[ Stede doesn't intend to go to the beach, strictly speaking. Sort of in the sense that he hasn't got any intention on hand at all when he starts walking in the first place.
And in the sense that he doesn't really remember the bit between-- between after, and when he looks up and works out that he's somewhere else. There are tear tracks drying on his face. Maybe that's good. Maybe he's done crying. Chin up. All that. Bit cold. Not freezing. Also good.
He's having a hard time thinking, and that might be a good thing too, and then he's hearing the waves. There's a squeezing fist in his chest roundabout where he reckons his heart is.
Shouldn't be here, probably. Should have-- well, gone the other way, he supposes. Gone someplace else. Anywhere. Then again, it's late. He's late. Way late, too late, bound to be past the point where Ed would have waited, surely.
Will he think the worst of him? Was he secretly a little relieved not to be met, once he had a minute to think about it? Oh, that hurts to think about, actually. Oh. Makes him miss the part where he couldn't think at all. (Does it matter either way?)
It takes until he's set foot on the dock to register that someone's sitting on it. Long hair, grey in streaks, know it anywhere. Unfairly pretty.
Stede does one of the things that Stede does best: makes a high-pitched, half-wheezed, strangled noise in lieu of knowing what to do with himself. Which is arguably as good a greeting as any in this rugged world of piracy. ]
we got canon divergence for polyonymous
And in the sense that he doesn't really remember the bit between-- between after, and when he looks up and works out that he's somewhere else. There are tear tracks drying on his face. Maybe that's good. Maybe he's done crying. Chin up. All that. Bit cold. Not freezing. Also good.
He's having a hard time thinking, and that might be a good thing too, and then he's hearing the waves. There's a squeezing fist in his chest roundabout where he reckons his heart is.
Shouldn't be here, probably. Should have-- well, gone the other way, he supposes. Gone someplace else. Anywhere. Then again, it's late. He's late. Way late, too late, bound to be past the point where Ed would have waited, surely.
Will he think the worst of him? Was he secretly a little relieved not to be met, once he had a minute to think about it? Oh, that hurts to think about, actually. Oh. Makes him miss the part where he couldn't think at all. (Does it matter either way?)
It takes until he's set foot on the dock to register that someone's sitting on it. Long hair, grey in streaks, know it anywhere. Unfairly pretty.
Stede does one of the things that Stede does best: makes a high-pitched, half-wheezed, strangled noise in lieu of knowing what to do with himself. Which is arguably as good a greeting as any in this rugged world of piracy. ]