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The problem with fishing, Ed rapidly finds, is that he doesn't like sitting with his thoughts. They too often take him to dark places he'd rather not revisit. He blames this squarely on his new co-workers, who don't know how to be pleasant company like the crew of the Revenge, and are too unaware of his pirate reputation to know better. They're the ones tainting his peace.
Ed knocks the teeth out of his boss' mouth after one too many shirty comments about his choice of fishing spot, and commandeers a dinghy for himself. He leaves the fishing crew without committing any fatalities, and is proud of himself for it. He can be a solo fisherman now - a true entrepreneur. This is what he was meant to be.
"There you go mate, just you and me," Ed says conspiratorially to the fishing rod as he rows further into the open ocean. "Couldn't fish properly with all those nasty buggers around. They ruin the atmosphere for the fish."
He rows until his arms grow tired, the repetitive movement lulling him into an almost hypnotic calm. When the dinghy finally slows to a halt, as much as anything can in the sway of the sea, he takes a moment to confirm that yes, this is the spot he wanted. It's perfect.
Ed adds the bait to the hook, throws the line out, and sits back.
It's peaceful. And quiet. His mind wanders almost immediately and unhelpfully to the last time he felt this sense of all-encompassing calm. He's drawn back into the surreal afterglow in-between fucking Stede and privately deciding that their fledgling relationship is doomed. He remembers curling into the other man's warmth and how brilliantly Stede's golden curls shone in the rising sun that morning.
A gust of cold wind tickles Ed's neck and he shivers involuntarily.
"Shut up. It was too soon," he says to no one in particular. "Him and me, we're heading in different directions. Always have been."
The warmth was nice though.
Ed shivers again, this time for entirely different reasons. He peers over the side of the dinghy in hope of spotting a fish. Or anything really.
Thankfully, no sooner does he move, the line snags on something. Ed grins and triumphantly begins to reel in his first catch of the day.
"No fish in this deadzone? We'll see what's dead n-"
A transparent glass bottle hangs at the end of the line. Perhaps there was once a fish stuck in there, but all Ed can see is the scroll of paper within. The paper is neatly folded in a way that makes his heart sink.
He drops it without thinking and the bottle shatters against the dinghy. Ed stares at it for a solid minute, debating whether he wants to know the message the oceanic postal service has brought him as he wills sensation to return to his increasingly numb extremities.
"What are the fucking chances."
In the end, Ed gives into curiosity.
He peels the half-waterlogged paper out from shards of glass. He tries to unfold the paper gently, but it's clearly been at sea a while. It's cold and soggy and the material practically disintegrates in his hands. Only one corner is salvageable, and Ed holds it up to the dim sunlight for scrutiny.
He recognises the squiggle on the paper. Of course he does. It's a signature he committed to memory, given the circumstances of when he saw it last. It's a signature that does strange things to his heart rate, given everything that followed its writing.
I guess what makes Ed happy is you.
***
Ed's unsure how much time passes after that. When he comes back to himself, he's clutching the paper to his chest like an anchor, and his cheeks are wet. He shakily stuffs the signature into his pocket without looking at it, and starts to clear the glass off the dinghy.
"I can be happy as a fisherman," he mutters.
Once all tangible reminders of his former shipmate are removed from sight, Ed sits back, alone, on his cold, purloined dinghy, and waits for his next distraction. Hopefully it will be an actual fish this time.
"I am happy as a fisherman," he tries again.
Stede's words from a few days ago ring clear as a bell in his mind.
We're whim-proned.
Ed shakes his head and inhales deeply, waiting for the sharp, refreshing taste of brine at the back of his throat. Instead, he tastes gunpowder. A lot of it.
He frowns and turns his head to thoroughly survey the horizon. The clouds surrounding the sun are noticeably darker than before. Plumes of smoke coalesce above the island behind him like an inky bruise.
"Stede."
Ed drops the fishing rod for the oars and decides to put his career crisis on hold for now.