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Preparing for a posh person party, Ed was surprised to discover, was not unlike preparing for battle.
The meticulous planning. The anticipation that felt somewhere between anxiety and excitement, but hit the back of his throat like underripe lemons all the same. The preparation alone in a room of him doing up an ungodly number of buckles and buttons before he could call himself combat ready. It was ritualistic, like cleaning a gun or brewing a pot of tea. Ed had seen many a man fall to pieces before a fight, praying and pissing and whatnot, but he had always found a sort of comfort in that calm before the storm. The slow, methodical build to a bloody, destructive finale.
Going out on a limb, Ed made the assumption that a party was probably not going to have the same level of bloodshed as a battle. But he had to admit the rituals of preparation were a lot more fun.
With the exception of fuckery, gear-ups were typically a condensed version of what Ed would be doing on any day: a swig of this, a noseful of that, make sure everything’s strapped on good and tight so you don’t end up blowing your knee out again, idiot . Always thrilling, but nothing novel. Never before had a gear-up involved Stede Bonnet drawing him a bath, a real one with hot water and everything, and excitedly explaining to him which oils to use for his hair and skin while Ed tried to scrub the gunpowder from under his fingernails. Or using said oils on his now-clean body, pruny and heat-reddened and smelling foreignly like rosewater and lavender. Or being shown into the auxiliary wardrobe by Stede with a chipper, “Have at it! Some things might be a bit loose on you, but pick whatever you want!”
Whatever you want. Ed’s first instinct was red, bold and familiar. The first finery he’d ever felt. There’d be something poetic about stepping into a place so foreign, so forbidden, draped head to toe in it. Something satisfying. Look at me now, motherfuckers. However, red felt too personal, too much like an admission, even if it was just to himself. Blackbeard wasn’t ready to be that vulnerable and probably never would be.
Besides, despite the rainbow of textiles filling the small room, Stede’s wardrobe was somewhat lacking in terms of red. Ed couldn’t find fault in this. The color would have been too harsh against Stede’s honey-colored curls and sun-ripened skin. Blues and yellows looked good on him; creamy neutrals and gentle pastels that make him look like a fancy painting and made Ed’s face warm if he thought about it for too long.
In the end, Ed went with purple, a deep shade that made his skin look more delicate than it actually was. The velvet hugged him from neck to knee and the coat twirled around his legs any time he moved. Every edge was trimmed with gold and lace. It probably cost more than the first ship he ever stole. Maybe the first two. Black silk covered his shins and white silk covered his hands. Washing his hair had made his curls tighter, making his beard seem shorter. Izzy had helped him section bits of it into purple-bowed pigtails while the rest of his hair was half-up, half-down in the closest approximation to “tidy” he could muster. In his humble opinion, he thought he looked fucking incredible.
But was it enough?
This wasn’t just Stede explaining the nuances of cutlery, or teaching him to waltz, or walking him around his room in tall, pointy shoes until he could do it himself without falling flat on his face. Now, there were stakes. A risk. A battle just around the corner that Ed really, REALLY wanted to be ready for.
Thus, Ed found himself here: washed, exfoliated, moisturized, perfumed, dressed in the finest clothes he’d ever worn, and standing in front of the Captain’s Chambers like a runaway dog. He stood there for what felt like an embarrassing amount of time before heaving a sigh and rolling the kinks out of his neck.
“Oh, fuck it,” Ed breathed, then knocked on the door.
“Is that you, Ed?” Stede’s voice rang from the other side.
“Um, yeah. I-” he cleared his throat. “I think I’m all set.”
“Wonderful! I’m finishing up, so come on in!”
Ed slipped around the door and closed it behind him just in time to watch Stede swish out of his closet wrapped in cerulean and white, looking every bit like the gentleman he claimed to be. His jacket was stitched with silver threads and the white powdered wig that covered his hair was embedded with little pins shaped like flowers. In the late afternoon daylight filtering through the windows, he shimmered like a star. He turned his head towards him as the door closed, face breaking into a smile.
People had looked at Ed in a lot of ways. Fear. Respect. Occasional horniness. Never before had someone looked at him like they were happy to see him.
“Why, Edward! You look marvelous!” Stede’s heels clicked against the fine wood floor as he approached Ed, taking him by the hands and leading him deeper into the room. “Did you find everything alright? Everything fit okay?”
“Yeah…” Edward Teach has sunk ships, braved storms, fought armies. He has gone up against his father, the Royal British Navy, and every sorry bastard inbetween that’s dared to cross him- and come out on top every time. He is fucking Blackbeard . A force. A ghost. He is the Kraken, the monster mothers tell their children about so they don’t play too close to the water. But standing there while this human equivalent of a sunbeam in a powdered wig circled him, hands ghosting over his shoulders, he’s never been more intimidated in his entire life.
It’s a feeling that only worsens as Stede circles back to the front with his hand on his chin, the lines on his forehead deepening in thought.
“What?” Ed felt panic rise in his chest like bubbles. “Are the bows too much? I can totally make Izzy take ‘em out again if you think they’re-”
“No, not that…” Stede’s head tilted to the side in a puppyish gesture. “I think we should do something different with your hair. The collar of the jacket’s too high to have it down.”
“Oh,” Ed breathed, relieved. “Um, is there an extra wig I could borrow?”
Stede sighed. “No. I wouldn’t force you into one of these awful things anyway. They’re terribly itchy. Besides, you have such lovely hair. It’d be a crime to cover it.”
Ed barked a laugh. “Piss off.”
“I’m serious! I-” Stede cut himself off with a gasp and a snap of his fingers. “And I know just what to do.” He glided towards the middle of the room, pointing at the floral-printed love seat as he did so.
“Sit!” Stede chirped.
“...Why?”
“So I can do your hair, of course!”
Ed blinked. “...Really?”
“Just to get it off your neck. It’s just the thing to complete the look!” Stede looked at him and suddenly his smile faltered, his eyebrows knit together nervously. “Unless, of course, you don’t want to. Or you don’t feel comfortable? It’s your hair after all.”
Something like anger burned at the tip of Ed’s tongue. They had only known each other for a short while as of this point, but Ed had noticed that Stede did this a lot; start getting into something, then frantically backpedaling as if he expected to be shot down at that very second. It made him want to track down whoever had ground the habit into him, rob them blind, and light their house on fire.
Setting his lip, Ed marched into the room and plopped down onto the sofa. He glanced up at Stede from the corners of his eyes, smirking. “All yours, Captain.”
The worry on Stede’s face lessened and a small smile returned to his mouth. Ed listened as he crossed behind him, footsteps retreating, followed by a rummaging noise, then more footsteps back towards him. He felt a finger poke at his half bun, followed by an incredulous noise in the back of Stede’s throat.
“Edward, did you seriously tie your hair up by literally tying it into a knot ?”
“Erm…” Ed dared to cast a glance at the man behind him. “Yes?”
“Why would you do that?” Stede squawked in horror.
“What else was I supposed to use?”
“A ribbon! Or a hair pin, perhaps! Even a piece of string or rope would be better for your hair than this!”
“Didn’t have one. What the hell even is a hair pin?”
Stede sighed longsufferingly and started untangling the knot with his fingers. “You are going to be the death of me, Mr. Teach.”
Ed snorted a laugh and turned back around. “Of course I am. I’m a bloodthirsty psychopath. It took you long enough to come to that realization, Gentleman Pirate.”
“Absolutely terrifying,” Stede deadpanned. “Now hold still. This shouldn’t take long…”
After a few minutes of poking and tugging his hair was out of the bun and around his shoulders in a frizzy mess. If it’d been Ed taking his hair out all he would have done is raked a hand through, knots be damned, but Stede took his time getting down as carefully as possible, as if he was afraid to hurt him. Ed... wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
All at once Ed felt Stede’s fingers in his hair- warm and steady and gentle- and he gasped in spite of himself. Stede yanked his hand away like he touched a hot stove.
“I’m sorry!” Stede squeaked. “Did I hit a tangle?”
“No! No, you didn’t. You’re fine. It just-“
It felt so good and now I want you to touch me like that for the rest of my life.
“-it caught me by surprise, ‘s all.”
“Oh,” Ed felt the panic leak out of Stede. “Shall I continue, then?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
The fingers returned to his hair and Ed kept silent this time, though not even a blind man could have missed the way he relaxed into the touch while his shoulders went bowline-tight. Blackbeard never would have found himself in this sort of situation before, but Ed found himself enjoying it immensely. The internalized conflict of interest hummed through his body like vertigo, like sea sickness, and if he wasn’t sitting down he was certain that his knees would have given out. In the back of his mind he could see his mother’s careworn face floating over a swath of red, we’re not those kind of people echoing over and over, never unkindly but hurting all the same.
“I did mean it before,” Stede commented as he carefully detangled a knot near his scalp, “that you have nice hair. You have so much of it, but the texture is actually rather fine. It’s soft, too.”
“It’s not really,” Ed dismissed. “It’s only this soft cos you made me wash it.”
“And yet all those years of wind and saltwater haven’t run their course,” Stede countered easily. “You’re free to use my products anytime you want, by the way. You deserve it.”
Ed hummed noncommittally. He closed his eyes and tried to unclench his hands. He could feel Stede’s fingers threading through his hair- undoing the tangles, brushing in an oil that smelled like cinnamon, gathering it into a bundle at the back of his head and securing it with pins. Every move was softer than snow, and Ed had to fight the urge to tell Stede to be rougher, to stop being so goddamn gentle with me. It’s okay. I can handle it. I have to handle it. I’ve spent my whole fucking life handling it and now that I have softness I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it and it scares the shit out of me.
“There,” Stede slid one last pin into place. Experimentally, Ed tilted his head from side to side and found the bun surprisingly stable. Glancing down he saw that his shoulders were no longer obscured by his hair, leaving only purple velvet behind. Stede was right: putting it up was definitely the right call.
“And now,” he continued, gliding towards his writing desk, “for the final touch.”
Ed turned in his seat and looked at him as he picked up a Chinese vase of flowers- daisies and roses if he had to guess. Land things were hard.
“Lovely, aren’t they? Picked these up last time we made port! Before the Republic, I mean. They really brighten up the place, don’t they?” Stede smiled proudly at the vase before placing it back on the desk and selecting a few stems of daisies.
“Stede, no. Those are yours.”
“Nonsense!” Stede made his way back to the love seat, flowers in hand. “They’re about to turn, anyway. It’d be a shame if we didn’t get to enjoy them to the fullest before they’re gone.”
He turned Ed back into position and went back to work, oblivious to the way Ed’s thoughts spiraled. Here he was, somehow alive at this stage of his life, in the fanciest room he’d ever been in, wearing silk and velvet, and a beautiful man was putting fresh flowers in his hair. Ed didn’t think he was capable of such flights of fancy, but there was no way that this couldn't be a dream.
Stede pinned the last of the flowers into place, circled back to front, and kneeled in front of him for a better look. Then he smiled, without a trace of mockery or irony.
“Perfect,” Stede said, beaming. “Absolutely lovely.”
Edward Teach can do anything. He has struck fear into the hearts of thousands by just the sound of his name. He has stolen enough ships and wealth to rival King George himself. He can prepare for a party just as well as he can prepare for a battle.
He wasn't, however, prepared to fall in love.