Work Text:
Up in the crow’s nest, Ed points to the North Star and the Plough—navigating by starlight was of utmost importance and a skill Stede had unfortunately skipped in his rush to set sail.
“When the North Star fucks off, you gotta find the little Cassiopia fucker to track the big fucker down.” Ed tells him, leaning on one elbow with his other arm outstretched, pointing to the little fucker.
Stede tries to follow along, gazes upon the blanket of stars, yet finds himself turning away, much more interested in the markings along Ed’s forearm and bicep lit by the oil lamp clinking above their heads. A wonderfully detailed octopus with all its suckers. Snake scales winding along his muscles. Daggers and star shapes.
“Did it hurt?” Stede says.
“Probably.” Ed shrugs. “What’re we talking about?”
“Your tattoos.”
Ed takes a moment to think, head knocking side to side slightly.
“Blacked out through most of them, honestly. It’s like getting stabbed a million times, but with a really tiny knife.”
Stede balks at the thought.
“That sounds ghastly.”
Ed considers him. “You’re thinking about getting some ink?”
“I was. Getting stabbed once was enough, though.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a skull?”
Ed smiles slyly at Stede. “A bit overdone.”
“Oh.”
“But that’s why its a classic.” Ed claps Stede on his knee and leaves his hand there. “On your arm?”
“Or my wrist?”
“Oh no, no. No. Too painful, specially for your first. Fuckin’ hurts, man. You need somewhere with meat to it.”
“You have them on your wrist.”
“I’ve got some on my ass, too.” Ed shakes his head. “First tip with tattoos: Never get ink drunk. I mean, get drunk when you get it, but not when you think of getting’em. It’s the difference between a badass octopus and a mermaid that looks like the king kissin’ your cracker.”
Stede cocks his head, mildly scandalized for his friend. “You have King George on your derriere?”
“Got a lot going on down there, mate.” Ed stares into the distance, face going blank before coming back to the shore. He grins, beard bristling. “Couldn’t sit for a week without swearing my head off.”
Stede would like to see what exactly is going on down there but it just wouldn’t be the polite thing to do, to ask another man to take his trousers off for his own curiosity.
He warms at just the idea of the thought.
“Take your shirt off.” Ed tells him.
Stede can only stare blankly back at him. The wind ruffles his long hair to brush along his dark eyes, a stray lock or two sticking to his lashes.
“Excuse me?” Stede asks, needing clarification or else he might burst.
“Your shirt—take it off.”
“I’m not sure what that would accomplish.”
Ed rolls his eyes at Stede, he gestures with his hand c’mon, c’mon.
Stede clutches at the buttons of his shirt. He had forgone his coat and vest because of the warm night and the heat the brandy would give them.
He looks to Ed from the corner of his eye and sees Ed patiently waiting, his gaze soft and half-lidded and carrying the air of someone endlessly patient when he’s about to get exactly what he wants.
Likely from the drink.
“I suppose.” Stede says softly, uncertain. He begins the journey of unbuttoning his shirt with an eye to the deck, the crew sound asleep outside of Buttons absorbing his moon glow on his shift keeping watch.
Stede holds his linen shirt to his chest. Partly out of sheepishness and partly so it won’t blow away.
Ed eyes him, giving him a onceover Stede can physically feel and has no clue why he can. Ed is simply that spectacular—capable of feats normal men couldn’t aspire to. An ability to touch without moving. Astounding.
“Turn around.” He says and Stede does.
Ed places his hand to the space between Stede’s shoulders. Warm fingers dance up and down, tracing a shape Stede struggles to imagine, too focused on wily touches lighting his nerves.
Stede clears his throat and the sound is so terribly inelegant. “I wasn’t thinking anything that big.”
“All this empty space,” Ed flattens his hand, bare with his gloves tucked into a pocket, eternally warmer than Stede, sending heat and a shiver directly to his spine, “A skull is good and the arm’s not bad for any average seaman, but you—you deserve something more special than mediocre bullshit.”
Stede bows his head, gripping his bundled up shirt tighter, kneading at its threads.
Special.
The very idea!
“You have,” Stede swallows, sweat percolating at his temples, “ideas?”
“Loads.” Ed says, fingers waltzing downwards, forcing Stede to stretch forward and expand the dance floor. “I know all the good tattoo guys on every port.”
“That so?”
“Well, I know how to spot a good one.” Ed leans in and it is a peculiar sensation to feel another man’s beard brush along his bared shoulder—riveting and all encompassing and confusing above everything.
What were they speaking of, again?
Ed explains with his mouth quite close to Stede’s burning ear, “The secret to spotting a good one is to make him walk ten paces and if he wobbles even just a little—you’ve found yourself a drunk, not a pin-pusher.”
Ed’s breath is as hot as the rest of him, puffing against his ear like this—Stede bursts, then, into a laugh, slightly hysterical, but relieved when Ed joins him.
“Not that I’d let some dickhead come at you with a needle.”
Stede gasps, “You’d do it?”
“Who else? I’m better than them anyways.”
Turning around, Stede finds Ed shrugging out of his leather jacket followed by swiftly tugging his shirt off. He tosses both off the crow’s nest and following a light thump Wee John yells hey!
“Look. Look.” Ed turns and gathers his hair off to the side. He points to his back with his thumb. “Got it done back on Nassau when I was with old Hornigold.”
On the broad expanse of his muscular back is the three heads of the long serpent tails slithering up his arms. Fanged and split tongues in the midst of vast angry waves under a crescent moon and full sun and so achingly beautiful. A sea broken only by old scars and one freshly healing wound scabbing over.
“Skulls and octopus and fuckin’ mermaids are nice, but you deserve something of your own, Stede.” Ed says quietly, voice nearly lost to the quiet winds.
Stede reaches out to touch and hesitates.
“May I?”
Ed nods though his shoulders tense, bunching up before slowly sloping, edges being forced to relax under an instinctive reflex. A high strung man who Stede is honored to have give him his back. The sight causes a sting in Stede’s chest
He touches the center serpent, it’s eye on him, watching him, seeing all those who try to catch Blackbeard unaware.
“You’re stunning, Ed.”
Ed twists around, eyes wide in shock.
“What?”
“Your—your back. Your tattoo.” Stede pulls back, gathers up his shirt again, needing to cover up his mistake and the burning flush erupting under his skin. Stede shudders. A slip of the tongue. A social misstep.
But at Ed’s expression, he thinks, maybe, Ed doesn’t mind.
Stede steals himself.
Bravery is as much a part of being a pirate as navigating by stars.
He says, his flickering unsure gaze settling on his friend, “You. You’re stunning, Ed.”
Ed’s face darkens with a lovely hue that would glow brighter under sunlight, yet under the glow of their lamp, he’s made of soft shadows and yellow warmth growing warmer.
“You mean that, don’t you?” Ed says, puzzled by the idea, somehow. “You’re not just kissing my ass.”
“I’ve no interest in locking lips with King George.” Stede says. He places his hand on Ed’s knee this time, the leather worn and soft to the touch under his palm, taking the bold stance of squeezing. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
Ed grows still.
A breeze whips past them. Bare chested, Stede shivers slightly and waits. He kicks his dangling feet. Up in the sky, he spots what could be the North Star.
He should have paid more attention. Alas, there are few things more interesting than Edward Teach.
Slowly, Ed takes Stede’s hand in his, his grip tight and his mouth frowning in thought. Staring at their joined hands, he says, “Thank you.”