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Stede thinks that he’ll never tire of the way the sun sets over the ocean. Even though it’s the same sky, with the same ocean, facing the same direction, there is always something beautiful about it. It paints the landscape with glittering oranges and pinks, the sun twinkling beautifully against the ever-moving ocean beneath. Sometimes, clouds float lazily across and disrupt the image, adding something unique, and tonight they streak across the sky, catching dark shadows and highlighting an otherwise pastel sky in deep, stark orange. He almost nearly forgets that Ed is basking in the sunset, too, until a leather-gloved hand pokes out and points to the sky.
“Y’see that one there?”
Stede hums. It takes him a second to narrow down which one Ed’s pointing at, since the boat makes his outstretched hand waver slightly. They kind of all blur into one another, so he supposes it doesn’t exactly matter. “Suppose so.”
Ed’s hand drops. “Weather’s gonna stay nice tomorrow.”
He tilts his head to try and look at Ed. The two of them are leaning against the base of the foremast, passing a bottle (procured by Ed, and it’s probably best Stede doesn’t ask where it’s from) back and forth, as they’ve done many times before. Stede sits with his legs poked through the side, back pressed against the sturdy wood, while Ed has slowly sunk closer and closer to fully laying on the deck—his shoulders and head are still against the wood, although the rest of his body is horizontal, one leg propped up and bracing himself to keep him from sliding any further. Stede, when he looks over, mostly makes eye contact with Ed’s hair. “How d’you figure?”
“Seen a lot of clouds in my day,” Ed explains, taking a swig from the bottle. “Those ones don’t really cause any problems.”
“Huh,” Stede huffs, lifting his head back to the skyline. He squints, and then gently slaps Ed’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “I think that one looks like a giraffe.”
A laugh seems to startle out of Ed, and Stede grins as the man tries to roll to gain a better view. He lifts his hand once more. “That one?”
But Stede is distracted. His eyes catch on the long knife tattoo that just barely grazes the top of Ed's glove—he's seen it dozens of times, but this time he really looks at it. And then he looks at the anchor, and the star, and then he realizes it's been too long and Ed must be tired of holding his hand up. He clears his throat and says, as he looks back up at the clouds, "Yeah, that's the one."
Ed hums as though he's deeply considering this. After a moment, he says, "S'pose it does."
Stede takes a breath before he asks, "Can I ask you something, Ed?"
"Anything."
It's surprisingly earnest, the way the word comes out of Ed's mouth, and it makes the breath catch in Stede's throat for a moment. "I've always been…curious, about tattoos. That's kind of a pirate thing to have, but, ah," he looks down at his lap and picks at imaginary lint, "I must admit I've always been a bit squeamish with needles. How bad do they hurt?"
Ed grunts and sits up, and Stede looks over as he starts unbuttoning his jacket—he's suddenly immensely grateful for the dim light, and the booze, because maybe if Ed caught the blush creeping up his cheeks he's not sure he'd be able to blame it on the alcohol. Or like, wind burn, or something. He watches as deft fingers remove the garment with practiced ease, and Ed wiggles a bit to slide the leather off before he chucks it to the side. The gloves follow suit, and Stede thinks he must've gone sea mad or something, because no one removing a pair of gloves should drive him this crazy. Suppose that's just what Blackbeard does, eh?
Ed wiggles his fingers once they're out of the gloves and looks at the backs of his hands. "Some hurt more than others. Hands were kind of a nightmare." As he says this, he rubs his left thumb over the nautical star on the back of his right hand, clearly remembering something. "It also depends on who's doing it. I've had some," he exhales a laugh, and shakes his head, "real motherfuckers tattooing me over the years."
Stede gestures towards Ed's arm with a wave of one of his hands. "May I?"
Ed looks first at Stede's outstretched hand, and then over at him with a look that Stede can't quite decipher, and then nods once before offering his arm up. Stede still hesitates slightly, but he takes Ed's arm in his hands gingerly, turning it so he can get the full view of the dagger. He can feel Ed's eyes on him, and to anyone else, this would probably be terrifying, but Stede has never felt more calm as he traces the hilt of the blade with his pointer finger. "Some of them are real works of art, though."
Stede looks up to see Ed flounder for a second, mouth working around sounds that aren't quite coming out. "I—well, y'know. Artists can still be assholes."
"And what about the snake?" Stede rotates Ed's arm again to get a more full view of where it slithers up his entire arm, over existing tattoos, and out of sight under the cap of Ed's sleeve.
"That was less about pain and more about getting antsy, really," Ed explains, "to be honest I don't remember much of getting any of these."
"Ah," Stede mutters, tracing one of the filler stars on his arm, "I'd probably want to be drunk, too. Ouch."
The bottle, funnily enough, has been long forgotten, cast aside by Ed when the jacket came off. Stede isn't even really sure if he's feeling it. So if he's not…
"Less of a want," Ed admits, fingers twitching ever-so-slightly. "More of a…" he trails off, struggling to find the words.
"It was the situation you were in. I get it." Stede's eyes trail up Ed's arm and he breathes a laugh. "When I was a kid, whenever I thought about my life as a pirate, I always imagined myself getting one of those big, fuck-off skull and crossbones tattoos," he emphasizes this by waving his right hand over his covered bicep.
Ed scoffs. "That's a cliché."
"Oh, it's horrifically gauche," Stede clarifies with another dismissive wave of his hand, and then pokes the skull in the middle of Ed's own bicep. "I like this guy."
Ed smiles, and then realizes that he has no idea what tattoo Stede just poked, so he looks down and makes a soft noise of agreement. "Not one of my finest."
"But they tell a story. I suppose I always liked that about tattoos," he looks up and scrunches his nose a bit as he smiles, "I'm a big fan of stories." Stede pauses and lets go of Ed's arm completely. He tries not to feel disappointed, but it was getting harder and harder to make an excuse for holding it. "Is that why you get them?"
Ed looks down at the arm Stede was just holding and pets over his forearm idly. "Maybe. Obviously they make me look cool as fuck." He sweeps his hands down his body, and Stede laughs quietly.
"That one's a given."
Ed tilts his head in thanks. "And…I think the pain of," he stops, very carefully considering his words, "getting them makes me feel…alive."
Stede's face falls. Ed sees this and then immediately waves his hands to try and circle back. "No no no that sounds awful. It's a pain that I get to choose, right? So instead of being shot at or stabbed or whatever, instead of a gross scar I come out with a dope new tattoo."
Stede blinks. "I don't think your scars are gross. I think, if anything, they tell a story much like your tattoos do."
Stede doesn't mean to do this, but he tends to blindside Ed sometimes with being earnest—he has always made sure, in life, to speak his thoughts as they come to him (except, well, maybe the whole up-and-leaving-Mary thing, but that was an extenuating circumstance), as he's found it to make relationships solidify themselves much sooner. Good, or bad. Usually bad.
But Ed is not used to people being honest with him. Or, more accurately, Ed is not used to people being honest with Blackbeard. Having a reputation like he does has to affect a man and how he sees himself. If thousands of people call you a monster, how long before you truly start to believe it? Plus, this monster isn't so bad.
Ed's bashful smile lights up his whole face in the creeping darkness. "Never thought about it like that."
"Then perhaps you might now," Stede says with a grin. "Could I have the bottle, please?"
Ed grunts an, "Oh," and shifts around to grab it and hand it over. Their fingers brush on the neck of the bottle nearly every time they pass it over, but it still sends a tiny little thrill up Stede's spine every time.
He tips his head back against the wood to take a sip. For liquor in an unmarked bottle, it goes down surprisingly smooth, and Stede's inner child is giddy at the fact that he's drinking pirate liquor as a pirate on his pirate ship. With Blackbeard. And out of the corner of Stede's eye, he can see Ed watching him intently. No, he'll never quite get over that. He sighs happily as he sets the bottle back down.
"I could tattoo you, if you'd like," Ed says, voice low and soft. It makes something burst happily in Stede's chest. "I'm not much of an artist, though."
Stede looks back at Ed. The moment hangs between them, heavy but comfortable, and Stede's gaze bounces between both of Ed's eyes. "I don't think I'm really the tattoo type, if I'm honest."
Ed hums in the back of his throat and turns away to lean back against the foremast. Then, he makes a noise and turns back again. "We could do it without ink. So you can see what it feels like."
Stede cocks his head and looks to the sky to consider this. It's honestly not a half-bad idea. He's always been morbidly curious, but the permanence and the needles scared him. (Actually, a lot about it scared him. His father would call him all sorts of names if he came home with a tattoo. Mary would surely think he was some type of mad. Every colleague from his past life would chant something about Baby Bonnet wanting, and failing, to be a big boy.)
He nods. “Yeah, alright.”
“And I won’t actually make a design or anything,” Ed clarifies as he pushes himself up, dusting his hands on his thighs and then holding out a hand for Stede to take, “probably just poke you a few times so you get it.”
“That sounds lovely.” Stede grabs the hand and hoists himself up, letting go to tug the bottom of his shirt down.
Ed breathes out a laugh, takes a few steps towards Stede’s room with Stede at his heels, and then spins around, nearly making Stede crash into him. “I wasn’t expecting you to agree so easily."
Stede bounces on his toes a little bit. “Oh! Well, I trust you. I figure this is payback for making me stab you, in an odd way.”
Ed grunts an affirmative, searches for something on Stede’s face, and then proceeds towards their quarters. As they go inside, there’s a small round of laughter from the crew that sleeps on the deck, and Stede smiles to himself as the door closes. As long as everybody’s having fun.
The set up isn’t exactly what Stede imagined getting his first not-tattoo would be like, although he’s much happier with the reality. Ed’s dragged over one of the chairs to sit opposite Stede on the couch, his legs open wide and bracketing both of Stede’s own. He’s procured a sewing needle from somewhere and is holding it precariously between his lips as he grabs the bottom of the chair between his legs and draws the chair even closer. The whole sight and situation has Stede quite literally hot under the collar, and then Ed looks up in silent questioning, hand outstretched. Stede nods dumbly and hands over his left arm, and Ed adjusts them so that Stede has no choice but to cup the inside of Ed’s forearm to do this silly little experiment.
“Gotta,” Ed says gruffly around the needle, and then moves his free hand to hover at the end of Stede’s sleeve, “can I push this up?”
Stede’s voice sounds small when he says, “‘Course.”
Ed goes very slowly when he pushes Stede’s sleeve up to rest in the crook of his elbow, as though he’ll rip through the fabric if he even so much as breathes on it. Stede watches the focused look on Ed’s face, mostly—his brows are knit together in the middle, his tongue is playing with the needle in his mouth because it wiggles up and down minutely. He pulls it out and sharp panic shoots down Stede’s spine. “Shouldn’t it be clean?”
Glancing between the needle and Stede, Ed grunts. “Pointy bit wasn’t in my mouth. Reckon that’s fine.”
Stede lets a shaky breath out and puts on a brave smile. “Okay. Can’t be worse than being stabbed, can it?”
“Nowhere close,” Ed agrees, and swipes his thumb over Stede’s forearm before making eye contact. “Ready?”
“Oh, please just do it, the suspense is going to kill me worse than a bloody sewing nee—ow!”
Ed’s got a mischievous little smile on his face when he lifts the needle back up. Stede’s eyes fly to the spot that he’s just stabbed and there’s…nothing. Not even a speck of blood, although he imagines if they kept going, it would probably make itself known eventually. “Not so bad, eh?”
“Well when you cut me off like that—hey! ”
Ed's snickering to himself, but he tucks the needle back into the corner of his lips so he can rest his hand on Stede's other knee. "Relax."
"Telling someone to relax is not an effective way of getting someone to relax," Stede huffs.
"I'm gonna draw a line, just so you get the gist of what it's actually like," Ed says, patting Stede's thigh once before plucking the needle from his lips. "No surprises this time. Ready?"
Stede swallows, and then nods. Ed flashes him a toothy smile before turning his head down to focus on Stede's wrist. Stede has so many other things to focus on—the sheer warmth of Ed's other hand caressing Stede's forearm, the length of legs that press against his own, keeping him essentially trapped—that he doesn't really mind the poking all that much. He certainly can't imagine doing this for long periods of time, though. (Maybe with the, um, right artist.)
There's a sinking feeling that comes with Ed making a satisfied noise and leaning back, examining his work. "See? Not so bad." Stede looks down at what he's done and is mildly surprised to see a few flecks of blood, but absolutely nothing else.
"Maybe for something small. I don't think I'm getting a big one any time soon."
Ed swipes his thumb across the spot, and then tugs Stede's arm nice and close to his face so he can see. He gives a proud little "Aha!" and then pushes the arm towards Stede. "If you look close, you can see it."
Still reeling, Stede blinks a couple times and then lifts his arm to inspect it. Sure enough, there's a small little smiley face jabbed into the top of his wrist. He whips his head up to look at Ed, who looks far too pleased with himself. "Should go away pretty quick. Might even be able to see it better before it goes."
Stede looks back down at it. How many people can say that they've gotten a not-tattoo from Blackbeard? Well, unless not-tattoo is just stabbed, and then Stede imagines that the number is actually ridiculously high. Stede brushes over it with his own finger. "Maybe I'll let you do the real thing someday."
Ed smiles, and the moment hangs again. They watch each other fondly—Stede's not really sure what the move is from here. He's basically trapped in place by Ed's legs, but he desperately doesn't want to break the moment. He could have a night-long conversation here, if he could. Ed seems to realize the situation, too, because he glances down at their legs and huffs softly. "Shit, sorry—"
"No no, it's okay, I," Stede starts, catches himself, but still smiles, "just the easiest way to get 'er done, so to speak."
Ed nods stiffly, and Stede fears he might've fucked up. He awkwardly pats Stede's thigh again, and then stands up, pushing the chair back with his knees. "I er, left my jacket outside."
Stede tries not to sound disappointed when he says, "I'll be here."
But then Ed turns to go get it, and Stede's eye catches on a tattoo on the back of Ed's arm. He calls, "I thought the skull and crossbones tattoo was a cliché?"
Ed stops and spins effortlessly around on a heel. "It is."
Stede points. "You have one."
Ed's whole face furrows in confusion. "I do?"
"How do you not know if you have one?"
"I don't remember ninety-five percent of these!" Ed then proceeds to spin around himself, much like a dog chasing its own tail, to try and spot where the skull and crossbones might be on his body.
Stede presses his lips together to try and prevent laughter as he stands and crosses the room to hold onto the outside of Ed’s arms to stop him from spiraling (literally). “I’ll show you,” he says, and then jerks his head towards one of the mirrors.
He keeps one hand on the outside of Ed’s arm as they move towards the mirror, and then maneuvers him so he’s standing with his back towards the mirror, cocked to one side, looking over his shoulder at the back of his right arm. Stede slides his arms to hold at Ed’s elbows, and then lowers himself so he’s about eye level with the tattoo in question. “See? There she is.”
Ed brings his other hand to poke at it, and then rub at it. “How am I supposed to remember it if it’s back there?”
“Huh. Good point.” Stede gives the tattoo a parting poke and then stands up once more. “Not often you look at your own backside.”
“The point still stands,” Ed says, making eye contact with Stede in the mirror and pointing a very serious finger at him. “It’s a cliché.”
“Of course,” Stede holds his hands up in defense. “Maybe you got it ironically?”
Ed snaps that pointed finger at him. “Exactly.” And then, just like that, he makes for the door once again. “Feels like something Blackbeard would have, doesn’t it?”
“Is it something that Ed would have?” Stede blurts out before he can stop himself. He almost wants to clap his own hands over his stupid mouth.
Ed just stops, hand on the door handle. He turns to look at Stede over his shoulder. His eyes are almost…sad. “Maybe ironically.”
Stede is not a very mur…killy person, but he very much wants to give everyone who’s told Ed that he’s a monster a very stern talking to. Instead of giving Ed a lecture about talking things through as a crew or demystifying Blackbeard in the eyes of the people, Stede just offers an understanding smile. “I think Ed needs his own tattoo, don’t you?”
A small smile creeps back onto Ed’s face. Selfishly, Stede feels a swell of pride in his chest. “You offering?”
Stede raises his brows and stammers out, “I, well—you know I’ve never tried, but I’m sure I could give it the ol’ college go.” He accentuates this with a little fist pump that makes Ed scoff quietly.
“I’m sure we could find some free space,” Ed says, and opens the door. “I trust you,” he adds, and then the door closes quietly behind him.
Stede stands in the middle of the room, wringing his hands together, and makes a mental note to get Lucius in at first light to start planning new tattoo ideas.