[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.]
I had a wife and daughter, so I grew accustomed to buying those things. I saw no reason not to take some for myself when I left.
[ Stede is so accustomed to the finer things in life, having grown up with them, been wrapped in them since he was a youth. His hands weren't calloused, weren't damaged from a difficult work life; he was a pretty lordship in all ways. Comparing that to what Ed might have experienced as a youth...
It hurts him to think about it. ]
You have better options now. There's no point using rope when I have something nicer for you.
[ To Stede, something like hair and a beard is something to be taken care of. Ed has a reputation, but he also has a right to have self-care, a right to be cherished and feel good about himself, and the two do not always go together.
Careful fingers move to put the hair into a nice braid, a smile settled on his face. Ed is going to look quite handsome, he thinks, and that's a thrilling notion to tuck away to look at later. ]
[Stede had a wife, and now he had-- this. It's easy to imagine these warm fingers sweeping through a woman's fine shining hair, expert in the effort as they were now (slowly) becoming expert at far less refined acts.
(If it were someone else, Edward might have teased that it was an awful trade, to have changed a wife for a co-captain. But it's Stede, and the though sticks in his throat through a self-preservation instinct he doesn't quite know the edges of yet.)
It's quite soothing, having fingers directly in his hair like this. If it weren't for the need to be attending to his own beard, Edward have been tempted to close his eyes and simply sink into the sensation.]
[ Some things are in the past, and the notion of being a husband and father is one of the ones he tries most to allow to fade into the background. He doesn't miss being married as much as he misses the once-friendship he had with Mary, as much as he misses his children and their games. He knows he made a better choice, but the consequences were painful.
It doesn't take too long for the hair to be braided, and Stede allows his hands to fall away to gather up a ribbon, to twine it around the end to hold it all in place. ]
We can get some more. They're not terribly expensive, comparatively.
[That's a nice "we." If pressed, Edward could hardly have explained why, but it's a very nice "we" to relax further into.]
Comparative to what?
[It doesn't matter, but whatever prattling it inspires will keep the space feeling warm and comfortable--keep surrounding him with the firm sensation that he's here, in this place, with this person.
The mirror helps with that as well. His attention is more or less on combing away the worst tangles (the beard will never be fully "neat," at the end of the day, but it's moving toward an acceptable level of "wrangled" and "bloodless" now), but now and then a slight shift lets him catch a glance of Stede's fingers just at the edge of the glass.]
The rest of my wardrobe. A silk ribbon is far less expensive than a suit, or a personalised handkerchief. All they have to do is cut it to shape.
[ He motions absently to the auxiliary wardrobe, where his clothing is hidden away from view. Buying a stretch of ribbon won't cost so much that it will be beyond expense, and he could do without his personal little frivolities for a while to spoil Edward.
He does deserve it.
With a smile and a little hand flourish, he moves away from Ed's hair and nods. ]
[It isn't easy to see properly. Edward shifts slightly in his seat, twisting his head and the mirror at opposite angles to study the other man's work.]
Not bad.
[Setting the glass down lets him bring his hands carefully up to feel the twists in his hair. (It isn't quite touching Stede's hand again, but it evokes the sensation in a quiet way.)]
You like it?
[Not that it matters, but it would be nice to hear.]
["Lovely" is quite the word. It didn't fit with the usual adjectives, the jagged sort of words that tended to stick to fire and leather and the coppery taste that came to the air when decks were slick with blood.
Edward frowns thoughtfully as his fingers trail over the neat braiding. His skin is clean and bloodless. His hair is gently gathered into something tidy and presentable. His beard is as orderly as it ever managed to be without giving it a trim.
Maybe he is a bit lovely.
His brow clears as he turns his attention properly up to Stede again.] Shame yours is so short.
[ Stede looks quite pleased with himself, to say the least. It's not quite the smugness that was present when he had proven his ability for passive aggression, but it's on the same vein; pleased, proud and altogether content with his work.
Stepping back, he gives Ed a little space as he tides up the bits they don't need any more. ]
It was never proper to grow it out, but it's been longer at sea than it ever was before. I simply forgot to cut it, and there aren't many barbers around pirate ports, you know.
[ Plus, he thinks he'd look a little ridiculous with long, pirate style hair. ]
If you say so. [Only one of them, surely, had ever looked for a barber in any port at all. This particular item fitted solidly into Stede's specialist subjects, not Edward's.
Another moment watching his co-captain, and Edward pulls himself to his feet, fingers once again lingering on the gentle sweeps of his braided hair. A moment has to be spent twisting this way and that, studying his own bare arms and chest for any last signs of grime, brushing at the last few particulates of grit and muck from the pieces of his life outside these walls.
A satisfied nod, and his gaze flits thoughtfully over the room.] There's a robe?
[Something soft would be quite pleasant in a moment like this--something that extended the feeling of belonging here, in this place, with this man.]
[ There are a lot of things that Stede had looked for in pirate ports that, in hindsight, he ought not to.
Barbers, silk merchants, weavers, all the sorts of things that pirates couldn't care much less about if they tried. It had led to him letting the others handle the shopping, if only because he wasn't necessarily trusted - despite him funding the entire venture with his own money, of course. That titbit often left their minds.
Looking back over at Ed, he nods, beaming at the reminder. ] Let me go and get you it. Stay here and - do whatever you'd like.
[ He rushes off to gather the robe from the closet, spending a little time choosing the best one, the one most suited to Ed's colouring. ]
[There are always a few heartbeats, once Stede has bustled off in one of his tizzies of exuberance, when Edward has to account for himself in this space. It's one thing to be invited and supervised among the finery; it's something else to relax into simply being allowed to exist, entirely at his leisure, without any watchful gaze to keep him from dragging something lovely down into crumbling dust.
It helps to look down and see his own hands scrubbed clean, beard neat, hair all dragged back from its usual wildness. He's not some untamed creature. He's not a violent bit of nature, lashing out mindlessly against everything delicate and beautiful and precious in the world. He fits. He belongs. He's allowed--welcomed, even.
Maybe not everywhere, but certainly here, in this incredible little pocket of refinement, by the strange and fascinatingly wonderful man currently rummaging about among a ridiculous number of fine things in order to keep welcoming him into this space.
It's with no small sense of wonder that Edward allows himself to relax into the knowledge. He moves carefully, like a dreamer, fingers reaching to touch the surfaces he wanders past with a quiet reverence. True, he knows the arm of this sofa, the edge of this table, the delicacy of these glasses, the strange sensation of the spines of these books. It still feels important to learn their reality at every opportunity he's given; make, by slow work, all these wonders a piece of himself.
Edward will still be lingering at the bookshelf with his usual thoughtful bemusement when Stede returns, not quite turning so much as feeling the prickle at the back of his neck that the other man is close at hand again.]
Which one's the one I like?
[There are several, but that's not the point. Somewhere in these rows are the fascinating monsters lurking in the Odyssey, the ribaldry scattered in The Canterbury Tales, and the dreamlike wonder of The Tempest. Regardless of what Stede plucked down, it would be more time spent lingering in the wonderful warmth of this time together.]
[ Stede doesn't have any hesitation or mistrust - he allows Edward to be in his space, the one that he designed and made to his own personal specification, and he doesn't think for even a moment that Ed would betray that trust. He can wander around, he can sit, he can lie down, he can do whatever he wants and Stede believes that he won't upset the order of things, so to speak.
He bustles around for a moment in the closet, looking at his robes and pausing thoughtfully. He thinks that Ed might suit all of them - any of them, really, would look marvellous against his complexion, and he would look handsome in almost anything that Stede owns.
It also gives him a moment to simply breathe.
Being so close to Edward is strange, and it feels Stede with a strange bubbling sensation in his stomach that he doesn't really want to analyse too much right now. Instead, he focusses on picking out the pink-red robe that he thinks Ed might like best, swallowing back the weird nervousness and stepping outside with it draped fashionably over his arm.
Lifting his head, he offers a smile as he steps close to Ed, holding out the fabric with a small smile. ]
Hm? Do you mean the Shakespeare or the poetry? We could read a little of both, if you wanted. Here -
[ He opens the robe so that Ed can turn and slip into it if he wants. ]
[There's Stede, smiling and chipper and readily welcoming Edward further into this incredible time and place. It's a comfort to have the man slotted neatly into place beside him--a warmth, even.
He feels his lips twitch up at the corners as he half-turns to be helped into the robe (a lovely colour, a wonderful soft fabric, a faint familiar scent lingering from some soap or oil or powder that smacked immediately of Stede).]
The poetry.
[It doesn't matter, really. Whatever Stede drags from the shelf, there will be dramatic reading and a drink of something that doesn't burn and the lazy comfort of lingering here in one of the final places Edward Teach still exists.]
[ It all seems to make sense here, to step up close and see Ed admiring the fine things that Stede has been able to collect. His books, the clothing, the silks, the fabrics, all of the foods and groceries he keeps - it all seems like something that Ed should have more of in his life, and thus Stede wants to make sure he is showered in it all.
He hasn't analysed that feeling too much, but it fills him with warmth to see Ed so happy.
Nodding, he reaches up, almost on tiptoes, to take down the poetry book. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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[ Stede is so accustomed to the finer things in life, having grown up with them, been wrapped in them since he was a youth. His hands weren't calloused, weren't damaged from a difficult work life; he was a pretty lordship in all ways. Comparing that to what Ed might have experienced as a youth...
It hurts him to think about it. ]
You have better options now. There's no point using rope when I have something nicer for you.
[ To Stede, something like hair and a beard is something to be taken care of. Ed has a reputation, but he also has a right to have self-care, a right to be cherished and feel good about himself, and the two do not always go together.
Careful fingers move to put the hair into a nice braid, a smile settled on his face. Ed is going to look quite handsome, he thinks, and that's a thrilling notion to tuck away to look at later. ]
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(If it were someone else, Edward might have teased that it was an awful trade, to have changed a wife for a co-captain. But it's Stede, and the though sticks in his throat through a self-preservation instinct he doesn't quite know the edges of yet.)
It's quite soothing, having fingers directly in his hair like this. If it weren't for the need to be attending to his own beard, Edward have been tempted to close his eyes and simply sink into the sensation.]
And when I've ruined them?
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It doesn't take too long for the hair to be braided, and Stede allows his hands to fall away to gather up a ribbon, to twine it around the end to hold it all in place. ]
We can get some more. They're not terribly expensive, comparatively.
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Comparative to what?
[It doesn't matter, but whatever prattling it inspires will keep the space feeling warm and comfortable--keep surrounding him with the firm sensation that he's here, in this place, with this person.
The mirror helps with that as well. His attention is more or less on combing away the worst tangles (the beard will never be fully "neat," at the end of the day, but it's moving toward an acceptable level of "wrangled" and "bloodless" now), but now and then a slight shift lets him catch a glance of Stede's fingers just at the edge of the glass.]
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[ He motions absently to the auxiliary wardrobe, where his clothing is hidden away from view. Buying a stretch of ribbon won't cost so much that it will be beyond expense, and he could do without his personal little frivolities for a while to spoil Edward.
He does deserve it.
With a smile and a little hand flourish, he moves away from Ed's hair and nods. ]
There we are. Take a look, if you can.
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Not bad.
[Setting the glass down lets him bring his hands carefully up to feel the twists in his hair. (It isn't quite touching Stede's hand again, but it evokes the sensation in a quiet way.)]
You like it?
[Not that it matters, but it would be nice to hear.]
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[ Stede steps back, admiring his word fondly, making an effort to shift his fingers away so that Ed can get a proper sense of the braiding.
It's quite handsome, and he's about to say so in response until he measures himself. ]
I think it suits you, yes. It's lovely.
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Edward frowns thoughtfully as his fingers trail over the neat braiding. His skin is clean and bloodless. His hair is gently gathered into something tidy and presentable. His beard is as orderly as it ever managed to be without giving it a trim.
Maybe he is a bit lovely.
His brow clears as he turns his attention properly up to Stede again.] Shame yours is so short.
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Stepping back, he gives Ed a little space as he tides up the bits they don't need any more. ]
It was never proper to grow it out, but it's been longer at sea than it ever was before. I simply forgot to cut it, and there aren't many barbers around pirate ports, you know.
[ Plus, he thinks he'd look a little ridiculous with long, pirate style hair. ]
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Another moment watching his co-captain, and Edward pulls himself to his feet, fingers once again lingering on the gentle sweeps of his braided hair. A moment has to be spent twisting this way and that, studying his own bare arms and chest for any last signs of grime, brushing at the last few particulates of grit and muck from the pieces of his life outside these walls.
A satisfied nod, and his gaze flits thoughtfully over the room.] There's a robe?
[Something soft would be quite pleasant in a moment like this--something that extended the feeling of belonging here, in this place, with this man.]
no subject
Barbers, silk merchants, weavers, all the sorts of things that pirates couldn't care much less about if they tried. It had led to him letting the others handle the shopping, if only because he wasn't necessarily trusted - despite him funding the entire venture with his own money, of course. That titbit often left their minds.
Looking back over at Ed, he nods, beaming at the reminder. ] Let me go and get you it. Stay here and - do whatever you'd like.
[ He rushes off to gather the robe from the closet, spending a little time choosing the best one, the one most suited to Ed's colouring. ]
no subject
It helps to look down and see his own hands scrubbed clean, beard neat, hair all dragged back from its usual wildness. He's not some untamed creature. He's not a violent bit of nature, lashing out mindlessly against everything delicate and beautiful and precious in the world. He fits. He belongs. He's allowed--welcomed, even.
Maybe not everywhere, but certainly here, in this incredible little pocket of refinement, by the strange and fascinatingly wonderful man currently rummaging about among a ridiculous number of fine things in order to keep welcoming him into this space.
It's with no small sense of wonder that Edward allows himself to relax into the knowledge. He moves carefully, like a dreamer, fingers reaching to touch the surfaces he wanders past with a quiet reverence. True, he knows the arm of this sofa, the edge of this table, the delicacy of these glasses, the strange sensation of the spines of these books. It still feels important to learn their reality at every opportunity he's given; make, by slow work, all these wonders a piece of himself.
Edward will still be lingering at the bookshelf with his usual thoughtful bemusement when Stede returns, not quite turning so much as feeling the prickle at the back of his neck that the other man is close at hand again.]
Which one's the one I like?
[There are several, but that's not the point. Somewhere in these rows are the fascinating monsters lurking in the Odyssey, the ribaldry scattered in The Canterbury Tales, and the dreamlike wonder of The Tempest. Regardless of what Stede plucked down, it would be more time spent lingering in the wonderful warmth of this time together.]
no subject
He bustles around for a moment in the closet, looking at his robes and pausing thoughtfully. He thinks that Ed might suit all of them - any of them, really, would look marvellous against his complexion, and he would look handsome in almost anything that Stede owns.
It also gives him a moment to simply breathe.
Being so close to Edward is strange, and it feels Stede with a strange bubbling sensation in his stomach that he doesn't really want to analyse too much right now. Instead, he focusses on picking out the pink-red robe that he thinks Ed might like best, swallowing back the weird nervousness and stepping outside with it draped fashionably over his arm.
Lifting his head, he offers a smile as he steps close to Ed, holding out the fabric with a small smile. ]
Hm? Do you mean the Shakespeare or the poetry? We could read a little of both, if you wanted. Here -
[ He opens the robe so that Ed can turn and slip into it if he wants. ]
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He feels his lips twitch up at the corners as he half-turns to be helped into the robe (a lovely colour, a wonderful soft fabric, a faint familiar scent lingering from some soap or oil or powder that smacked immediately of Stede).]
The poetry.
[It doesn't matter, really. Whatever Stede drags from the shelf, there will be dramatic reading and a drink of something that doesn't burn and the lazy comfort of lingering here in one of the final places Edward Teach still exists.]
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He hasn't analysed that feeling too much, but it fills him with warmth to see Ed so happy.
Nodding, he reaches up, almost on tiptoes, to take down the poetry book. ]
Make yourself comfortable, then.