[An odd thought, that a father might take the time and effort to care for their children this way. It sends a slight twitch through Edward's spine (his nervous system knows, acutely, which of the marks on his body had come with him into his life at sea--and they twinge, slightly, when the wrong thought crosses his mind). Not something that bears lingering on, particularly with the brief stutter in Stede's own explanation.
They're both here, now. The tendrils of who they used to be may never fully let go, but can't stop them being here.]
...well. [Edward tries to move slowly, tilting his head without tugging so as not to disrupt the work. One hand lifts, reaching with an unpracticed attempt at gentleness to catch at a few pale strands of Stede's hair.] Not really the same.
[Stede had hair like silk, skin like porcelain, a voice like the pleasant lilting twitter of a delicate bird. Caring for the bits and pieces of Stede would take careful consistent work--like caring for the delicate silverware and fragile tomes that made up this odd little biome in this corner of the ship.]
[ It's not something that Stede allows himself to think about too often; he doesn't regret choosing his life, finding some solace on the sea away from the misery of life in Barbados. He does regret the fact that his children are so far away, that he may not see them grown, that they will remember their father as the man who abandoned them rather than the person who played games with them. That stings.
There isn't any time to be spared on thinking of what he has lost. Stede can't let himself do that or he'd fall into a never-ending trap. He's much happier here, with his crew, with the sea below him, with Ed... Here. With him. In whatever capacity that might be.
He doesn't think when he feels a hand touching against his head, tilting to lean into it, no hesitation in his movement. ]
No. You're getting me far less damp than they used to. [ Smiling, he lets one hand slip away from Ed's hair, touching his neck gently, almost anchoring him. ] I'm much happier here.
[Stede leans so easily against his hand. There's an easy, mindless trust to the action, the way Edward vaguely remembers a young lamb once pressing against his palm in an innocent bid for affection.
Fingers ghost gently at his own throat, and Edward finds that he doesn't shift away from the gentle contact. Things feel steady, for a few heartbeats; balanced and easy, as if the world could be contained between their delicately poised hands.]
Good.
[Another lingering moment, fingers drifting absently so the knuckles brush against the cheek of the man standing over him, and then Edward slumps comfortably back down with a contented sigh. Another heartbeat, and his eyes drift shut.
(They'd eaten the beast the next day. At the time, that had been the warmer, happier memory.)]
[ It's easy to let himself steal the gentle affection, to take whatever quiet moment of joy they can share with each other. It seems somehow cruel, to want to ask for more of this from Edward, to be able to take his vulnerable moments and cherish them, celebrate them, but he'd never put him in that position. Whatever Ed gives him is a gift, and he'll keep them close to his heart.
He feels, inside him, a strange sense of yearning, of wanting to say something to fill the comfortable silence that has developed between them, to make note of the gentleness with which his skin has been touched, the way he could lean down and wrap his arms around Ed - but he doesn't. No need to spoil things with something as silly as words.
In this moment he doesn't think words would do him much good. He doesn't know what the right ones would even be. ]
Yeah? [ His voice is hushed, his fingers careful, thumb brushing against the skin below before it pulls back. Stede gathers up the cloth and goes back to the hair, prepared to finish washing it up and begin to get the oil in it.
Then he can do the braiding, and if that isn't a wonderful excuse to do more touching... ]
[He feels Stede's touch even after the fingers have left his skin. The absence leaves a lovely prickling sensation, like water drying or dirt brushed free. That's comfortable to contemplate in the silence, somewhere to focus his attention in the companionable quiet.]
Argan. [The word comes bubbling up from somewhere far off, through a tangle of memories and impulses he isn't paying any conscious heed; the half-remembered sensation of his mother's fingers moving with brusque efficiency through his increasingly unruly mane.] Or coconut.
[There's probably more to it. Almost everything Stede owned had some distinctive scent or other--teas that smelled like flowers, handkerchiefs that smelled like mint and lemongrass, bottles he couldn't read the labels of and couldn't place the scent of if he had all the time in the world.
Edward is fairly certain there's some form of bustling, gentle correction coming, but doesn't bother to open his eyes.]
[ It's much easier to focus on taking care of hair than it is to think too hard about the strange things he is feeling, the twist of his stomach, the weight of wanting something he can't quite put into words. It's easier to take care of Ed than it is to deal with himself. ]
I should have some Argon. I imagine it'll be better suited than coconut for you.
[ It might have been nice to get something a little more floral in there, but there's no need to play around with it right now. He can introduce Ed to so many more wonderful cosmetics when the time is right - as they continue to spend time with each other.
Leaning back, he hums a little. ]
Argon is very good for taking care of hair, especially if you use it regularly. It's a good choice.
[People agree with Blackbeard almost constantly. His crew tended to trust his instinct with the sea, the wisdom behind the counterintuitive orders barked abruptly. The rest of the world tended to simply nod out of fear, scrambling to be agreeable under the panicking weight of reputation.
Praise from Stede, even light and passing, feels different. It isn't a matter of fear. It isn't always deference to an area of superiority. In moments like this, it's simply a lovely little boost, dragging a soft noise of pleasure into Edward's throat.]
Regularly?
[Drinks were a regular thing, now. Loitering in this strange space was a regular thing as well. Having Stede close enough to touch at any given moment (and, increasingly, reaching out at odd intervals just to prove to himself that the man was as real as the sensation he inspired somewhere deep in the chest) is growing in that direction. But this? The intimacy of trusting himself to his co-captain's gentle care?
[ Stede doesn't think too much about the level of agreement he has with Ed, with how comfortable the two of them are with one another - it seems natural to him, simple and easy to welcome the other man into his space and offer him whatever he needs. Blackbeard is all that he had dreamed of being when he began a pirate and Ed?
Well, Ed had become a very dear friend.
Humming absently, he begins to brush the oil through Ed's hair, fingers first - a comb can come later. ]
It doesn't have to be every day, but once every six months isn't going to make it worthwhile, is it?
[The moment is easy, quiet, comfortable, but Edward's abrupt twist is sharp and jagged. He has to turn and see Stede properly, and the motion comes with the dangerous fluidity of a beast preparing to spring.
It's a shame to lose the soft trail of fingers through his hair, but the kraken is a hungry, greedy thing.]
Alone.
[Not quite a confirmation. Not quite a question. Not quite an accusation. Not quite enough to get his hand reaching for the other man's wrist, but the grip he's got on the arm of his chair looks crushingly tight.]
[ Stede isn't sure where to tread with this conversation, how far he can go, what he ought to do - but he knows what he wants, and he softens a little as he leans forward. It's so that Ed can hear him, with the edge of something soft to him.
He's going to be honest, and genuine, and there's no point trying to hide it.
[There's Stede's sweet, sympathetic face. There's the same open features and guileless acceptance that had greeted him when he'd arrived. There's the comfortable lean and relaxed motion of fingers in his hair.
Edward relaxes in pieces, a riled creature sinking slowly back from high alert to rest.]
This way. [Another few heartbeats, and he shifts back into place--face forward, eyes dropping closed, hair completely turned over to Stede's attentions.] This works.
[So much of being Blackbeard was being alone. This sensation of being something else, something warmer and less desperately lonely, would be fought for, tooth and nail.]
[ This works. And it does - it makes Stede feel quite content, a smile on his face as he settles back and continues with his job. The fact that Ed wants to spend more time with him, wants to do this - to share this level of intimacy, to feel safe with him and in his company - isn't something he is going to take for granted.
He knows enough of Ed's background to understand that such things might be a touch more difficult for him than others. ]
Then we'll do it this way. I'll make sure I have enough oil for us both.
[ Maybe he can get some other kinds too, so that Ed has more choice. He rather likes the idea of giving him gifts, of making sure he has all the fine things he could ever desire.
Reaching for the comb, he hums as he begins to brush the oil through. ]
[Another easy affirmation; another clear relaxation of Edward's shoulders. As lovely as everything else about this space has always been--plush cushions, fine brandy, luxe silks--there's a distinct pleasure to the far more pedestrian sensation of fingers and comb dragging through his hair.
(Or maybe it isn't the familiar motion. Maybe it's the distinct awareness that the gentle touches are Stede, from the light perfume that lingers wherever the man is to the simple animal awareness of his co-captain's proximity. That's an idle consideration for another time.)
In the meditative quiet of having his hair combed (a process, with the knots and tangles he rarely attends to), Edward's eyes blink absently open, one hand lifting to tug at a bit of dried blood.]
[ Stede cannot imagine a time where he might say no to Ed, where he might reject him; not when Ed has done so much for him already, when he feels like a bolder, more confidant pirate than he had been months ago. Trying to repay that seems like a silly thing, when Ed seems to be enjoying himself, but...
The notion of taking care of the beard makes Stede still for a moment, however, and he pauses before he breathes out and forces himself to continue. There's intimate and then there's intimate, and he's not sure how comfortable Ed will be with continuing.
Even if he, himself, wants it. He doesn't know how to say. ]
We can do the same for your beard, if you like.
[ As long as he is happy, as long as he is comfortable. ]
[There's a comfortable balance to the moment--Stede's fingers in Edward's hair, his own fussing idly at his beard. There's a sense of extension between them that's hard to define, a manifestation of the growing sense of unity.
They can both breathe here, in the quiet space where Edward Teach actually exists.]
Hm. [The breath is thoughtful, attention largely focused on freeing a particularly tangled clump of something unpleasant.] You haven't got one.
[It isn't the same task. It might be an absolute mystery to a man who kept his cheeks clean-shaven with a surprising tenacity despite living at sea.
It might be nice, watching the little wrinkle in Stede's brow as he attended to the work.]
A beard? Not at the moment, but I have had them before.
[ Not nice, long beards like Edward has, thick and heavy and clearly grown over a long period of time. Stede's beards tend to be less thick, blond and soft and, in many ways, pathetic. It takes him months to grow any kind of proper facial hair and even then it doesn't suit him as well as Ed's suits him.
He doesn't halt in his movements as he speaks, his voice as gentle as ever. ]
I'm sure the comb would work just the same, as would the oil. I can let you do it yourself if you'd prefer - I do have a looking glass in here you could use.
[ As much as he might like to get his hands on Ed's beard he's not about to push his luck, considering how close they've been able to get right now. ]
[The slight shift of his head comes more slowly, mindful not to disrupt the lovely sensation of having his hair combed.]
You have a glass?
[There's an ease to the thought. This comfort would linger with Stede's attention on the braids. The particularities of handling his beard would be infinitely better in his own hands (there's not having a full beard, and there's not having a full beard that often has slow matches twined into it).
[ Stede is careful with his fingers as Ed moves, drawing them down and away so as not to tug. ]
Of course. How else would myself and the others shave?
[ And how else would he take care of his pretty hair? There's that too, obviously, and Stede relishes the fact that he can be a little prim and proper with himself even aboard his pirate ship. It would be horrid to have to try and take care of himself without one.
All the same, it's not exactly normal on a ship and he's well aware of that. Another oddity that he hopes Ed will enjoy rather than find embarrassing.
Leaning down, he smiles. ]
I do grow one, as odd as it might sound! I tried it out once when I was younger, but it didn't suit.
[Stede's hair isn't remotely long enough to tug around over the man's lips for a preview. The best Edward can do is squint slightly, one hand lifting to block the view of the lower half of Stede's face.
It's hard to imagine. It's a bit of a waste, as well, to imagine covering up this much of the man's face.]
Suppose not. [His hand drops, body still twisted to study the man standing over him.] Go on, then.
[A mirror would work. Finding the mirror would also drag out the quiet connection here for at least a few moments longer.]
[ Stede watches him, watches Ed try and imagine him with a beard and all he can do is huff a little laugh, holding still so he can get whatever image of him that he wants. Perhaps he should try growing a beard, just so that Ed can see what he looks like - but it would be terribly itchy.
He doesn't really suit it either, so he puts the idea to one side. Maybe when a time comes that leaves him without his razor. ]
I don't think I'd look like much of a gentleman if I grew one.
[ He does step away to go and get the mirror, though, pushing the comb into Ed's hand as he walks over. ]
And - [ His voice is a touch quieter ] - I think a few people might laugh.
[There's an interesting thought. Edward's free fingers move contemplatively at his own beard as he taps the comb against his knee. Would all this need to go, in retirement? In the middle distance of the future, would attempting to comport himself in polite society require a paring down--or worse, a complete removal?
Maybe not worse. Maybe it would be a faintly cathartic thing, to take the years off his face before stepping away from the sea. Maybe he and Stede would laugh about this very moment, on some distant shore, clinking delicate china teacups and remembering how he used to let his hair and beard grow wild. Not that Stede would necessarily be there, although the future his mind painted seemed more and more often to include the man.
That consideration is banished by the soft thought that follows, a tension returning to Edward's bare arms and shoulders.]
Like fuck they would now.
[Not none, perhaps. The motley collection on this particular ship might grin and chuckle, in the soft and not entirely unkind way they did now. But properly? Cruelly? With the rough sting of passive aggression?
His fingers shift on the comb, which isn't actually a dagger but which might nevertheless be used very unpleasantly in these hands.]
[ The words are soft, and Stede turns to look at Edward for a moment, not sure how to take them or how he ought to react. There's something to be said about the way that he and Edward look out for one another, the way they take care of each other in different situations - Ed teaching him to fight and duel, Stede teaching him about gentlemanly culture and the rules of passive aggression.
He'd never imagined that Ed would want to protect him from words, and the notion seems a little ridiculous.
Clearly he's misunderstanding something here.
Picking up the looking glass, he laughs softly as he makes his way back over, as if it really is more of a joke than anything else that might bruise his ego. ]
Perhaps not, but it's not worth the risk.
[ Stepping in front of Ed is easy enough, now, and he holds out the looking glass with a soft smile. ]
Here. Let me braid your hair and then we can work on the beard?
[There's a moment of simply studying one another (and Edward wonders, briefly, if Stede believes him; if it's as clear across the quiet space as it is in the deepest places in his own chest), and then Stede seems to relax again. Edward's spine stays slightly coiled, cautious, watching his co-captain come drifting cheerfully back into his space.
His free hand goes first to Stede's wrist, brow slightly furrowed. Just for a heartbeat; an impulse to chase at whatever shadow had passed when they were briefly outside of one another's immediate orbit.
Then he takes the glass carefully, frown softening as he contemplates his own reflection.] You've got ribbons?
[ The fingers on his wrist still him, his heart suddenly leaping up into his throat, and Stede stops still as if there's suddenly a wild animal in the room. He hesitates, stares at Ed, watches the shape of his body and the movement of his limbs, and the tension in his shoulders is nothing to do with concern or fear.
Taking in a long, deep breath, Stede tilts his head, watches Ed, drinks him in, and then forces himself to breathe. There's no point getting in over his head, not when all of this could be taken away from him in a moment.
He doesn't want to do anything to upset Ed, to make him want to turn around and leave without looking back. ]
If you'd like them, yes. [ He smiles, stepping back around to the hair. ] In a few colours, all silk.
[There's still a faint level of awe to the simple realizations; the casual mention that something is silk, pure silver, purchased from some far-flung land. There's no shaking his head while Stede is fussing at his hair, but there's a bemused furrowing of the brow as Edward studies himself in the mirror.]
We've almost always used unwound rope. Bits of twine and that.
[But then, he and his crew had always intended to style his beard for maximum effect in the midst of high fuckery. The strands could be twisted into strange, otherworldly shapes. Bits and pieces that glittered or sparked could be tied securely into place. The brand was rough and ready around the edges, certainly not delicate and luxurious.
For the next little while, all the same, there's no one to bend under Blackbeard's foot. There's just Stede and Edward, sorting through the rubble.
He shifts the looking glass slightly, contemplating the man standing behind him, before settling into the work of carefully picking knots from his beard.]
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They're both here, now. The tendrils of who they used to be may never fully let go, but can't stop them being here.]
...well. [Edward tries to move slowly, tilting his head without tugging so as not to disrupt the work. One hand lifts, reaching with an unpracticed attempt at gentleness to catch at a few pale strands of Stede's hair.] Not really the same.
[Stede had hair like silk, skin like porcelain, a voice like the pleasant lilting twitter of a delicate bird. Caring for the bits and pieces of Stede would take careful consistent work--like caring for the delicate silverware and fragile tomes that made up this odd little biome in this corner of the ship.]
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There isn't any time to be spared on thinking of what he has lost. Stede can't let himself do that or he'd fall into a never-ending trap. He's much happier here, with his crew, with the sea below him, with Ed... Here. With him. In whatever capacity that might be.
He doesn't think when he feels a hand touching against his head, tilting to lean into it, no hesitation in his movement. ]
No. You're getting me far less damp than they used to. [ Smiling, he lets one hand slip away from Ed's hair, touching his neck gently, almost anchoring him. ] I'm much happier here.
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Fingers ghost gently at his own throat, and Edward finds that he doesn't shift away from the gentle contact. Things feel steady, for a few heartbeats; balanced and easy, as if the world could be contained between their delicately poised hands.]
Good.
[Another lingering moment, fingers drifting absently so the knuckles brush against the cheek of the man standing over him, and then Edward slumps comfortably back down with a contented sigh. Another heartbeat, and his eyes drift shut.
(They'd eaten the beast the next day. At the time, that had been the warmer, happier memory.)]
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He feels, inside him, a strange sense of yearning, of wanting to say something to fill the comfortable silence that has developed between them, to make note of the gentleness with which his skin has been touched, the way he could lean down and wrap his arms around Ed - but he doesn't. No need to spoil things with something as silly as words.
In this moment he doesn't think words would do him much good. He doesn't know what the right ones would even be. ]
Yeah? [ His voice is hushed, his fingers careful, thumb brushing against the skin below before it pulls back. Stede gathers up the cloth and goes back to the hair, prepared to finish washing it up and begin to get the oil in it.
Then he can do the braiding, and if that isn't a wonderful excuse to do more touching... ]
Would you like to pick one of the oils?
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Argan. [The word comes bubbling up from somewhere far off, through a tangle of memories and impulses he isn't paying any conscious heed; the half-remembered sensation of his mother's fingers moving with brusque efficiency through his increasingly unruly mane.] Or coconut.
[There's probably more to it. Almost everything Stede owned had some distinctive scent or other--teas that smelled like flowers, handkerchiefs that smelled like mint and lemongrass, bottles he couldn't read the labels of and couldn't place the scent of if he had all the time in the world.
Edward is fairly certain there's some form of bustling, gentle correction coming, but doesn't bother to open his eyes.]
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I should have some Argon. I imagine it'll be better suited than coconut for you.
[ It might have been nice to get something a little more floral in there, but there's no need to play around with it right now. He can introduce Ed to so many more wonderful cosmetics when the time is right - as they continue to spend time with each other.
Leaning back, he hums a little. ]
Argon is very good for taking care of hair, especially if you use it regularly. It's a good choice.
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Praise from Stede, even light and passing, feels different. It isn't a matter of fear. It isn't always deference to an area of superiority. In moments like this, it's simply a lovely little boost, dragging a soft noise of pleasure into Edward's throat.]
Regularly?
[Drinks were a regular thing, now. Loitering in this strange space was a regular thing as well. Having Stede close enough to touch at any given moment (and, increasingly, reaching out at odd intervals just to prove to himself that the man was as real as the sensation he inspired somewhere deep in the chest) is growing in that direction. But this? The intimacy of trusting himself to his co-captain's gentle care?
It boggles the mind, even now.]
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Well, Ed had become a very dear friend.
Humming absently, he begins to brush the oil through Ed's hair, fingers first - a comb can come later. ]
It doesn't have to be every day, but once every six months isn't going to make it worthwhile, is it?
[ Which seems logical, of course. ]
I can give you your own to use when you're alone.
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It's a shame to lose the soft trail of fingers through his hair, but the kraken is a hungry, greedy thing.]
Alone.
[Not quite a confirmation. Not quite a question. Not quite an accusation. Not quite enough to get his hand reaching for the other man's wrist, but the grip he's got on the arm of his chair looks crushingly tight.]
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[ Stede isn't sure where to tread with this conversation, how far he can go, what he ought to do - but he knows what he wants, and he softens a little as he leans forward. It's so that Ed can hear him, with the edge of something soft to him.
He's going to be honest, and genuine, and there's no point trying to hide it.
His fingers continue to move at the same time. ]
Or we can keep doing it this way.
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Edward relaxes in pieces, a riled creature sinking slowly back from high alert to rest.]
This way. [Another few heartbeats, and he shifts back into place--face forward, eyes dropping closed, hair completely turned over to Stede's attentions.] This works.
[So much of being Blackbeard was being alone. This sensation of being something else, something warmer and less desperately lonely, would be fought for, tooth and nail.]
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He knows enough of Ed's background to understand that such things might be a touch more difficult for him than others. ]
Then we'll do it this way. I'll make sure I have enough oil for us both.
[ Maybe he can get some other kinds too, so that Ed has more choice. He rather likes the idea of giving him gifts, of making sure he has all the fine things he could ever desire.
Reaching for the comb, he hums as he begins to brush the oil through. ]
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(Or maybe it isn't the familiar motion. Maybe it's the distinct awareness that the gentle touches are Stede, from the light perfume that lingers wherever the man is to the simple animal awareness of his co-captain's proximity. That's an idle consideration for another time.)
In the meditative quiet of having his hair combed (a process, with the knots and tangles he rarely attends to), Edward's eyes blink absently open, one hand lifting to tug at a bit of dried blood.]
What about the beard?
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The notion of taking care of the beard makes Stede still for a moment, however, and he pauses before he breathes out and forces himself to continue. There's intimate and then there's intimate, and he's not sure how comfortable Ed will be with continuing.
Even if he, himself, wants it. He doesn't know how to say. ]
We can do the same for your beard, if you like.
[ As long as he is happy, as long as he is comfortable. ]
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They can both breathe here, in the quiet space where Edward Teach actually exists.]
Hm. [The breath is thoughtful, attention largely focused on freeing a particularly tangled clump of something unpleasant.] You haven't got one.
[It isn't the same task. It might be an absolute mystery to a man who kept his cheeks clean-shaven with a surprising tenacity despite living at sea.
It might be nice, watching the little wrinkle in Stede's brow as he attended to the work.]
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[ Not nice, long beards like Edward has, thick and heavy and clearly grown over a long period of time. Stede's beards tend to be less thick, blond and soft and, in many ways, pathetic. It takes him months to grow any kind of proper facial hair and even then it doesn't suit him as well as Ed's suits him.
He doesn't halt in his movements as he speaks, his voice as gentle as ever. ]
I'm sure the comb would work just the same, as would the oil. I can let you do it yourself if you'd prefer - I do have a looking glass in here you could use.
[ As much as he might like to get his hands on Ed's beard he's not about to push his luck, considering how close they've been able to get right now. ]
You don't have to put ribbons in it this time.
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You have a glass?
[There's an ease to the thought. This comfort would linger with Stede's attention on the braids. The particularities of handling his beard would be infinitely better in his own hands (there's not having a full beard, and there's not having a full beard that often has slow matches twined into it).
This works. That would work as well.
Another slight shift.]
You've had a beard?
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Of course. How else would myself and the others shave?
[ And how else would he take care of his pretty hair? There's that too, obviously, and Stede relishes the fact that he can be a little prim and proper with himself even aboard his pirate ship. It would be horrid to have to try and take care of himself without one.
All the same, it's not exactly normal on a ship and he's well aware of that. Another oddity that he hopes Ed will enjoy rather than find embarrassing.
Leaning down, he smiles. ]
I do grow one, as odd as it might sound! I tried it out once when I was younger, but it didn't suit.
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It's hard to imagine. It's a bit of a waste, as well, to imagine covering up this much of the man's face.]
Suppose not. [His hand drops, body still twisted to study the man standing over him.] Go on, then.
[A mirror would work. Finding the mirror would also drag out the quiet connection here for at least a few moments longer.]
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He doesn't really suit it either, so he puts the idea to one side. Maybe when a time comes that leaves him without his razor. ]
I don't think I'd look like much of a gentleman if I grew one.
[ He does step away to go and get the mirror, though, pushing the comb into Ed's hand as he walks over. ]
And - [ His voice is a touch quieter ] - I think a few people might laugh.
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Maybe not worse. Maybe it would be a faintly cathartic thing, to take the years off his face before stepping away from the sea. Maybe he and Stede would laugh about this very moment, on some distant shore, clinking delicate china teacups and remembering how he used to let his hair and beard grow wild. Not that Stede would necessarily be there, although the future his mind painted seemed more and more often to include the man.
That consideration is banished by the soft thought that follows, a tension returning to Edward's bare arms and shoulders.]
Like fuck they would now.
[Not none, perhaps. The motley collection on this particular ship might grin and chuckle, in the soft and not entirely unkind way they did now. But properly? Cruelly? With the rough sting of passive aggression?
His fingers shift on the comb, which isn't actually a dagger but which might nevertheless be used very unpleasantly in these hands.]
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He'd never imagined that Ed would want to protect him from words, and the notion seems a little ridiculous.
Clearly he's misunderstanding something here.
Picking up the looking glass, he laughs softly as he makes his way back over, as if it really is more of a joke than anything else that might bruise his ego. ]
Perhaps not, but it's not worth the risk.
[ Stepping in front of Ed is easy enough, now, and he holds out the looking glass with a soft smile. ]
Here. Let me braid your hair and then we can work on the beard?
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His free hand goes first to Stede's wrist, brow slightly furrowed. Just for a heartbeat; an impulse to chase at whatever shadow had passed when they were briefly outside of one another's immediate orbit.
Then he takes the glass carefully, frown softening as he contemplates his own reflection.] You've got ribbons?
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Taking in a long, deep breath, Stede tilts his head, watches Ed, drinks him in, and then forces himself to breathe. There's no point getting in over his head, not when all of this could be taken away from him in a moment.
He doesn't want to do anything to upset Ed, to make him want to turn around and leave without looking back. ]
If you'd like them, yes. [ He smiles, stepping back around to the hair. ] In a few colours, all silk.
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[There's still a faint level of awe to the simple realizations; the casual mention that something is silk, pure silver, purchased from some far-flung land. There's no shaking his head while Stede is fussing at his hair, but there's a bemused furrowing of the brow as Edward studies himself in the mirror.]
We've almost always used unwound rope. Bits of twine and that.
[But then, he and his crew had always intended to style his beard for maximum effect in the midst of high fuckery. The strands could be twisted into strange, otherworldly shapes. Bits and pieces that glittered or sparked could be tied securely into place. The brand was rough and ready around the edges, certainly not delicate and luxurious.
For the next little while, all the same, there's no one to bend under Blackbeard's foot. There's just Stede and Edward, sorting through the rubble.
He shifts the looking glass slightly, contemplating the man standing behind him, before settling into the work of carefully picking knots from his beard.]
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