look. Ed’s only human, okay? “Reckon if I had a team of lads ready to board me every morning, I might wake up a bit quicker, too.” This startles a laugh out of Revenge. “In a good way, or..?”

It’s probably completely normal fishing. It doesn’t necessarily mean that Revenge is out to catch Ed specifically. Maybe he just wants to know that he’s not the only one fishing out the same pond, out here. Sometimes it’s the desperate craving to catch someone’s eye, to give a nod of recognition, to know that you’re not alone.

“Depends on the lads, I guess,” he says. “Less my thing these days. All gets a bit samey after a while.” He nearly adds a thoughtless, ‘you know’ but then catches himself, because from what Revenge has said, he probably doesn’t.

“I tried the apps for a while,” Revenge says. “I wasn’t very good at them, truth be told.”

“Didn’t enjoy it?”

There’s a big sigh over the radio. “…boats are easier, I find.”

“Yeah, I get that, mate. At least they’re honest when they capsize on you.”

“Or when they decide to spring a problem at the last minute.”

“Or they’ve got no fucking problem that you can find but they still don’t work.”

“Yes,” Revenge says. “God. I’ve been there. And you try to make it work, but…”

“Nothing stuck?” Ed asks.

“I want the impossible, I suppose. Sights too high.”

“What did you want?”

“It’s silly.”

“You’re in a wooden sailing ship built thirty years ago planning to sail halfway around the world. Reckon you’ve conquered realistic and moved on from there, mate.”

Revenge sighs, deeply. The radio clicks off for a moment, and Ed sits with the sound of the waves lapping against La Concorde’s hull and the more distant but deeper sound of Revenge as she steers them through the water. The night’s setting in now, but they won’t stop. He supposes that Revenge’s crew is large enough for them to take shifts, and he and Iz are well-versed in catnapping through the night when it’s just the two of them on the open ocean.

“Romance, I suppose,” Revenge says, beyond the point where Ed thinks that he’s scared the guy off with questions too personal for a faceless callsign on the ocean. But maybe that’s what makes it okay. “The feeling that the books tell you about, that poets laud.” There’s a very brief pause, and then, “I told you it was silly.”

“Nah,” says Ed, because no, not at all. “Not enough of that around. Could do with a bit more.”

“Definitely not much where I’ve been looking.”

“Look a bit closer,” says Ed, because honestly. Honestly. “Hear there’s a guy out there with a nineteenth century – “

“Eighteenth,” Revenge interrupts. “Swedish East India Company merchant ship.”

“Eighteenth century,” he corrects himself smoothly, “tall ship, and rebuilding her bit by bit, and then sailing out to the high seas. Hear he’s pulling off a dashing rescue as we speak. Can’t get much more romantic than that.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Revenge says. He’s charmed, because Ed Teach can be fucking charming when he wants to be, and right this second he doesn’t want to be anything else.

“Look in the mirror if you want romance, mate,” Ed says.

There’s a pause, and for a second Ed is certain that there’s something. A thing. A feeling. The radio loses the nuance of tone, sometimes, but he’s sure that this is something he’s picking up loud and clear.

And then Revenge starts reeling off headings. It takes Ed a second to catch up, find his own bearings. And he reads his own data back, correlates, tries not to overthink the sudden alteration in direction.

***

Hour four, plus thirty minutes. Ed still doesn’t know what to think of that about-turn. Perhaps he pushed too hard. Perhaps he was too much. Perhaps anything he thought he saw, or heard, was entirely in his own head.

“La Concorde, have you seen the radar?”

Ed hadn’t, until Revenge prompted him. “Shit.” Weather front, headed their way.

“Do you need us to alter speed?”

“Fuck,” says Ed. “We’ll maybe be okay.”

“Maybe isn’t good enough, La Concorde, we’re getting you safely home. We’re slowing down.” It’s firm. It’s decisive. It’s not going to allow Ed to push himself or his boat.

And he sees, through the gloom of the long dusk, the work that’s starting on Revenge to drop some speed, and as the water gets choppier Ed has to admit… it’s kinda nice. They’re not fighting the boat. There’s a little bit of adjustment, sure, and there are points where Ed has to leave the radio unmanned because too much needs doing out there for just Iz. But it’s small potatoes, compared to what it could have been. Even when Ed’s in the cockpit with the radio, a figure appears on Revenge, awaits their thumbs up. Can’t really see them through the rain and the layers and the screen fogging up. Probably not his Revenge, anyway. Probably crew. But Revenge is going to look after them, whatever it takes.

It’s been a long time since anyone has wanted to look after him softly. It’s been a long time since he hasn’t rebuffed anyone that’s tried.

“We’re going to take fucking forever to get back to shore,” Izzy says as he opens the cockpit door and comes in. He’s definitely not a fan of anything except tough love, and it’s got them through some spots but fuck knows it gets old sometimes.

“Gotta get the boat back in one piece,” Ed says. “Two pieces,” he corrects, because there’s still that rudder. But he’s not taking the blame for that.

Izzy just grunts. Sends Ed to bed while he takes his position on the radio.

“Be nice,” Ed says as he leaves. A warning. “They’re helping us.”

***

The berth rolls in the higher winds, but that’s never bothered Ed. The thought of a voice over the radio bothers him more. Romantic, weird, wonderful, Revenge. And it’s crazy, because they’re metres apart, but they might never meet. It doesn’t fucking matter what Ed thinks about him.

Ed thinks about him anyway. The absolute nutcase with the beautiful ship and a dream so big he couldn’t survive the life he was living. Thinks about Revenge’s other dreams, and the wistfulness in his voice when he talks about what he wants. Thinks about how certain he is in his desires.

Tries not to think about everything that Revenge wants being everything that Ed’s failed at in his life. Tries not to think about how easy he’s imagining it could be, with Revenge.

Fails miserably.

He must sleep, eventually, because his body wakes him up four hours after he hits the bunk. Pulls his waterproof outers back on, heads up to send Izzy to bed.

The sea’s calmer, so they’ve picked up speed again. It’s still the gloom of night and the shadow of Revenge in front of them looms large, her modern navigation lights juxtaposing with the shape she cuts through the water.

Hour nine. Checks in. “This is La Concorde calling Revenge,” he says, because he doesn’t know if it’s going to be him, or someone else. And he doesn’t even know where he stands with him, right now.

“You’re back!” There’s something about the delight in his Revenge’s voice that sends a flutter of anticipation through Ed.

“Tell me you haven’t been here all night, mate.”

“Alright.”

“Mate.” Reproving.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“How’d Izzy take that?”

“Your colleague? He was an arsehole. Honestly!” And Ed can hear the distaste in Revenge’s voice, and it makes him laugh, because fuck; could not find two people more opposite. “I hope you slept well.”

“Yeah, no issues, mate,” Ed says. “Pretty used to sleeping on board.”

“You said you’ve lived your life at sea? That must be exciting.” There’s a tinge of wistfulness to his voice, like he envies that of Ed.

Ed sighs. “It was, once. But it’s not really about the sailing anymore, yknow? Just bullshit this and bullshit that. A vapid pool of fuck-all. Just going through the motions.”

“Not the reason you started it?”

Ed makes a derogatory noise. “Not exactly, mate.”

“Then what drew you to it, to start?”

Ed sighs. “That’s complicated.”

There’s a silence from across the radio, Revenge waiting him out.

“It was my way out, yeah?”

And he tells Revenge about a kid who started sailing around in his dad’s old boat, before his dad fucked off. Of the way he’d navigate in and out and around the fancy sailing club’s boats with their fancy sailing club people. Of the way he’d caught the attention of one of them.

The way that had lead to Hornigold setting Ed up for life - the competitions, the galas, all the shit that Ed could never have reached by himself. The way his mum had hated it, this dependence on this rich white dude, the way her son idolised him. The way it made her beholden to yet another man, when she was fighting to get back on her feet after his dad.

The way that Ed had ignored all of that, because it felt like a dream. Moved to Auckland, the city of sails. The way that, in hindsight, he’s still not sure whether that’s because Hornigold wanted to give him a better chance, or because it was the easiest way to separate him from his ties.

The way he’d been pushed and pushed. Introduced to the right people, given the right opportunities. Been taken across the world as well. Events. Galas. Races. Had thought it was great.

The way that the moment he hit a wall and needed a break, it stopped being great. Injuries were a personal insult to his benefactor. Headspace was there to be utilised. Saying the wrong thing wasn’t just embarrassing, it was showing him up on purpose. Every thing that Ed did wrong, credited to maliciousness. Hornigold reminding Ed that he’d be nothing without support. That he’d taught him better. That Hornigold needed him to be better.

“Did you get out?” Revenge asks.

“Yeah, eventually,” Ed says. “He flipped his shit when I made a sponsor deal without going through him. Tried to remind me that he’d made me, that I owed him everything. But he’d been taking a cut for years. Reckon I didn’t owe him shit by then.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Ed says, because he doesn’t know what else to. His mum had stared at him hopefully when he’d told her, like splitting with Hornigold meant he might be coming home. And he’d disappointed her by not giving it all up. Izzy had fretted about how they were going to fund the next trip. No-one had told him that they were proud of him for stepping out on his own. “Feels like I swapped the frying pan for the fire, some days.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know. You could just stop.”

“Fuck knows what I’d do instead.”

“Anything you want, I expect.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. When Revenge says it, it feels almost doable. “Yeah, right. I could do anything.”

But.

“Fuck knows what I’d want to do instead, though. Run an inn?” He stays in smaller places, sometimes. Goes back, sees the same faces year after year, smiling, greeting him, always happy. A safe harbour. He envies them, every time he sees them. Never really thought about becoming one of them.

“Might be nice, to be the constant in the sea of people? Lots of people, though. Schmoozing.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Trying to get away from that. Shit idea.”

Revenge hmms down the radio. “No such thing, I find. But I have to wonder about what you want from it.”

***

Revenge doesn’t ask any more about what Ed wants. They play a game of Hangman in the pre-dawn gloom of the next hour, and Ed tries not to think about it.

“Fuck off, that’s not a word.”

“On my honour,” Revenge says solemnly, which is kind of ruined by the giggles echoing across the radio waves.

“Pshaw?” This guy’s nuts. This guy’s a lunatic. Ed likes it. He likes it so much.

“It’s a sound of contempt or impatience.”

“I’m making it now, mate. What the fuck?” He lets his voice carry as much outrage as his restrained giggles let him.

“I was very nice to you!”

“Gave the little dude a pirate hat and everything, sure. But then, pshaw. Not sure it’s legit.” With a little buckle on the hat to go, and a small cutlass, although why you’d hang a man and let him keep the deadly shit is beyond Ed.

“Just wait until we’re on shore, I’ll show you!”

“Yeah? You’ve got a date, mate.” And it’s said casually, and it’s said offhand, but he wouldn’t put it past Revenge to turn up in port with dictionary in hand to prove himself right. It makes Ed smile at the thought.

***

“Romance,” Ed says at their next check in. He’s been in and out a little over the last hour, covering two people’s work with one body. Checking on the tow line, checking the boat’s holding up to it. Left his hand on it for a moment, feeling the tug of Revenge through the rope. Still thinking about Revenge’s words.

“Romance?”

“Yeah. You wondered what I want from it.” He shuffles in his seat a little bit. He’s so fucking glad that Izzy is still snoozing away down below. He’d never hear the fucking end of it if he was overheard now. It’s why it has to be this check in, if he’s going to say it. And he wants to say it, so fucking much. Just hasn’t had anyone that would listen, before. “Something that grabs me by the throat and won’t let me go, body and soul. Something that means something. Not just sailing around and picking up useless accolades. Not just doing variations of the same old shit, yeah?”

“Do you know how?” Revenge asks. Revenge, who has found his romance in his ship and his people, like the lunatic that he is. Revenge, who keeps looking for more, because he has an endless capacity to want.

“Yeah,” Ed says. Because he didn’t, when Revenge had asked. But it’s hard not to know it now, once it’s revealed. It’s a bit like the constellations - impossible to see them, before you’ve been told, just a collection of random dots, not knowing which ones are important and part of it, and which ones aren’t. Not knowing where to look. But he can see the pattern in front of him now, as recognisable as Matariki rising with the new year. “Reckon I do.”

“You sound certain.”

“Yup.” Because he is certain. No idea how it’s going to go down, though. On a lot of levels, it’s a bit fucking insane.

There’s a pause then. Revenge says nothing. The radio clicks a few times, brief moments of static that betray an aborted response. And normally Ed would be desperate to fill the silence, but he wants some sort of response - just a hint, anything.

“I would say, if it’s a thing that makes you happy, you should go for it.” Revenge’s tone is warm, encouraging.

“Two things.” The radio clicks and Revenge makes a small interested sound, but doesn’t interrupt.

Ed takes a breath. His hand is shaking, and he’s glad that Revenge can’t see him. It’s stupid. He’s stupid. “Kinda related. ‘Cos you see, I didn’t know that it was missing? Romance? I just knew that something wasn’t there. Just a big empty… thing. Can’t see a negative, right? But then sometimes, I reckon, things turn up right when you need them? And I think maybe when the opportunity swoops in to sweep you off your feet, you see if it’s real?”

Revenge doesn’t say anything, but it feels like a comfortable nothing. Like he’s agreeing with Ed. Maybe. Maybe Ed’s making up this whole fucking thing in his head, in which case this is about to get embarrassing.

“I reckon what I’d like in terms of romance,” he says. And stops to swallow, because his heart is hammering in his throat now and he needs to remind himself to breathe. “Is China. A trip across the ocean. A wooden tallship. And I think I’d like to take her captain out to dinner, if he’s agreeable?”

There’s a silence.

“Like, no pressure,” Ed says. “And not, like, a combined deal. Would take either.” Isn’t sure which one he wants more, to be honest. He wants to fly across the waves between continents with a crew and a ship that embody the romance of the sea that he’d thought was dead. Maybe the fight hasn’t completely left him, and he just needs the right challenge to put it to. Maybe he’s just forgotten the spirit of those that have gone before him, or maybe he’s never been able to touch it like he has tonight.

But he thinks he wants the other, as well. Not yelled instructions across a deck. Thinks he wants Revenge’s voice, unadulterated by the tinny sound of the radio, low and soft in his ear. Thinks he wants to spend dawns and dusks with him. Thinks he wants to find out what sounds Revenge makes when he’s touched.

“Both,” Revenge says. Breathy. But firm. No hesitation. “I want to go to China with you. But I think I want, most of all, anything that would put you in the same room as me. Breathing the same air.”

Ed feels light. His consciousness is floating towards the ceiling somewhere, and he only notices he’s laughing when Revenge joins in. “Yeah?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Yeah. Fuck. I want that too.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to wait an hour to talk to you again,” Revenge says.

“Then don’t.” It seems insane, that they’ve spent most of this time not talking to each other. “Got another ninety minutes before we hit port, right?”

“Care to spend it with me?” Revenge asks.

Izzy appears, twenty minutes later, hair sticking up everywhere and shoving a breakfast portion into Ed’s hands.

Scowls at the radio, where Revenge is still talking about ports and schedules, sticks a middle finger up at it and leaves.

It’s hard to give a fuck, though, not with all these plans laid out before him. There’s a little bit of talk of finances, of how this is going to become real, but they’re not doing it for that. They’re not doing it for glory. They’re not doing it to be the best, or the first, or the fastest. They’re doing it for the joy of being able to. And he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to explain that to Iz, or to his sponsors, or to anyone else.

Revenge talks about other stuff, too. Haltingly brings up the two kids that haven’t been hinted at until now, talks about their step-dad in glowing terms. Ed can almost feel himself being watched through the waves.

“I don’t have them much,” Revenge says. “I mean, as much as possible, but I’m out here, with Revenge, and they have school and friends and all the rest.”

“Hey,” Ed says. “It’s cool, man. We’ll work it out. Not a dealbreaker.”

Isn’t sure that Revenge could offer anything up that would be, at this point. And shit, sure, he has no idea what to do with kids. Pat them on the head as he gives them an award, sure, he can do that. Give them a photo of him looking proudly at them that they will cherish forever while he forgets their faces as soon as he walks out the door. Offer up the right questions to boat-mad kids to set them off on the spiel they’re already desperate to give him.

That’s easy.

Two real-life actual children in the wild though? Fucking hell, he’s gonna have to google that shit. He’ll give it a go, though. If Revenge can jack in his whole life and start again, Ed can deal with a couple of kids.

“No?” Revenge says, and his tone suggests that it has been a problem. In the past. For other guys.

“Gonna have to do a lot more than that to put me off, my dude,” and then immediately curses himself for that slip of the tongue. Because he thinks he’d like that. If Revenge were his dude. And it’s fucking nuts. They haven’t met. Maybe he chews with his mouth open. Maybe he’s rude to waiters. Maybe he’ll grip the grab handle from the passenger seat of the car when Ed goes 5 over the speed limit.

Maybe he says jibe-ho! instead of jibing to initiate a jibe. And fuck, Ed must be gone because he thinks he’d keep him anyway.

“Just wait until you see my collection of model sailing vessels.”

“No fucking way,” Ed says. “What have you got?” And look, he’s been gifted models of some of his vessels and they’re all in storage in various places - Auckland, San Diego, Cowes. Never really had the time to look back, or a place to call his to keep them all together.

“Embarrassingly, I had a bit of a pirate phase.”

Ed fucking knew it. You don’t go sailing around on a wooden tallship unless you’ve got a thing for pirates, or you’ve watched Master and Commander one too many times.

“Blackbeard’s pirate ship?” he asks. He’d seen one once, decided that maybe it was a bit on the nose. Wouldn’t have had anywhere to put it anyway. Wouldn’t have had the patience or the time to build it.

“Yes! And a Royal Fortune as well. And an Oseberg.”

“Fuck, that sounds amazing.”

And that seems to trigger something then: Revenge and his frustrated love of the ocean pouring all his care into his models, hiding in his home office at night, building them piece by piece. The way that it would have given him an excuse to not spend time with his wife, but also a chance to dream. And Ed reciprocates - talks about his own models then: the way that every achievement had to be locked away as soon as it was done, never looked at again, never allowed to be reflected on, because it was straight onto the next challenge with dozens of people relying on him to never stop.

He wants to have time to sit with it. He thinks he does. He’s never tried. Doesn’t know if he can. But Revenge has talked about the timeframes with their voyages, and look, he’s fucking gone for this guy, right? That’s not in doubt. But there’s also something about this project, this voyage, that feels like it’s right place, right time, right Ed.

“I hope so,” Revenge says. And there’s promise in that. Like he’s going to do his best to make sure it is what Ed needs. Not Ed’s career, or Ed’s competitive goals - doesn’t even really know if Revenge has twigged who he is yet. He’s just interested in Ed.

They move on, then, chat aimlessly about stupid things. Little things. Details that Ed wouldn’t think anyone would want to know about him, but Revenge hoovers up greedily.

Revenge refuses to leave them at port. “There’s space for us to dock, La Concorde,” Revenge says firmly. “I wouldn’t have left any boat under my protection at this point, I’m definitely not leaving you.” And that’s that. Destiny set. They’re going to meet.

The wait for the port authority to let them through is intolerable. The wait for the port authority to let the Revenge dock is even worse. Ed stands, watching her towed into position by a small tug, watches the people on deck. One of them could be his Revenge. Or maybe none of them. Maybe his Revenge is in the captain’s cockpit, however that looks on one of these, talking his way in.

“Calm the fuck down,” Izzy says.

Ed can’t. His leg jiggles with nervous energy, and he’s straining his eyes at every piece of movement he can see on the tallship. Iz doesn’t know how much rides on this - he knows Ed wants out - has known that for a while - but Ed’s not had a chance to tell him that this is it.

“I’m getting a fucking coffee.” Leaves Ed standing there, waiting. Nothing to distract him now.

Finally - finally - they start to leave the ship.

A guy with sideburns looks him up and down. “La Concorde, right?” he asks. Not Revenge. Sounds wrong. Too British. Too young. Wrong intonation.

Ed nods. “Uh, thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome.” Sideburns smirks. “He’s dying to meet you.”

And Ed flushes about that, because he’s not considered, in all of this, that Revenge’s crew might know some of it. But the guy doesn’t seem to care that much, just wanders on past him.

And then there he is. About Ed’s height. Blond. He’s got a shy smile on him - he’s got a dimple, Ed idly notes – and his gaze is locked on Ed. There’s no way that’s not him.

He nearly trips on the gangplank as he disembarks, because he’s not looking where his feet are going, and the small sound he makes is enough to confirm.

And then he’s stood in front of Ed, a few metres away, if that.

“Okay,” Revenge says, and without a radio there’s so much more depth to it. Nuance. Ed wants to learn everything that the cheap comms couldn’t bring to him. Wants to learn the timbre of his voice with every emotion, wants to learn the lines of him.

“I just want to do a thing,” he says, and then he steps forward slowly, cups Ed’s face in his hands, gives Ed chance to back away, and kisses him.

It’s.

He can imagine the orchestra swelling, all strings and crescendo. Revenge’s hands are cool, after a night on the ocean. Ed steps into it, helpless. Slides his hands down the underside of Revenge’s forearms, around his elbows. Feels the flex of Revenge’s triceps with his fingertips.

He wants this. He wants. He wants this flutter of his heart to turn to pounding. He wants this forgetting how to breathe, lost in the movement of warm lips against his. He wants this feeling of Revenge; real, warm, corporeal, against him. Feels Revenge push into it, deepen it.

It’s hard not to slide his arms a little further, behind Revenge’s shoulder to feel the firmness beneath his hand, to slide his other around Revenge’s waist.

When he dips Revenge, there’s a single second where everything’s perfect. A hand grabs onto him around the neck. Cary Grant couldn’t have done it better.

And then whatever foothold Revenge has got going on slips a little and Ed is staggering to not drop him, and Revenge gives a little high pitched shriek and Ed is apologising.

“Sorry, sorry!”

But Revenge is laughing as he’s scrabbling, and Ed is laughing as well, and somehow they both get their feet back underneath them and Revenge is in his arms, and there are arms looped around his neck.

“Hi,” Ed says. They’re close enough that he can nudge their noses together. “I’m Ed. Nice to meet you.”

And Revenge smiles, and it has the power of a thousand suns to it – the radio offers a poor imitation of the real thing.

“Stede,” he says. “Likewise.”