Archive of Our Own ^beta

When the door to his black Cherokee swung open, Edward Teach was met with the telltale smell of late summer air tangled with early autumn rain; that strange threshold between seasons when the days grew shorter, the light weaker, and the city itself seemed to curl in on its bones.

The sun was just now beginning its slow climb above the distant horizon, veiled behind a thin stretch of clouds, its light bleak and desolate, tinting the world around Ed in a bluish gray.

Waking up felt less like rest completed and more like being dragged from a shallow grave. His body was stiff with the usual aches, his head worse—always worse, always tired. Tired of people, of work, tired of dragging himself upright just to catalogue one more cruelty, one more dead body.

He’d been thinking about stopping for a while now. It’s a wrap! Time for Blackbeard’s final bow and all that jazz—exit stage left as he listened to the audience’s roaring applause.
Retirement had never seemed like much of an option to him; more drastic methods lurked in the darker corners of his mind, tempting him with their finality.

Stepping out into the drizzle, he let a fresh breeze ruffle the mess of black-and-silver curls he hadn’t yet tied back. The last few whispers of summer still worked their magic, making the morning’s high humidity visible in the wide streets of the city as a thin sheet of transparent fog that instantly made Edward’s clothes cling to his skin beneath his coat.

Sure, the leather was a staple of his wardrobe, but even though Edward Teach felt like he should concede to weather conditions as this, the legendary Blackbeard had an image to uphold—an armor to wear. Blackbeard didn’t step onto a crime scene without it, and people expected the look, the beard, the performance. If he dropped it, what was left? Just an old and tired Edward Teach? Nobody wanted that.

He made his way past a towering gray building bathed in its own fluorescent lighting, only disturbed by the flashing police lights to his left and right that burned Edward’s weary retinas as he watched police officers rush back and forth through the light rain.

A bulk of people stood off to the side: a clusterfuck of spectators, nosey neighbors, and random passersby, all of them too morbidly curious to move on from a crime scene without having caught a glimpse of the action.

The vultures were waiting. Umbrellas jutting up like black wings, camera lenses protruding like beaks, voices clashing in a frenzy of noise.

“Agent Teach! Agent Teach, can you confirm this is a homicide?” A man with a dark blue umbrella barked, shoving a wired microphone vaguely in Ed’s direction, and fuck, he hated this. 

“Blackbeard! Channel 13! Any comment on—”

Ed wanted to bare his teeth and snarl. Yes, it’s a homicide. There’s a dead man without a heart; congratulations, vultures. Instead, he gave them the mask: a calculated neutral expression, politician-smooth.

“We’re not confirming anything just yet,” he forced himself to respond as indifferently as possible, before he brushed the journalists off with no further comment, not breaking stride. 

Fucking sharks—Ed couldn’t stand the media, especially not the newspapers. He didn’t even like reading, for fuck’s sake, but these greedy, money-grubbing bloodhounds disgusted him to no avail regardless of who they worked for.

He caught one last glimpse of them all huddling together, struggling to shield themselves and their equipment from the lukewarm rain. 

Ed, however, let it wash over him, let the droplets streak through his beard, roll down his collar, and the hair at the nape of his neck until thin rivulets of water were making their way under his leather coat, his jacket, and the back of his dress shirt.

His hands flashed his badge to the attending officer entirely from muscle memory, retrieving it from its place on his belt and putting it back in quick, practised motions without his express knowledge; he certainly didn’t need to show it off.

No, these people knew full well who Edward Teach was.

Ed ducked under the yellow tape, the leather coat pulling at his bad knee as he crouched. Pain flared up his thigh in a flash of white heat, nearly buckling him. He’d been overdoing it recently, now forced back into wearing his brace; it made him look vulnerable, bringing attention to the undeniable fact that he was no longer in his prime and, unfortunately, very actively ageing.

It wasn’t helping that with every passing year his hair was steadily turning more and more gray, or that the silver in his short beard slowly but surely overpowered his trademark black; Blackbeard had been a long time ago, anyway—a different lifetime, almost.

A narrow, dimly lit alleyway led Ed into the courtyard of the museum, and even before he laid eyes on the crime scene, his mind ticked without effort: no broken locks, no windows facing the narrow alley, no apartments close by, only office skyscrapers, no scuff marks on the ground, no panic, too neat, staged.

It was only when Edward spotted Fang off to the side that he finally shielded his face against the harsh drizzle and raised his free arm in a quick greeting.

“Morning, Boss,” Fang spoke with a genuine smile as soon as Ed reached his side, the harsh wind forcing what was left of the man’s thin white hair to curl upwards around his head like a halo. “We were startin’ to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“Funny, Fang.” He was right, though: Edward was late, and they both knew it.

Twice within a matter of seconds, Fang reached up to tug on his left earlobe, then scratched the side of his nose—an old nervous tick Ed had clocked years ago, but hadn’t seen Fang exhibit in a little while. Before he had the chance to ask, Fang had already gestured for him to follow and led him into the lavish, roofed courtyard of the Museum of Historical Archaeology.

Izzy and Ivan were already there, lingering on the sidelines, obviously waiting for Edward, as they likely had been for the past half hour.

Shit, get a fucking grip, Teach. 

Ivan spotted him first, offering a quick nod as Ed found his way next to Izzy’s side. His right-hand man was notorious for his spectacularly unsunny disposition, but today, with his dark and sunken eyes and his damp, silver-speckled hair wildly disheveled by wind and weather, Edward almost felt like he was looking straight into a mirror.

As usual, Izzy offered no formal greeting, the grouchy mood emanating from him eliminating the need for words.

“A wonderful morning to you, too, Iz.” Ed’s enthusiastic address only received a muffled greeting rasped in his general direction before he gave up and turned back to Fang and Ivan.

“So, what do we have?”

“Security guard making the rounds this morning found the body. Killer left the victim’s bag and wallet intact.” Fang paused, pointing in the direction behind Ed to gesture where they were headed; Ed followed.

The museum’s courtyard was beautiful, if one ignored the array of police officials swarming and securing the area: old brick walls, beautiful tiled flooring, and incredibly well-maintained greenery of all kinds bracketing the property, sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the gray city streets.

There was a mural on one of the walls, a creative, flowing rendition of some ancient Egyptian scroll Edward was entirely unfamiliar with: a huge scale, a few humans, a couple of gods with bird and crocodile heads, and… wasn’t that Anubis, or whatever? The jackal one? Fuck if he knew.

Ed forced himself to look back at Ivan and Fang to his side.

“Anything missing from inside?”

“No signs of a break-in, and the courtyard is accessible from a public side entrance. They’re checking, but so far everything’s fine inside.”

It was only now, several minutes after arriving on scene, that Ed’s gaze finally settled on the victim.

Ed had seen corpses in every state imaginable: burned to ash, mangled by cars or wild animals, blown apart by bombs, shot beyond recognition. He thought himself basically immune. But this…

“We got any ID on the victim?” Ed forced himself to ask before he let his eyes analyze the body too thoroughly, focusing back on Ivan beside him.

“Name is Richard Dougan, 47, divorced. He’s a local politician, CEO of some big-shot local law firm. Last seen yesterday afternoon when he left the office at 5:30 p.m., never made it home.”

Richard Dougan’s body was horrific to look at.

His facial expression was pure agony, as if it had been frozen in a perpetual open-mouthed scream, his hands and arms curled over his neck and chest in a protective motion, fingers clawing bloody marks into his upper cheeks and brow bone.

He was mostly naked, his trousers slashed open to expose parts of his pale legs that were spread out straight as if they’d been bound like this long before rigor mortis had started to set in, but Ed’s stomach twisted at the sight of the man’s chest.

Dougan had been split open with surgical precision, the thin flaps of skin spread sideways to expose the insides of his chest, not unlike during an autopsy, where his rib cage looked to have been spread wide to expose the heart—now an empty cavity… and a flower.

It rose from the cavity as if planted in soil, not flesh. Purple and vivid, its trumpet bloom reaching outward, framed by waxy leaves still dewy with moisture.

“This wasn’t done here. The cuts are too precise; this must have taken the killer time. There are no traces of anything here.” Ed trusted Izzy’s assessment without doubt; there were no signs of a struggle around here, nor was there any trace of blood anywhere except on the body itself.

“Yeah, looks to have been dropped off here afterwards,” Edward agreed out loud, just before Fang spoke up, his voice suddenly tense.

“Coroner says… clotting shows he was alive when he was…” Fang paused, disguising his hesitation with a quick cough before he continued, “...he was alive when this was done.”

Fucking hell.

"You mean his heart was cut out when he was still breathing?”

Fang nodded faintly, and despite the sudden pressure on his own chest, Ed was lucid enough to recognize his colleague’s discomfort from a mile away. As if on cue, the wind carried over the sounds of an irritating commotion from outside the alleyway, and Fang and Ivan both visibly flinched, Fang’s hand immediately shooting back to tug on his earlobe.

“Hey, could you two do me a favor and go keep the press in check for us?”

“Sure thing, Boss.” Whether it was the disagreeable sight of the dead body or their blind obedience, both men followed his request immediately, leaving Izzy and Edward standing alone by Dougan’s corpse.

“Gettin’ soft, those two,” Izzy grunted as he crouched down beside the body to inspect it from a different angle.

Ed shook his head.

“Just ‘cause your heart’s made of stone doesn’t mean everyone else can stomach these things as easily as you can,” he remarked, trying to speak as evenly as he could.

“It’s nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“If you say so, Iz.”

There were no other wounds on Dougan’s chest, no lacerations or gouges, only the precise cuts seemingly made with some kind of thin, sharp blade; the killer hadn’t even touched the other organs in his chest cavity, only the heart had been expertly removed—evidently whilst Dougan had still been breathing.

What a horrible, torturous way to kill.

Edward took his time analyzing what he saw: the man’s injuries, posture, the fear in his expression, the clean cuts exposing his insides, the sheer lack of blood anywhere on the crime scene, or the victim himself. And then there was the flower.

“What's this then?” Ed wondered aloud as he gestured towards the petaled plant, its large, curved purple blossom surrounded by two triangular green leaves, filling up the space between the spread ribs easily with their sheer size.

Izzy scowled in response.

“Do I look like a fucking flower expert to you? Let the evidence-guys handle it.”

“Yeah, I guess. S'pretty, though,” he murmured to himself, his hand almost instinctively reaching towards the soft, fuzzy leaves that the flower was bedded on, the vibrant green such a stunning contrast with the bright plum petals and the pale skin beside—

“Excuse me!” Ed flinched back hard at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and the sheer panic it was exhibiting in its tone. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you!”

I wasn’t gonna, was his first instinct as he rose from his crouched position to look for the origin of the voice he’d heard, all defensive after being caught red-handed and practically freezing like a deer in the headlights.

Above him, the clouds had shifted enough for the sun to break through the grey gloom, bathing the museum's courtyard in a pleasant warm light just as Edward turned around enough to lay eyes on the stranger who had called out to him.

The man was standing in the open museum doorway beside the mural Ed had been admiring earlier, the soft sunlight reflecting off the orange bricks making him look surreal, like a figure out of a Renaissance painting, and it caught Edward so off-guard that for a long moment, he could only stand and stare.

In fact, for a considerable amount of time that he would never admit to, Ed wondered if he was dreaming; some nightmare-turned-fantasy, a rare glimpse of light in the endless nightmares about his father, death, destruction, and pain—and now this angelic man, this ethereal creature who was so unlike anything Edward Teach had ever seen before.

The stranger’s perfectly styled blond curls were windswept and had clearly been raked through by nervous fingers, and yet the man still looked like a character straight from the cover of one of those romance novels that had lined Ed’s mother’s shelves.

He was slightly shorter than Ed himself, he gathered, clad in a perfectly pressed three-piece suit that practically screamed ‘rich trust-fund baby’, complete with a deep navy-blue jacket and waistcoat, a cream-colored billowing undershirt, and a decent smattering of golden jewelry.

“Fucking twat,” Izzy cursed under his breath, the words spat more at the ground than at anyone in particular, which suddenly enabled Ed to pull his gaze from the stranger back to his colleague.

“Who’s that, then?” He asked, bumping his shoulder against Izzy’s in a gesture that was half-joking, half-curious. Izzy only scowled deeper, folding his arms over his chest, his posture radiating contempt. His expression was one of practiced abhorrence, already visibly familiar with the blond newcomer.

“Stede Bonnet.” Izzy bit out. Right. Good name. “His father runs the museum.”

Ed had the deep urge to pat himself on the back for his astute people-reading skills; of-fucking-course this guy was a child of nepotism, the kind of person who could buy their way into (and out of) anything. 

Still, that didn’t explain why someone like that had to look like sin dressed up in Sunday best. It was offensive, really.

Bonnet stepped forward, nodding a quick thanks to Jim as the yellow tape was lifted for him to pass. Then he spoke, voice as smooth as the polished leather shoes on his feet.

“I severely regret having to correct you on a technicality, Agent Hands,” Stede Bonnet started, and the distinct lilt of a Kiwi accent behind the smooth voice caught Ed almost as off-guard as the man’s appearance had, “but in all actuality, I’m the owner of the museum at this point in time. I inherited it when my father passed away about a month ago.”

Ah, well, that certainly wasn’t ideal… Still, the accent. How odd was it to hear that familiar cadence here, in the States, on the complete opposite side of the world? Ed hadn’t heard another New Zealander’s voice in months, maybe longer, and of all people, it had to be this man. This Stede Bonnet, who had now stopped several paces in front of him, commanding the courtyard like it belonged to him… which it technically did.

“You don’t seem too broken up about it,” Izzy practically hissed, and Bonnet only rewarded his biting comment with a blank expression.

“Neither would you, if you’d known him.” Against his better judgment, the comment drew a dry chuckle from Edward, earning him a poignant glare from his colleague before he finally fully turned his attention to the blond man, and their lines of sight met properly for the first time.

Looking at the Stede Bonnet from up close felt like a punch in the gut.

Ed could guess that the man was likely about his own age, with round cheekbones, a strong jawline, and striking eyes, like a classic movie star from a bygone era.

There was something about the man’s appearance that took Ed’s breath away, his sumptuous presence hanging in the air like an exotic perfume. His faintly freckled skin was flawless, his smile (a small one in reaction to Ed’s own) dimpled and genuine, and Ed would’ve paid money to examine the man in greater detail, to be able to run his hands through his golden hair and study his eyes closely enough to memorize various swirls of color in his hazel irises.

Calm down, Teach. Get yourself together.

“Datura Metel Fastuosa,” Bonnet suddenly broke the silence, “also known as the Devil’s Trumpet, because of its distinct shape and color.”

For a beat, Ed struggled to remember where they were, what the hell they were doing, and why a body was lying open on the ground between them. When his brain caught up, he followed Bonnet’s lead, crouching down alongside him with a respectable, safe distance to Dougan’s corpse before the other man gestured towards the bloom nestled neatly inside the victim’s ribcage.

“It’s an ornamental plant from the nightshade family,” Bonnet explained. “Native to Southern China, but artificially introduced worldwide. It’s naturally occurring in tropical and subtropical countries and other warm regions in the south. Historically, Devil’s Trumpets were used in Ayurveda, Traditional Chinese medicine, and indigenous rituals. But every part of the plant is highly toxic; consumption can cause anything from vivid hallucinations to an excruciating death.”

His voice faltered for the first time, his gaze fixed on the corpse as some of the color drained from his freckled face.

“Even skin contact or inhalation of its pollen can cause serious reactions. Which is why—” Ed’s knee interrupted the man with a loud crack as he readjusted his posture, in doing so lightly brushing his thigh against Bonnet’s for a fraction of a second before he regained his balance. The warmth of it shot straight through him, and if his startled glance was any indication, Bonnet had felt it too.

After a deep, steadying breath, Bonnet cleared his throat and stood as Edward followed, redirecting his line of sight back to the flower in question.

“That’s why you really shouldn’t touch it without wearing protective gear.”

Fascinating. 

Without any further ado, Ed extended his hand.

“Special Agent Edward Teach,” he offered, his focus lost in the ocean of colors in the blond man’s eyes, who seemed similarly out of it as Ed did, a faint blush now coloring his cheeks.

“O—Oh yes, of course, I’m—”

“Stede Bonnet,” Ed interrupted the blond man’s stammer, and he felt his nose twitch as his lips stretched into a smile, quickly nodding back to the spot where he had first laid eyes on Bonnet mere minutes ago, “I heard.”

“Right, yeah, of course.” 

And then Bonnet enveloped Ed’s hand in his own, warm and unbearably soft, his grip gentle yet steady. It was a handshake, nothing more, but the press of his skin against Ed’s sent his thoughts scattering like startled birds.

Fuck, what was this stranger doing to him?

By the time Izzy brushed past Edward’s shoulder, Ed had almost entirely forgotten about his colleague’s presence, and he more ripped than pulled his hand from Stede Bonnet’s soft grasp as they both stepped back, the spell finally broken as his gaze landed back on the victim beside them.

“You think the killer left it?” he asked, redirecting his focus to the flower lodged in the corpse. Bonnet paused to ponder Ed’s question, eyes avoiding the corpse beside them at all costs.

“Well, I'd assume so, given the way it’s positioned. Devil’s Trumpets are native to the U.S., but definitely not a local plant; there has to be intent behind leaving it. I suppose it could be meant as a warning. A message, perhaps?”

Ed had long since drawn the same conclusion as Bonnet, but nodded at Izzy nonetheless.

“You know an awful lot about this killer, Mr Bonnet,” Izzy accused with his trademark deadpan tone, circling the man until he came to stand beside him with an inquisitive look on his face. Bonnet froze at this, his fingers tangling together reflexively in front of his body as Ed watched him realize the intent behind Izzy’s accusation.

“I… I apologize, I now realize this must look terribly suspicious.” Ed could hear the unease in Stede Bonnet’s clipped, slightly anxious tone. “I don’t mean to intrude on your investigation, naturally. I did write a paper on floriography not too long ago, so I’d wager a guess I’m qualified to at least attempt reading into why the flower was left here, if it was left deliberately by whoever, uh,” Bonnet stuttered and paused, his gaze flickering back to the body on the ground before he continued, “whoever murdered the poor chap.”

“Please,” Izzy broke in, leaning forward with a sly glower, “do enlighten us.” And Edward realized: Izzy truly suspected this man, and wanted him to dig his own grave right here and now.

“Right, well…” Bonnet’s eyes widened slightly, and Ed watched in awe as he visibly recharged his confidence with a deep breath, straightening his posture while turning towards Izzy, away from Dougan’s corpse. “Floriography is a symbolic language, a way of communicating through flowers. It’s been around for centuries, but became especially popular with the Victorians in the 1800s—a silent dialogue for what can’t be said aloud.”

Ed listened, rapt, as though under a spell. He’d heard vague echoes of this before, flowers carrying messages, but never quite like this.

“Every plant genus could therefore express a specific feeling, sentiment, or even a direct message. Now that this is a century-old tradition, we have access to data that makes it remarkably easy to read these messages like… Well, just a different language, really. It allows us to decipher these encrypted messages, much like the discovery of the Rosetta Stone enabled our ability to understand ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. That is, if you know your way around them.”

“And you do know your way around them, I presume?” Izzy’s voice was gravelly, bored, and almost entirely expressionless.

“Well, I might be a tad bit rusty, but…” Bonnet drew his brows together, evidently deep in thought. “I’m not familiar with the floriological meaning of this flower in particular, since I suspect the European Victorians especially wouldn’t necessarily have had access to it, geographically speaking.” He shook his head slightly, throwing a glance at the flower behind him before he continued.

Bonnet’s voice took on a lecture’s cadence, and Ed found himself picturing him behind a podium, glasses perched on his nose, students hanging on every word. He had that aura of academia, the kind that whispered of long nights with stacks of books and carefully annotated papers.

“The color can also be significant,” Bonnet continued. “Over the millennia, purple has carried a variety of meanings, but it has always proven a rather difficult process to extract its dye, so purple clothing could usually only be afforded by royalty. It was reserved only for the elite tiers of society, so much so that in ancient Rome it was forbidden for the average citizen to wear the color, even if they had somehow been able to afford it, whereas in Thailand, for example, it is a color associated with mourning and sorrow, and is commonly worn during funeral services, although I’m not sure that’s relevant in this case.

“When we come to consider its toxic status, however, floriography typically associates that with power. Deadly nightshade, a close relative of the Devil’s Trumpet and equally as toxic, traditionally symbolized deception and death in many cultures.”

Bonnet’s eyes swerved over the mural on the wall beside them, and Ed could almost see the lightbulb going off above his head as he continued.

“A different approach leads us to Vamana Purana, one of many significant ancient scriptures of Hindu mythology, which talks about the origins and significance of Datura in a unique way.” Izzy groaned and rolled his eyes with a strained sigh, ready to interrupt Bonnet’s tangent when Ed gestured for him to stop with an unceremonious hand on his chest, as if physically holding him back, never pulling his own focus away from Stede Bonnet. “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t—”

“Nah, mate, keep going. Please.” Ed felt like the man was putting him into a trance with the softness of his voice and the vastness of his knowledge, and goddammit, he didn't want it to stop just yet.

Bonnet offered him a small smile in return, taking a deep breath to continue after a quick nod.

“During the Sagar Manthan, the search for the nectar of immortality, well, let’s just say something went wrong, and a poison was created instead. The fumes alone were lethal to anyone who came close to it, so the people appealed to Lord Shiva to consume it, because he was the only one strong enough to take it.”

Shiva was… the blue one, right? One of the blue ones? Edward had never really delved into mythology of any kind except for brief lessons in school and some stories his mother had told him when he'd been a child a long time ago.

“Instead, his consort Parvati seized his throat to keep him from swallowing, his neck turned blue, and the Datura sprouted from his chest, absorbing the poison.” Bonnet paused for a moment, his eyes finding Ed's with pure passion burning behind them—Ed didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful. “Present-day Hindus regularly provide offerings to Lord Shiva on special days, oftentimes including the Datura flower, which is meant to symbolize surrendering and purging of all of one's negativities and toxicity, fully cleansing a person of all their sins.”

If Ed were thinking clearly, he would’ve already been able to tell where Bonnet’s train of thought was leading them. As it was, however, he was far too engrossed in the man’s storytelling to let his own brain do any of the work.

“If we apply that concept to this situation, I suppose, according to Hindu beliefs, finding the Devil’s Trumpet with a murder victim could symbolize that they’ve been set free of their sins by the act of… well, dying. It could hint at the possibility that this person, during their life, wasn’t entirely innocent of bad things, or that their public image was deceptive. But that’s only one possible interpretation of the evidence, and I don’t really know if—” Suddenly, Izzy pushed forward against Ed’s hand until it fell away, and he stood face to face with Bonnet.

“Okay, we’re moving on now.” Ed was speechless at Bonnet’s matter-of-fact delivery of this display of expertise he’d just rattled off, this impromptu presentation he’d held just off the cuff, but Izzy seemed entirely undeterred. “Were you familiar with Richard Dougan, Mr. Bonnet?”

Bonnet dared to glance over his shoulder at the victim’s face for a long moment before he solemnly shook his head.

“No, Detective, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him before.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Bonnet?” Right. He was a suspect, after all. 

“The other side of town, dealing with some… personal issues.” Bonnet turned his head downwards, clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning; Izzy didn’t care.

“Is there anyone who can verify that?”

“My wife, presumably.” Ah, right. Perhaps Edward shouldn’t have been surprised at that; a wife certainly fit the bill, tucked snugly into that mental image of a picture-perfect family he had been painting in his mind.

Ed’s imagination betrayed him instantly, conjuring an idyllic domestic scene, a pastel kitchen, floral curtains, a trophy wife, the perfect 2.5 children—Stede Bonnet belonged in a world where everything was pretty and neat, where all things were made from delicate white lace, soft cashmere and luxurious velvet, something that couldn’t possibly be further away from Edward Teach’s way of living.

Ed shook off the thought as he forced himself to listen to Bonnet’s smooth voice ramble on.

“Mary will be able to confirm I’ve been rather preoccupied with our divorce in recent weeks, so I haven’t been at the museum in a couple of days at least, I’m afraid, which I’m sure the security footage will confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt.” Oh, well, never-fucking mind; trash whatever Ed had been thinking about his own supposedly excellent people-skills.

The word divorce really drove a wedge between Ed’s thoughts and reality, and he internally chided himself for judging a book by its cover so carelessly. Perhaps Stede Bonnet was the type of person Edward had always abhorred—rich, handsome, and immensely privileged—but that didn’t mean Ed had any right to judge his every action regardless of their intent or background. Even if this man was happily married to a lovely trophy wife, that was no reason to dislike him—not that Ed felt he could.

No, for reasons entirely unknown to him, he liked Stede Bonnet.

Unaware of Ed’s rampant thoughts, Bonnet pointed to a wall above them, and there, nestled between a thriving plant and the glass roof of the courtyard, shone the glinting metal of a camera.

“We have a very state-of-the-art security system here at the museum; it would be impossible to evade it entirely, I’m sure. My staff will, of course, grant you full access to anything you might need; no need to wait for a warrant.”

Izzy nodded absently.

“We’re gonna need to talk to your employees, especially the ones who worked the past few days.”

“Naturally, I can forward you all of their details; they’ll be happy to talk to you.” Bonnet slowed, his customer-service smile twisting into a slight frown as a thought seemed to occur to him. “Well, I don’t suppose happy would be the term to choose regarding the, you know, circumstances—”

Izzy waved him off with a roll of his eyes, already turning away from the man to gesture to Jim, who was still standing off to the side.

“I’m ready to go, Boss. I’ve seen enough.” Ed himself was far more hesitant to leave—for obvious reasons—but alas: duty called. He offered Izzy a faint nod, keeping his gaze firmly locked on anything but Stede Bonnet as he turned away.

“Yeah… Yeah, let’s.”

Just as Ed took his first step back towards the alleyway he had come from, the doors beside the mural burst open again, slamming against the wall with a kind of sharp rattle that made both Izzy and him go for their guns instinctively.

“Hey—” The person who emerged stopped short, frozen mid-step, caught in their sights like a deer in the headlights. He was a young, dark-haired man in a far-too-fashionable outfit for the occasion, a few too many buttons of his dark flowy shirt were undone, showing off a generous amount of skin covered in a smattering of chest hair and a thin, silver necklace peeking out from underneath the bright, patterned neckerchief tied in a knot around his slender neck—harmless—Ed relaxed immediately, letting his hands fall back to his sides.

The stranger looked like he’d just legged it across town, wide-eyed and out of breath, his gaze almost frantic as it searched the scene with an emotion Ed would almost certainly pin as concern before he settled on Bonnet for a second.

He took a second to let his eyes wander over both Ed and Izzy, scanning them head to toe with an air of immediate judgment before he settled back on Bonnet as if Izzy wasn’t standing right in front of him, gun drawn.

“Hey, Stede, I just heard what happened. You okay?” The voice was bright, nasal, deliberately flamboyant, the kind of tone Ed had heard a hundred times before and usually filed away as harmless, maybe even comforting—but for some reason, he felt a small but sharp sting of jealousy bite deep when he clocked the closeness of it, the ease with which the stranger used Bonnet’s first name like they were family.

“Lucius! Oh please, you really shouldn’t be out here, it’s—”

“A crime scene is what it is.” Izzy cut in flatly, hands resting on his hips, his stance making his disapproval painfully obvious, but Ed caught the flicker of intrigue in his colleague’s eyes.

The newcomer, Lucius, arched an eyebrow high in mockery, mirroring his posture before he addressed him directly. 

“Okay, calm your tits, Mad Max,” Lucius’ hand flicked lazily towards Iz’s elaborate leather jacket that rivaled Ed’s own in extravagance, and for the second time in one day, Edward Teach could not hold back a low chuckle, “I wasn’t talking to you, and I’m clearly not contaminating anything, alright? Jesus, you worry about a man, and this is what you get.”

Lucius dropped his hands back to his side, playfully fidgeting with the hems of his long sleeves as he muttered an incoherent profanity to himself, and Israel Hands bristled, practically vibrating out of his skin with rage, voice bubbling low in his throat.

“What the fuck did you just—”

“Lucius—” Stede cut in firmly, the kind of smooth but nervous interruption that only made Izzy’s scowl deepen, “everything’s under control out here, thank you for your concern. I’ll come talk to you inside in a minute, okay?”

“Sure thing, I’ll be out front with Pete.” Lucius’ gaze darted briefly to Dougan’s mangled corpse, his face twisting with genuine disgust before his eyes flicked back over to the two agents. He gave Ed a quick, calculated once-over, then—cheeky as anything—tossed Izzy a wink before strutting back inside through the museum doors.

The second the latch clicked, Izzy threw open the doors and rushed after the man, muttering curses under his breath, and again, Ed didn’t even attempt to hide the grin stretching across his face. Israel had always been sharp teeth and bark, but Ed trusted him implicitly; he knew he could trust him to remain professional in the eye of their investigation, and not to let his personal irritation knock him (too far) off-balance. Izzy would grill Lucius, scare him half to death, probably get himself wound up in knots in the process, but he’d come back with something useful or the boys’ confirmed innocence.

Edward was so distracted by trying to make out the two men’s silhouettes through the glass doors that he barely even noticed Bonnet moving to his side until their sleeves brushed together—a simple, accidental touch that sent Edward’s heart into a frenzy immediately.

“Lucius can be… unruly,” Bonnet said gently, his voice almost apologetic. “He’s a bit of an acquired taste, I’m afraid.”

“He’s direct, that’s for sure. Is he your…” He trailed off, his own thoughts tangling. Partner? Boyfriend? No way, the man was actively going through a divorce, and honestly, Ed wasn’t sure if the gay vibes he was picking up were Bonnet’s or his own. “Is he, uh… Is he good?”

What the fuck did that even mean? What did he just fucking ask? Ed cringed inwardly, heat climbing to his face, brain scrambling for a cover that never came. What was this man doing to him, robbing him of any coherent thought with his mere presence?

“Oh, the best.” 

“Neat.” Neat?! The word dropped out of his mouth before he could stop it, plain and stupid and so thoroughly inadequate it made him want to throw himself off the nearest rooftop. Maybe Ed was losing his mind; that had to be the only half-reasonable explanation for this. There was no other way to—

“There’s a café out front, in the museum foyer,” Bonnet offered after a beat, “It’s rather good, although I’m somewhat biased. I do own the establishment, I suppose.” He trailed off for a moment, his hand twitching nervously at his side.

“If you or any of your people ever… Well, I suspect investigations often get rather taxing. I don’t really know, obviously, but if any of your people or, well, you,” he paused, cufflinks clicking softly as he fiddled with them, “ever feel like stopping by, it’s on me. Whatever you want.”

Oh. Ed was about to reply when his blond companion continued.

“Just tell Roach you’re a friend of mine. O—Or tell him who you are, I’ll fill him in on the details. In fact, forget it, I’ll just tell him that all FBI agents dine free of charge.” The words tumbled out, stuttering, self-conscious, but it drew a warmth to Ed’s chest he hadn’t felt in years. Bonnet was, he had to admit, rather adorable.

“Very kind of you.”

As though he hadn’t been expecting a positive response, Bonnet shook his head almost imperceptibly, eyebrows drawn together deep in thought.

“Just, please don’t think I’m trying to bribe you, here. I’m aware my presence and background make me look suspicious, so I’m prepared to undergo whatever procedural measures I need to prove my innocence.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m sure we’ll get back to you on that.” Edward nodded in response, holding the man’s agitated gaze for a long moment before Bonnet broke away.

“Oh, then I might as well…” he trailed off, both hands fumbling to reach the inside pocket of his jacket, “I’ll make sure to forward you a list of employees, naturally, but if you ever need to contact me for anything at all—”

Bonnet broke away, pulling out something small and rectangular, immediately moving to readjust and straighten out his clothes. Only then did Ed fully turn to face him in his peripheral vision, brushing his golden locks from his eyes.

“Here’s my business card.”

Bonnet handed it over with the manners of some kind of 18th-century gentleman, including a slight, dorky bow that made the corners of Ed’s mouth twitch upwards entirely involuntarily, fingers brushing over Ed’s own for the briefest of moments.

Edward could feel his face heat up as he struggled to maintain his composure at the sheer surge of warmth that rushed through him from the point they’d touched; with the way Bonnet jerked away from him, he got the distinct impression the man felt a similar way, but there was no way of knowing for sure.

A glance upwards served as a stark reminder of Bonnet’s captivating looks, and Ed could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks even without making proper eye contact, the card between his fingers suddenly becoming a very welcome distraction.

Without formal education in any creative field, Ed considered it a hopelessly futile effort to attempt to analyze the artistry behind the card’s composition, yet he still took a long moment to commit the design to memory.

He admired the thickness of the velvety cardstock, the smooth, rounded corners of the paper, and the sheer elegance of the golden typeface—then he tucked it away quickly before he went all American Psycho on the font choice.

“Thanks.”

It was a strange experience, talking to Stede Bonnet alone. They were, of course, still surrounded by people swarming around them to document the crime scene, collect evidence, and carefully transport Dougan’s corpse away, but it was a different feeling, nonetheless.

Ed licked his lips, not sure what to say, just when Izzy stumbled back through the museum door, uttering a mumbled curse to himself as he reached his side.

“You.” Izzy raised a hand to point a single finger straight into Bonnet’s face. “Get lost,” he growled low in his throat, “but don’t fucking leave town.”

To his credit, Stede Bonnet took Izzy’s anger well, merely offering the two of them an almost unnecessarily polite nod before he turned on his heel and followed Lucius inside the building with nothing but a slight moment of hesitation.

Ed had no control over the fact that his brain was cataloguing the man’s every move as he walked away—he simply couldn’t tear his eyes away from him.

Beside him, Izzy, too, lingered impatiently, like a cat waiting to pounce.

The moment Bonnet vanished from his field of view and Ed finally managed to tear his gaze away, he immediately missed the sight of him.

What was so goddamn captivating about Stede-fucking-Bonnet that he had him feeling like this?

“What do you think?” Ed asked matter-of-factly after a long moment, straining to keep his voice as unaffected as he could.

“M’not gonna discuss gossip with you, Boss.” Oh. Well, perhaps Ed really hadn’t been half as subtle about Bonnet’s effect on him as he’d thought if Iz had caught on so easily. That was bound to make things awkward going forward in this investigation... “Not my type, anyway.”

It took Edward a long moment of silence to realize Izzy was not in fact talking about Stede Bonnet after all. Instead, Izzy’s eyes had come to rest on the door where the two men had entered the museum shortly before, and the full realization hit him at once. Lucius.

“Aw, you know I love it when you develop crushes on people, Iz. Makes you a lot easier to be around. Tamer, even.”

If looks could kill, the one Izzy hit Ed with in response would have him six feet underground in seconds, and not a second later, Izzy was brushing past him to finally exit the courtyard towards the street.

"Fuck off.” Back to square one.

“So, what do you make of Bonnet?” Ed tried again, like striking up a casual conversation.

“Could be our guy. Knows about flowers, and the corpse was found on his property.”

“Corpse wasn’t found, it was presented. The killer wanted us to find it like that; Bonnet doesn’t seem stupid enough to do something like that,” Ed noted, carefully running his fingers along the museum’s brick wall as they walked.

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t seem smart enough to do any of this, really. But he returned to the crime scene.” Edward shook his head at Izzy’s words. The man owned the place, for god’s sake. Izzy continued as if he hadn’t noticed his boss’s reaction. “He offered help. It's your classic organized criminal psychopath behavior, inserting himself into an investigation.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s a good guy who wants to do the right thing and help out where he can.”

On their way back to the open street, Edward and Izzy passed the coroner’s van, where Dougan’s covered corpse was carefully being loaded into the vehicle as they watched.

Ed gestured towards the body vaguely, barely lifting his arm.

“Stede Bonnet doesn’t have the guts to do that. That guy wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“You never know—”

“D’you see his eyes, Iz?” Edward’s question was rewarded with a defeated sigh.

“No, Boss. I was a little too preoccupied with the body with its chest cut open, if I’m honest.” Or a little too preoccupied with the flashy twink Izzy’s gaze had kept hovering around. Edward didn’t feel like starting an actual fight, so he kept that thought to himself.

“Multitasking, Izzy. Stede Bonnet’s eyes?” Ed paused as his mind reminisced on the sight of them, flecked with specks of greenish gold, beautiful, multifaceted, breathtaking. “Kind eyes—sad, even. He was scared talking to us, but y'know, the normal way when people are confronted with police and death,” he paused, nodding to himself as a resolute expression spread over his features, “He's not our man.”

“If you say so, Boss.”

Ed let out a sigh, running his fingers through the coarse hairs of his beard.

“Have Jim conduct a thorough review of the museum’s security footage,” he managed eventually, “Tell Fang and Ivan to run a background check on the employees and anyone else in the area at the time of murder, and have them look for any connections to the victim, anything trivial will do.”

Izzy rewarded his words with a curt nod as they continued to make their way alongside the building.

“This wasn’t Stede Bonnet’s work, but for thoroughness’ sake, we gotta check out his alibi,” Ed blinked slowly, “The wife, right?”

“Ex-wife, I think he said.”

“Interesting. Let's go talk to her.”

The moment they exited the alleyway, Edward was abruptly reminded of the group of reporters that had been waiting out here since before his arrival, and just as an uproar sounded from the street ahead, Ed turned his head away from the crowds and spotted the sign to his right.

The museum café was nestled into a wide, round alcove at the side of the building, just out of sight of the bellowing press, and through the large, framed windows, Ed could see an array of comfortable chairs piled up inside.

Then he spotted Bonnet, just as captivating from afar as he was from up close, having an agitated conversation with a dark-skinned man behind the counter who was swinging a knife around wildly as he spoke—that had to be Roach, then.

As they passed the last window inside the restaurant, Ed’s eyes were focused on Bonnet as he turned and walked away, and a scream of one of the reporters suddenly transported him back to reality.

Ed turned on his heels, stopping Izzy dead in his tracks before pulling him aside with an uncharacteristically gentle hand on his arm.

“Hey, Iz. Fancy a coffee, first?”