[ Stede can admit that he has become quite well accustomed to being around Edward, touching him, leaning on him - both as a form of friendship and camaraderie but also to offer comfort and show his care and concern. He thinks that there have been too few people to show Edward kindness in his life that he ought to be given as much as possible now that he has someone to do it.
It's why he takes his time to make sure he is clean, that he doesn't use water that's too hot, that he checks for any wounds, cuts or otherwise that might get hurt or tugged along the way. Ed deserves someone to treat him as though he is special and worthwhile and Stede has taken that upon his own shoulders - quite happily, too.
His focus is tempered if only because of the fact that Ed is right there and he is a little overwhelmed by the closeness of the other man and how distracting that actually is. ]
Good, that's good. I'm glad to hear it. I had been a little worried.
[ This is a natural aspect of piracy, of course, but Stede hadn't been involved in it very much. Yes, he's been stabbed a few times, perhaps more than he'd actually like, but he's not the person the crew turns to when there's a raid or a fight. He doubts they ever would. ]
[Not that Stede had been worried solely about his co-captain, surely. The thought simply slips out, like the connection between his mind and his lips has relaxed a bit under the gentle attention. Stede's heart is confusingly large. There would have been space in there for worrying about Edward specifically.
There's a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he studies Stede's quiet features. Abruptly, Edward sits up a bit more, twisting his arm under the other man's grip without snatching it away--simply twisting to show the more fulsome extent of the ink and scars covering the very skin now being gently bathed.] What all this is about.
[The scars (mostly thin and spider-like on his arm, a slice here or there; clean and hard to see compared to the gnarled knots that pepper his chest and back) are a bit literal. The tattoos, by and large, are also fairly literal, but a half-step removed in abstraction.]
Fuckin' years of it.
[No years of being delicately pampered like this, of course.]
I know that. That doesn't mean I won't worry a little.
[ It's all well and good being the infamous Blackbeard and barely needing to get involved in the fighting, as per his reputation, but that doesn't mean Stede is completely without the unfaltering desire to protect and take care of him. It feels a touch foolish, especially recognising that he absolutely can take care of himself, but he can't turn it off either.
Lifting his head, he looks Ed in the eyes before looking down at his tattoos and scars, barely resisting the urge to reach out and trace the shape of them before he breathes out quietly. ]
The more famous you are the more people there might be that want to unseat you as the most famous pirate. It's not entirely foolish to hope that you'll come back unscathed.
[ Almost come back to me, but he bit it off at the end. He keeps washing away the grime, smiling fondly as he does so. ]
We're almost there now. Shall I do your hair after, or did you want a drink first?
[It's true, of course. As protective as reputation had always been, it was hardly an actual shield. The mirage might break at some point--and someone might get brave in the face of fire and fury and legends whispered softly in the night. Reputation wouldn't stop a well-placed bullet, when someone found the nerve or craved the name strongly enough.
But that feels very far away with Stede smiling down at him, erasing the most recent signs of battle and leaving a pleasantly cool prickling sensation over his skin (drying water, likely nothing more than that).]
Still. Expect you'll be stuck with me a while yet.
[Another shift, the motion in his arms and spine once again long and twisting (and in the soft lighting of the captain's quarters, the movement of scale tattoos on his arm looks less like the writhing of a tentacle and more like the something safe, something human) as he sits straighter in his seat.]
Hair first. [This sensation will have to end sooner or later. Best to drag it out as long as possible before letting go.]
[ There's very little Stede can do about the situation, other than try and take care of Ed when he comes back from the raiding and the fighting and the fuckery. He's not exactly proficient at fighting himself despite the lessons and he doesn't have a reputation to help. The only thing he can do is welcome Ed back when he returns and offer him the kindness that has been absent for so long.
He keeps washing, cleaning gently, lifting his head to look with a smile. ]
That's good to hear. We'd all be devastated to see you go.
[ Swallowing, he looks at the arm as it moves, the flex of muscle, and focusses on finishing off the washing. It doesn't take much longer until the arm is nice and clean - perhaps not as good as a proper bath, but needs must, as it were. Then he gets up, ready to swap out the water. ]
Make yourself comfortable and I'll get to the hair, then.
[This certainly feels better. The sensation of stretching his arms over his head as Stede moves away is pleasant; skin warm and muscles relaxed, nothing flaking or cracking or drifting free to dirty the hallowed little space he's been allowed into for a time.
The sound that rises in Edward's chest as he stretches is soft and pleased. It's followed by a contented sort of "whomph" as he drops his arms again, rolling his shoulders through the directive to make himself comfortable. It would be lovely to fall back into his usual slouching against fine fabric and plush cushions, but he'll have to stay more or less upright, he suspects, to give his co-captain proper access to his unruly mass of hair.
A thoughtful heartbeat, and Edward moves again, tugging the light fabric of his shirt up and over his head. No use getting it splashed with water or dripped with oil, surely. The uglier scars are on his chest and spine. There are angry jagged marks where swords had run through him, puckered ugly places where shot had blasted through flesh and sinew. A few of the tattoos scattered across this skin are twisted and made more unearthly where scar tissue tugs at the images.
They're pieces of himself. Everything about Stede is soft and smooth and more or less intact, but the man's always seemed oddly accepting of the broken bits of Edward. That makes it easy to sit without self-consciousness as he waits, gaze once again drifting to search out details he'd missed in these quarters.]
[ Stede takes his time with emptying the water and getting a new bowl - there's no point washing Ed's hair if he's going to do it with dirtied water, so he pours the used out the window and heads back over to his little kettle to pour some more out. It means he's not really paying attention to Ed as he shifts and makes himself comfortable, as the shirt comes off and it placed somewhere else.
He catches sight of it as he turns back with the new water, his eyes widening for a moment as he gazes at the bared chest. The scars are painful to see, of course they are, the sort of thing that Stede wishes he could simply erase and get rid of, but they're a sign of Ed's survival. He can't really get rid of them. He'd seen glimpses of this skin when they'd swapped clothes too, but being able to see the tattoos in clear detail, having Ed sitting there like a portrait come to life is something altogether different.
It's only after a moment or two that Stede realises he's absolutely been staring, and he brings the bowl over and places it beside Ed with a little hum, trying to act as though he wasn't entirely distracted. He'll probably need to refill it again, so he resets the kettle and ponders about summoning more to boil before he picks up his box of vials - he has a comb, some oils, the sort of thing that will help protect Ed's hair from the elements, and a few ribbons.
He'll even let Ed pick the colour. That might be nice.
Marching back over, man on a mission, Stede smiles brightly and tries to act as though he was not just sitting there staring at a shirtless Blackbeard like some kind of... Well, hussy. ]
[Somewhere in the back of his skull, Edward can feel the brief drag of Stede's attention focusing on him. The general sensation isn't new. People tended, when he was in a space, to feel the need to keep an eye on him and his movements. Most of the time, it was out of a palpable fear. With the crew, it tended to be something slightly more nervously respectful. With those who most often carried his life in their hands, with Izzy and Fang and Ivan, it came with a faint wariness; a keen awareness of how quickly moods could turn and calm could become a storm lashing in any direction.
With Stede, it's different. It prickles in a few of the same places--some edge of knowing, of tracking, of wanting to keep a half-step ahead of whatever came next--but also simply felt... well. Odd, but there weren't other words than like being seen.
It's easy to remain at ease under even the lingering attention, Edward's own spinning here and there in the room until the other man was just beside him again.]
[ There's a certain measure of embarrassment from feeling a touch as though he's been caught doing something he shouldn't - because he has been staring at Ed, has been drinking in his form, and Ed has come to here in the spirit of trust to be taken care of. He shouldn't take advantage of that.
Walking around to Ed's other side, he nods, getting all of this things ready and breathing out. He doesn't really have the proper soaps any more, he hasn't been able to go shopping for any more of late, but he can at least give the hair a good rinse and then give some oils.
It'll be better than nothing. ]
Hold still, then, otherwise you might get damp.
[ And, carefully, he begins to run the cloth through Ed's hair, to wash some of the dirt and sea out of it. ]
Blackbeard had to be held apart from even light, casual touches. Every point of contact with a legend had to be sharp, calculated; painful. Blackbeard could hold men down like a vice, could ram elbows hard into noses and guts, could rend and break and claw so that the world only heard tales of a demon haunting the seas. Blackbeard couldn't be touched, lest the illusion come shattering down.
It blurred, now and then, with the men he trusted most. Izzy's shoulder could be clapped on occasion. Fang's cheek could be patted in moments of absolute generosity. Ivan's chest could be bumped after a particularly grand success. But this? The easy, mindless touching that came with comfortably sharing a space? The deliberate, kind contact that made a body feel precious and valuable?
That was all Stede; all Stede and Edward.
The sound in Edward's throat is low and contented as the other man sets to work on his hair. What a relief, after all these years, to be reminded of the occasional simplicity of his own humanity. What a comfort, to trust himself into gentle hands and kind touches.]
You've done this before?
[He's half-curious, of course, but more than that, it would be nice to hear Stede's voice.]
[ It's much easier to wash Ed's hair than his previous experience; he keeps still, he relaxes a little, he seems more at ease. He wants to do that, to take care of him, to make sure he is able to have the finer things in life, to show him the sort of things he deserves with his good and wonderful heart.
The fact that he doesn't believe he deserve those sorts of things might be heart-breaking, at the end of the day. Stede can give him silks, and brandy, and quiet moments together like this, but... He's not sure if it's really going to ever be good enough. All he's going to be able to do is keep doing it, keep making those overtures, until Ed can accept his worthiness, how deserving he actually is.
Hesitating for a moment, he sighs softly, leaning forward to offer Ed a little smile. ]
I had children before I became a pirate. I washed their hair when we got messy playing pirates and -
[ ... And Mary was upset with him. But he doesn't want to talk about Mary, doesn't want to discuss her at all, not here. Not with Ed. It makes something in his throat feel a little knotted and uncomfortable, and he shakes his head to force it away.
He hums instead, forcing himself to think of other things. ]
And I wash my own hair regularly, of course. It would be silly to do otherwise.
[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. ]
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It's why he takes his time to make sure he is clean, that he doesn't use water that's too hot, that he checks for any wounds, cuts or otherwise that might get hurt or tugged along the way. Ed deserves someone to treat him as though he is special and worthwhile and Stede has taken that upon his own shoulders - quite happily, too.
His focus is tempered if only because of the fact that Ed is right there and he is a little overwhelmed by the closeness of the other man and how distracting that actually is. ]
Good, that's good. I'm glad to hear it. I had been a little worried.
[ This is a natural aspect of piracy, of course, but Stede hadn't been involved in it very much. Yes, he's been stabbed a few times, perhaps more than he'd actually like, but he's not the person the crew turns to when there's a raid or a fight. He doubts they ever would. ]
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[Not that Stede had been worried solely about his co-captain, surely. The thought simply slips out, like the connection between his mind and his lips has relaxed a bit under the gentle attention. Stede's heart is confusingly large. There would have been space in there for worrying about Edward specifically.
There's a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he studies Stede's quiet features. Abruptly, Edward sits up a bit more, twisting his arm under the other man's grip without snatching it away--simply twisting to show the more fulsome extent of the ink and scars covering the very skin now being gently bathed.] What all this is about.
[The scars (mostly thin and spider-like on his arm, a slice here or there; clean and hard to see compared to the gnarled knots that pepper his chest and back) are a bit literal. The tattoos, by and large, are also fairly literal, but a half-step removed in abstraction.]
Fuckin' years of it.
[No years of being delicately pampered like this, of course.]
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[ It's all well and good being the infamous Blackbeard and barely needing to get involved in the fighting, as per his reputation, but that doesn't mean Stede is completely without the unfaltering desire to protect and take care of him. It feels a touch foolish, especially recognising that he absolutely can take care of himself, but he can't turn it off either.
Lifting his head, he looks Ed in the eyes before looking down at his tattoos and scars, barely resisting the urge to reach out and trace the shape of them before he breathes out quietly. ]
The more famous you are the more people there might be that want to unseat you as the most famous pirate. It's not entirely foolish to hope that you'll come back unscathed.
[ Almost come back to me, but he bit it off at the end. He keeps washing away the grime, smiling fondly as he does so. ]
We're almost there now. Shall I do your hair after, or did you want a drink first?
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But that feels very far away with Stede smiling down at him, erasing the most recent signs of battle and leaving a pleasantly cool prickling sensation over his skin (drying water, likely nothing more than that).]
Still. Expect you'll be stuck with me a while yet.
[Another shift, the motion in his arms and spine once again long and twisting (and in the soft lighting of the captain's quarters, the movement of scale tattoos on his arm looks less like the writhing of a tentacle and more like the something safe, something human) as he sits straighter in his seat.]
Hair first. [This sensation will have to end sooner or later. Best to drag it out as long as possible before letting go.]
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He keeps washing, cleaning gently, lifting his head to look with a smile. ]
That's good to hear. We'd all be devastated to see you go.
[ Swallowing, he looks at the arm as it moves, the flex of muscle, and focusses on finishing off the washing. It doesn't take much longer until the arm is nice and clean - perhaps not as good as a proper bath, but needs must, as it were. Then he gets up, ready to swap out the water. ]
Make yourself comfortable and I'll get to the hair, then.
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The sound that rises in Edward's chest as he stretches is soft and pleased. It's followed by a contented sort of "whomph" as he drops his arms again, rolling his shoulders through the directive to make himself comfortable. It would be lovely to fall back into his usual slouching against fine fabric and plush cushions, but he'll have to stay more or less upright, he suspects, to give his co-captain proper access to his unruly mass of hair.
A thoughtful heartbeat, and Edward moves again, tugging the light fabric of his shirt up and over his head. No use getting it splashed with water or dripped with oil, surely. The uglier scars are on his chest and spine. There are angry jagged marks where swords had run through him, puckered ugly places where shot had blasted through flesh and sinew. A few of the tattoos scattered across this skin are twisted and made more unearthly where scar tissue tugs at the images.
They're pieces of himself. Everything about Stede is soft and smooth and more or less intact, but the man's always seemed oddly accepting of the broken bits of Edward. That makes it easy to sit without self-consciousness as he waits, gaze once again drifting to search out details he'd missed in these quarters.]
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He catches sight of it as he turns back with the new water, his eyes widening for a moment as he gazes at the bared chest. The scars are painful to see, of course they are, the sort of thing that Stede wishes he could simply erase and get rid of, but they're a sign of Ed's survival. He can't really get rid of them. He'd seen glimpses of this skin when they'd swapped clothes too, but being able to see the tattoos in clear detail, having Ed sitting there like a portrait come to life is something altogether different.
It's only after a moment or two that Stede realises he's absolutely been staring, and he brings the bowl over and places it beside Ed with a little hum, trying to act as though he wasn't entirely distracted. He'll probably need to refill it again, so he resets the kettle and ponders about summoning more to boil before he picks up his box of vials - he has a comb, some oils, the sort of thing that will help protect Ed's hair from the elements, and a few ribbons.
He'll even let Ed pick the colour. That might be nice.
Marching back over, man on a mission, Stede smiles brightly and tries to act as though he was not just sitting there staring at a shirtless Blackbeard like some kind of... Well, hussy. ]
Are you ready?
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With Stede, it's different. It prickles in a few of the same places--some edge of knowing, of tracking, of wanting to keep a half-step ahead of whatever came next--but also simply felt... well. Odd, but there weren't other words than like being seen.
It's easy to remain at ease under even the lingering attention, Edward's own spinning here and there in the room until the other man was just beside him again.]
Do your worst.
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Walking around to Ed's other side, he nods, getting all of this things ready and breathing out. He doesn't really have the proper soaps any more, he hasn't been able to go shopping for any more of late, but he can at least give the hair a good rinse and then give some oils.
It'll be better than nothing. ]
Hold still, then, otherwise you might get damp.
[ And, carefully, he begins to run the cloth through Ed's hair, to wash some of the dirt and sea out of it. ]
no subject
Blackbeard had to be held apart from even light, casual touches. Every point of contact with a legend had to be sharp, calculated; painful. Blackbeard could hold men down like a vice, could ram elbows hard into noses and guts, could rend and break and claw so that the world only heard tales of a demon haunting the seas. Blackbeard couldn't be touched, lest the illusion come shattering down.
It blurred, now and then, with the men he trusted most. Izzy's shoulder could be clapped on occasion. Fang's cheek could be patted in moments of absolute generosity. Ivan's chest could be bumped after a particularly grand success. But this? The easy, mindless touching that came with comfortably sharing a space? The deliberate, kind contact that made a body feel precious and valuable?
That was all Stede; all Stede and Edward.
The sound in Edward's throat is low and contented as the other man sets to work on his hair. What a relief, after all these years, to be reminded of the occasional simplicity of his own humanity. What a comfort, to trust himself into gentle hands and kind touches.]
You've done this before?
[He's half-curious, of course, but more than that, it would be nice to hear Stede's voice.]
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The fact that he doesn't believe he deserve those sorts of things might be heart-breaking, at the end of the day. Stede can give him silks, and brandy, and quiet moments together like this, but... He's not sure if it's really going to ever be good enough. All he's going to be able to do is keep doing it, keep making those overtures, until Ed can accept his worthiness, how deserving he actually is.
Hesitating for a moment, he sighs softly, leaning forward to offer Ed a little smile. ]
I had children before I became a pirate. I washed their hair when we got messy playing pirates and -
[ ... And Mary was upset with him. But he doesn't want to talk about Mary, doesn't want to discuss her at all, not here. Not with Ed. It makes something in his throat feel a little knotted and uncomfortable, and he shakes his head to force it away.
He hums instead, forcing himself to think of other things. ]
And I wash my own hair regularly, of course. It would be silly to do otherwise.
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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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