Chapter Text
"All right, now just get the beard off and you'll be done," said the supremely bored navy man supervising Ed's processing. So far Ed had been almost enjoying himself: the uniform was light and airy, leaving his skin to enjoy breezes he usually missed under his layers; the stack of blankets was heavy and warm in his arms, if not soft; they gave him his own bar of soap. Hard to believe it was less than a day ago that he was abandoning everything he owned in a box on a shit dinghy with a shittier friend. There were eyes on him here, but only in a cursory, doing-my-job sort of way– no one looked at Ed any more than at anyone else around him. He couldn't remember the last time he could walk into a room and say that.
The beard, though– he wasn't so sure about that part.
"The beard?" he repeated, staring dubiously down at the grooming kit the soldier handed him. "I dunno, mate, the beard is kind of my thing. It's in the name and everything."
"Where do you get 'beard' from Edward Teach?" the man said blankly. Ed, surprising himself a little, laughed.
"Ah, never mind. If it's gotta go, it's gotta go. Cheers." He left the confused soldier standing in the hall outside the door to the little dressing room and looked at his face in the mirror.
Ed did like a good mirror; he didn't come across one often and it was fun to see his own face- his real face, instead of a drawing of it done by someone who'd heard of him third- or fourth-hand. He squinched up his nose, wiggled his eyebrows, grinned and then scowled at himself.
"Edward Teach," he said experimentally. "No beard in there. Can't argue with that." He picked the scissors up gingerly, pinched off a hunk of hair to hold between the blades.
"Just close them," he whispered to himself. "Just fuckin' do it, man, you've cut off people's fingers, you can cut off some stupid hair, you're a fuckin' killer–"
The scissors snapped shut with an oddly pleasant whispery noise, and several long strands drifted to the floor.
"Huh."
It was easier after the first cut, though Ed looked away from his reflection to focus on sawing the mass of hair down to something manageable. A small, soft mountain of it was growing at his feet, his neck feeling cold and exposed as its protection retreated. Looking up once he'd gotten close enough to his skin to properly shave made him jump hard enough that he did nick his neck with the scissors, cursing softly about how maybe the British should consider the protective benefits of beards before setting their damned regulations, but once he stanched the dribble of blood with a fingertip he fell silent, meeting his own gaze in the glass.
The difference was surreal, even with a patchy inch or so of roughly cut hair still clinging to his jaw. Ed dragged two fingers down his own cheek, touched them to his exposed lips. He repeated the expressions he'd tried in the mirror earlier, noting how much work the beard had been doing for him on the scowls, but taken aback by the shape of his own unhidden smile.
"And who might you be?" he asked the reflection quietly. The glass did not answer.
Ed set about the shave, hoping knife skills were transferable to this operation. It took him a moment to figure out the right order and proportion of water to frothy white soap, and the application to his face was messy, suds clinging to his ears and neck. Luckily the razor itself was not entirely unfamiliar; after a few false starts he worked out the balance of it in his hand and was able to set it to skin. This time, he had to watch himself: the slow sweep of the blade into the fluffy shaving froth, the paths of clean brown skin it left behind. The shape of him emerging like a rock at low tide. The occasional bright bead of blood that somehow looked so different on his skin now than he remembered: mundane, nearly painless slivers of life. When all– well, most– of the froth was gone, there was still a slight silver haze of stubble across his jaw and neck. Ed wondered what it would feel like to get even closer, to see the skin completely uncovered, to touch fingertips to his face and feel nothing but softness. Either the razor wasn't sharp enough, though, or he wasn't skilled enough, so eventually he gave it up and splashed water from the basin to chase the rest of the soap away.
His skin felt raw and dry and tingly, so he kept the towel pressed over it for longer than he meant to, eyes squeezing shut as the impact of the last day and a half seemed to slam into his body all at once. Crushing the towel closer to muffle any sound from the ears of the soldier outside, he allowed himself a few deep, shuddering sobs, allowed himself to feel the ache in his knuckles from Izzy's face on one hand, the memory of a desperate touch to Stede's shoulder on the other. The paralyzing, missed-step fear of seeing Stede standing alone at the business ends of five British guns. In the moment where he wasn't sure the Act of Grace gambit would work, he hadn't known whether he was going to throw Stede over the side or throw himself in front of the bullets, but he knew they would have to kill him a dozen times over before he would run out of ways to keep Stede safe. Then the violent contrast of the uneventful trip back to the reformatory, bound on the ship's deck just close enough to link his little finger with Stede's behind their backs, an odd peace settling onto Ed's shoulders. And now they were here, and Ed felt simultaneously completely adrift and completely free.
It was that last realization that gave him the strength to suck in his breath, push down the tears and let the towel fall to the basin. He startled himself again a moment with his reflection, but only for a moment– had the hair on his head always looked so soft with the beard in its way? Ed didn't think he had ever seen it tumble over one shoulder like this, tucked against his bare neck, leaving the other side exposed from ear to collarbone. He tossed his head experimentally, batted his eyelashes a bit, slipped just a little into the muscle memory of the way a young child had once moved, unconscious of the attendant danger until a heavy hand on his ear brought it home. Gestures just a little looser, expressions just a little more open.
"Edward Teach," he said again, and this time he smiled to hear it, and marveled at its size. He carried on a little pantomime with himself for a moment– well hello, I'm Edward Teach, so pleased to meet you– well isn't it spiffing to meet you too, Mr. Teach– oh please, call me Ed–
The soldier rapped sharply on the door and Ed kicked back at it, making it jump in its frame.
"All right, keep your fuckin' shirt on," he yelled, packing up the grooming kit and getting off one last glance in the mirror. He touched his cheek again and smiled, then rearranged himself into the bored, vaguely superior expression that he usually adopted for non-maiming interactions with the British Navy. His head felt oddly light without the beard weighing it down, and he felt himself floating all the way back to the dorms, where he was instructed to put his kit away before dinner.
Ed was glad Stede had covered this aspect of finery in his lessons already; it was satisfying to reduce the stack of clothes into smaller and neater folds under his hands, a gentler dance than tying off a line or stowing a tarp. Thinking of Stede brought warmth to Ed's- really rather chilly now- face. He wondered what Stede would think of it– wondered if Stede would touch him in the same places Ed had touched himself, soft fingertips on his cheeks and lips, even a gentle hand on his neck, thumb maybe sweeping up to follow the clean edge of his jaw. Wondered if it would feel different to hug Stede now, if the occasion arose– if his face would fit into the crook of Stede's neck, if Ed would be able to feel the flutter of his pulse there right up against his lips. He smiled and added another neatly rolled pair of stockings to his pile. This wasn't exactly the kind of adventure he'd ever pictured himself having, he thought, but he was beginning to think it might even be fun.