[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. ]
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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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.