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"This is nice."
Stede glanced at Ed and gave him a wan smile. At least the other man was feeling some joy at the prospect of the evening before them.
But it seemed Ed wasn’t speaking of the party, he was running his scarred fingers over the fabric of his borrowed jacket, a small smile tucked away into the bush of his graying beard.
"Do you like purple?" It was an inane question, but it soothed some of Stede’s own nerves. He hated these sort of soirees – filled with people ready to wriggle a verbal knife between your ribs while smiling at you – but it seemed there was very little he wouldn’t do to impress Blackbeard. Or rather, to put it another way, there was very little he wouldn’t do to try to make his new friend happy. And based on the smile before him, Ed was well on his way to being very happy.
Ed looked up and blinked owlishly as if caught doing something he shouldn’t. He dropped his hands. "I was just-I was admiring the craftsmanship."
Stede smiled gently. "Yes, certainly. A well crafted jacket indeed. Suits you better than it ever suited me."
"I have trouble believing that," Ed said quietly, poking at the back of the sofa like a child unsure of what to do with his hands.
The comment prickled along Stede’s neck, heating his ears. It had been a long time since insults had made him blush and yet here he was, melting under an implied compliment.
"What do you think you’ll do with your hair?" he asked, rushing to change the subject. It was easier to do that than linger on his thoughts about compliments and what they could possibly mean.
"What’s wrong with my hair?" Ed demanded, a little furrow knitting between his brows.
"No, nothing," Stede rushed to say. "It's just not the height of fashion. And beards certainly aren’t what people are used to. These things are generally about fitting in."
Ed stroked a hand over tbe curling length of his beard. "Should I shave it?" he asked speculatively.
"Absolutely not!" Stede gasped, aghast at the mere prospect. Blackbeard without a beard!
Ed gave him an odd look before his face broke out into a wide smile. "No, you’re right. Would be weird just to shave for one thing. What should I do with it though? So it’s not just a big fuck off beard."
Stede grinned. "I have an idea."
**
"You’ve done this before then,” Blackebeard asked, shuffling closer on the sofa.
"No," Stede admitted. His hands were shaking slightly as he drew out the lengths of purple ribbon to cut them. "But I braided my daughter's hair countless times. I imagine this will be similar."
"Your daughter had a beard then."
"Well, her beard was not quite so lush as yours but she’s only eight."
"She has time to work on it then," Ed conceded, a laugh in his voice.
Stede turned to Ed on the couch and reached up to begin, two lengths of carefully measured purple ribbon laid out on his thigh. It was simply so close to his mouth. They were sat so near each other that their knees bumped. He could feel the heat of Ed's breath on the tips of his fingers, hot and damp and making his heart do something it had never done before.
This close Stede could smell Ed. That lingering scent of gunpowder and salt. And now the scent of Stede's own clothes layered over it. Utterly ludicrous to think about in any manner but to notice it and move on. Yet Stede noticed.
Stede gathered a few strands of Ed's beard and began to wind it into a small braid, the same rhythm as always; over and under, over and under. He worked carefully, focusing only on the movement of his fingers and trying to ignore entirely the cadence of Ed’s breath, the heavy weight of his gaze. There had been those silly stories of Blackbeard’s glowing eyes and right then it felt an apt descriptor because, even without looking, Stede could feel the way they burned right through him.
“There! Done!” he declared, sitting back. Both happy to have some distance and yet disappointed at once.
Ed’s hand immediately went up to stroke his beard, to feel out the new braids. He hummed. “What about my hair?”
“Do you want it put back?”
“I think that’ll work.”
Stede stood and retrieved his brush from the vanity to brush back the top of Ed's hair. It was a reprieve to not be looking at him. To not be looked at in return.
The hair at the top of his head was such a different texture than his beard. Softer, less curly. Stede felt himself falling into the rhythmic domesticity of it. He’d never done this for Mary and yet he could imagine doing it for Ed over and over every day until he didn’t want it any more.
"Oh, that's nice," Ed said as Stede worked. "Don't know if I've ever had anyone brush my hair."
"Really?" Stede asked as he gently brushed out the ends. "But you have so much of it. It must tangle."
"It does. I just ignore it. Do gentlemen brush their hair?"
"Yes, we do, Ed."
"Do they brush each others’ hair?" he added, quiet now.
"Um. Not as often, I believe.”
"Well, they should."
Stede swallowed, unsure of what to say. He thought of his father. What he might say to that pronouncement. Except it didn’t matter now. His father was dead and Stede liked the way Blackbeard’s hair felt in his hands as he drew it back into a bun. He was allowed to do the things he liked. That was the entire point of all of this. Of being at sea.
“All done,” Stede declared as he withdrew the mirror he had stowed on the side table.
Ed took it and examined himself, tilting the mirror every which way. A smile steadily grew on his face. He stood from the sofa and ran a hand down his clothes absentmindedly as if to straighten them,
"Oh, I look very nice," Ed said into the mirror. He turned back to Stede and waggled his eyebrows. "Downright debonair."
Stede's breath caught in his throat. "Yes, you do."