the baker's flame - Cabbagepatcho (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter One: Bakery

Chapter Text

Stede Bonnet had been the sole proprietor of Bonnet’s Bakery for a little more than four years. He had considered selling it for about three of those four years.

Only in the beginning did he possess true, unbridled confidence. Confidence that he was making the right decision, confidence that his neighborhood would stop talking about him in hushed whispers at all the regular social events as if discussing a crazy person, confidence that he would not regret this life-altering, monumental commitment.

And he hadn’t. . .For the first part of the resolution. But the whispers hadn’t stopped. If anything, the ridicule had actually increased; nowadays, they were much more blatant about their disapproving glares and condescending smirks. Stede had started to harbor the suspicion that the only reason he still received invitations to the various housewarmings and friendly gatherings was to serve as the night’s entertainment,

That shouldn’t have mattered to him, they - The group of people he had grown up with, who had not just witnessed him at, but in fact had actively driven him to, his lowest - shouldn’t have mattered to him. Every time one of their gaudy invitations arrived in the mail, Stede immediately tossed it out without bothering even to open it. But that was a persona, a shadow of the person that Stede wished he was. Without fail, and usually accompanied by a few ingested glasses of wine - Stede would fish through the trash and pull the ornate card out with a treasonous hand.

It might be a summons for the Wellington’s baby shower or the engagement party of a Badminton. The date and time would instantly brand themselves in Stede’s mind, and the upcoming weeks would thus be consumed with worries about the proper outfit and an appropriate gift. Stede was beginning to think he was a masoch*st the way he tortured himself, imagining every possible situation that might occur - None of them pleasant. His neighbors were certainly sad*sts; nothing had greatly changed since childhood, that much he was sure of.

It was another late night at the bakery. There was no need for it to be, but here, among whatever pastries remained after the day’s sales and the ever-present scent of baked dough, Stede managed to feel less lonely than among his gapingly empty, rather ostentatious residence.

During the divorce proceedings, Stede had asked - closer to begged, actually - Mary to take the house.

Move into it with Doug or-or host your galleries inside it! Use the entire first floor as your workshop, I don’t care. But don’t leave it with me. I can’t-I can’t stand the emptiness.

Mary had looked on with pity. Stede hated coming across as so desperate, so openly pathetic. But he would have groveled if it could have convinced her to accept the deed of his childhood house.

Alas, Mary was moving in with her new paramour, Doug Heidecker, and she saw no reason to keep what was essentially a monument to a broken marriage. To Stede, the memorial was even greater: The imperial marble staircase, the first thing to draw your attention, was the only thing to greet him when he opened the door. The countless silent hallways held no family photos on the walls and endured no thundering of little feet on the floors. The ridiculously long dining room table served only memories of tense meals - Whether they were during his childhood or his relationship with Mary, it hardly seemed to matter.

The entire house was a glaring symbol of the failure that was Stede Bonnet’s life. He had done nothing of import, nothing that mattered - If not to himself, then at least to his late father or his judgmental neighbors.

He was nothing.

Stede had always liked to bake, however.

He was never allowed to, of course. If his father ever caught him in the kitchen - Guarded domain of their personal chef - he would have been thrashed, quickly and mercilessly. That never seemed enough to stop him. A pastime of young Stede’s, when he wasn’t gardening or being chased through the gardens attempting to avoid thrown rocks, was to spy on their private chef, particularly when the time came for her to prepare dessert. He would closely watch her careful movements, attempting to imitate the gestures himself as she folded edges of soft dough or hand-whipped meringue for thirty straight minutes.

Very rarely, and only if she knew his father was out of the house, would she allow him a closer look. One glorious occurrence, she even let him fill the eclairs - The very same dessert that would be served to his family that night after dinner. Any beating would be worth the compliments his father had showered on the chef that night, and if he had been the type of parent to pay attention to his child, he would have seen his only son beaming with pride.

Baking was a secret desire of Stede’s that he hadn’t dared harbor while his father was still alive. Just imagining the hell that would rain down on him if he were to find out - Well, Stede imagined it would have been close to Mary’s reaction when it was revealed to her that her husband had purchased a bakery for them to own and work in.

This life that you’re trying to present to me, Stede - It’s something totally different from our life now. You have everything that money could buy, do you realize that? You really think an offer of working together baking bread in some dingy shop that’s not even in our town is appealing? What would the neighbors think of us? Did you even realize how something like this would affect my career?

Stede hadn’t thought that that was very fair, considering Mary’s rise to localized art fame had been through a series of portraits entitled, The Married Widow, a compilation of old-school oil paintings depicting a woman in a loveless marriage. If anything had sired the neighbors' opinions on their relationship, it had been that.

But Stede knew she had a point. To start off with, The Married Baker didn’t have quite the same ring to it. More than that, however, Stede hadn’t considered how a leap like this would have affected her career, at least, not seriously considered. In fact, Stede hadn’t cared.

Stede hadn’t cared about anything in a very, very long time.

The divorce had followed soon after.

He cared about the bakery, that was one thing Stede knew for certain.

Of course, it was in a different area than the neighborhood they lived in. The people in their neighborhood had largely two things in common: Their tax rates were 37%, and they all held some level of disdain towards Stede Bonnet. His business would have been run into the ground before the doors could even open.

It was a small, sleepy town that Stede had decided to invest his property in, and it resided not twenty minutes from where he had grown up. The apathetic citizens hadn’t seemed to blink at the development of a new bakery, but Stede could tell he was being felt out.

Even a few years in, Stede sometimes felt as if still he didn’t quite belong (He didn’t immediately warm up to the town-folk, not by standing outside and letting people know there were “Buns for sale!”), but with a bakery to run, he found he could usually ignore such long-suffering feelings of inadequacy. Decor had to be hand-lovingly chosen and custom ordered, additional hands to help with the prep and customer service aspect had to be hired (at wages far above the town’s minimum, it was quietly noted), regulars began to frequent the bakery, and soon Stede felt more at home among the loaves than with anyone or anywhere else.

There was a small room above the bakery. In the beginning, it contained little of what Stede was used to, and truly, little in general. A tiny kitchen with a gas stove, a thin cot tucked away in the corner, and a small window to gaze onto the street abreast of his bakery.

Before he knew it, Stede was eating his own meals, usually delivered, in that little space - He had ceased hiring a private chef years ago anyway. When nights at the bakery stretched on longer than he meant to, getting lost in the rolling rhythmic motions of dough preparation, Stede would crash in that uncomfortable rickety bed and not realize it till the next morning when he woke up. Nights spent above the bakery quickly increased in quantity. Despite the rather shoddy air conditioning system, it never felt quite as stifling as his deserted mansion.

And as long as he was spending so much time there, well, just because he was a baker now didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy some of the finer things in life, did it? In retrospect, he could admit that he got a bit carried away in those initial months. Did a studio apartment really need a golden chandelier outfitted and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and as small a four poster bed as he could possibly get to fit inside? The answer was undoubtedly no, but the elaborate royal blue bedspread and Egyptian cotton sheets certainly made the room feel more cozy.

A year passed before Stede realized he slept better in that tiny apartment than he ever had in his old house.

He used his former place of residence as a storage facility more than anything else - The miniscule apartment could only hold so many outfit variations after all, and he reasoned to himself that storage was the sole reason why he hadn’t yet sold the house.

Part of the reasoning rang true; once habitual to a walk-in closet, it’s dreadfully hard to reduce the size you’re accustomed to. Another reason was due to convenience - Soirees of the type that he was invited to often ended up with Stede’s intoxication, whether at the original location or in a retrospective afterwards in the privacy of his own setting, it didn’t much matter to him - Or his fellow neighborhood residents, who found much glee in the rumor of him being an alcoholic divorcee baker on top of everything else.

Of course, there was a deeper reason behind the stalled decision of what to do with the house, one Stede had trouble admitting even to himself. This was a reason that he couldn’t help but mentally turn and toss over, considering it from every aspect, every angle.

It was annoyingly, infuriatingly, hope. Hope that his life wouldn’t amount to the failure everyone seemed to consider it to be. Hope that he would find a beloved someone to spend time in those endless rooms, or even just the tentative hope that he would find someone who wanted to spend time with him, house or otherwise.

It was late at night that these thoughts would usually surface, and they tended to be followed by rather intense bouts of self-loathing. Stede was pathetic, even to himself. And he realized a majority of that murky dream to fill the house with a family of his own was one that had been hammered into his psyche by his father, oftentimes forcefully. But it didn’t stop the longing and it couldn’t stop the hurt.

It was this Molotov co*cktail of emotions and his close friendship with his reserve of aged wine - God, maybe he really was a divorcee alcoholic - that kept him company this late night and helped him along to the conclusion that selling his bakery might be the only option left if he wanted to find someone.

It didn’t help that Stede wasn’t sure if he did want to find someone, wasn’t even sure what that would look like. Before Mary there had been - Nothing of consequence really. Any highschool romance had ultimately amounted to desperate handjobs during lunch with students who balked or even sneered at the idea of being seen with Stede by other classmates. It was easy to tell in his adult life that he derived more happiness from the pleasant interactions had with his customers alone than anything his affluent acquaintances could give him.

Recently, however, it hadn’t felt like enough.

The last gathering he had attended had been one of the worst. Stede had actually started to think he was stuck in a nightmarish loop, forced to relive the same conversation over and over again as he was questioned about his quaint little bread shop.

I believe the word you’re looking for is pâtisserie, Stede had continually repeated through gritted teeth, and a smile forced so wide the ends of his cheeks had begun to ache.

It seems that Mary has moved on rather happily, isn’t that right? No more Married Widow portraits then, I’m sure. A tragedy, truly. But perhaps she can obtain some equal level of shame from her ex-husband playing pretend as the working class. A baker, no less! Rather mortifying for her, I can only imagine.

A comment along these lines had been made by one of the Badmintons - At that point in the night, Stede couldn’t discern which was Nigel and which was Chauncey - and it was all he could do to stay grounded in place as his tormentor continued, as relentless as in childhood.

Really, Bonnet, it’s been a few years. When are you going to sell that ridiculous little gimmick? My oldest just graduated from Williams. He’s on a more linear path than you, wouldn’t you say?

A tight-lipped murmur around his fourth glass of wine was managed.

Quite.

Honestly, I do consider it time to give up this little childish notion of yours and join us adults. It seems the nickname we gave you so many years ago is even more apt nowadays, eh, Baby Bonnet?

Stede was no stranger to such comments, their history in his life a long account with a myriad of perpetrators. As a child, he would spend hours devising a flawless cutting response that would slice the Badmintons and the Wellingtons and all the other scourges that had plagued him ceaselessly. As an adult, he found himself still practicing them in the mirror, whispering the lines as if he were an actor preparing for the role of a lifetime and trying to perfect the best expression to go with it - An unimpressed raised eyebrow or an amused smirk.

The practice hardly mattered. When the time came, Stede would freeze. He would shut down. If the situation was dire enough, he would stammer out an apology. It hadn’t been utilized as a child, and standing there, grown but just as cowardly, presenting himself for judgment before the magistrate that was his confrère in wealth, Stede could summon it with no more luck as any other measly attempt.

He had left the party soon afterwards.

That night, sitting atop his absurd bed in his absolutely absurd apartment, wrapped in a silk paisley bathrobe and trying desperately not to finish the Merlot bottle, opened the night prior, and fulfill the prophecy cast upon him of a miserable wino, it was impossible for Stede not to consider the reality of Badminton’s words.

This had been a childish dream he had frightfully tried to chase, and all he had achieved was the cemented disdain of his neighbors and, admittedly, a rather extensive knowledge of baked goods.

He wanted something worthwhile - And that’s not to say that he didn’t consider this bakery worth anything else in his life, but damn it, he wanted something that was worthwhile to other people as well. He wanted to be doing something that mattered.He wanted to have something he could rub Badminton’s (allegedly surgically altered) nose in.

As much as he loved Bonnet’s Bakery, Stede was beginning to think that love wasn’t enough for him anymore. It was a doubt that had trailed him continually - Maybe nothing would ever be enough for him, and unhappiness was intrinsic to his very being - but tonight, it demanded acknowledgment, it demanded a response.

Stede didn’t know what he would do after he sold the bakery. Maybe he would leave this miserable state and his own miserable state with it. Perhaps untainted happiness would only be guaranteed when he was free of all the tethers that felt the need to drag him down.

Maybe he should buy a boat.

That was the road of midlife crisis’ solutions his thoughts had veered down when, gazing forlornly out of the window, Stede witnessed the rusty pick-up truck crash into his bakery.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two: Leather

Chapter Text

The truck hadn’t actually crashed into his bakery; that had been a rather dramatic reiteration. In Stede’s defense, however, the glass of wine he was clutching had not been his first for the night, and he didn’t have the best angle gazing from his apartment window.

The vehicle hadn’t been going that fast. It wasn’t so much a crash as it was a. . .bump.

Tumbling down the stairs and through his bakery’s front door onto the otherwise empty street - Still in his silken pajamas, it should be noted - provided a better viewpoint. The storefront was undamaged. In fact, Stede realized as he quickly surveyed the scene, any damage was rather mitigated, aside from the fire hydrant - The unwitting target of the automobile, it had seemed.

Still, the hydrant obviously had not been hit hard enough - The area around them remained dry, as illuminated by the bright headlights of the truck, which were cracked but functional. Trying to make out who was behind the gleam was impossible, and part of Stede wanted to abandon the scene as if he were the criminal. He could pretend he slept through the noise; let Lucius deal with it tomorrow when he showed up for the morning shift.

The sober part of his brain - Minimal though it was - had a quick flash of a bloodied and broken body waiting behind the wheel, however, and before he knew it, Stede was stumbling towards the car. With no hesitation, he wrenched the driver-side door open.

With only slight hesitation, he caught the body that slumped out of it.

Stede almost buckled under the weight as his hands wrapped around leather. The unconscious figure was bigger than Stede, or at least, he felt that way. Of course, Stede had never had to carry himself, so maybe that was simply wishful thinking. The potent smell of whiskey hit Stede’s nose like a slap to the face. Combined with the taste of wine still on his own tongue, he had to quell his revulsion.

Stede had half-carried, half-dragged the limp body onto the main floor of his darkened bakery before he remembered moving him might not have been the proper protocol and promptly dropped the body. What if he was injured? Or worse, what if he was an escaped convict running from the police? Stede felt like that would certainly explain the leather.

What if when the authorities came, he was taken captive by this felon and used as a hostage to ensure his escape? Could Stede survive a life on the run? Would the criminal let him bring extra outfits, or would he have to wear leather too? It had been a warm night, and he was already sweating from the physical exertion, ruining the matching silk set, he was sure.

Still, that wouldn’t be that big of an issue. Stede was sure he could rock a leather ensemble, given the right accessories. Lucius would have to take over the bakery in his steed, however, and he wasn’t sure that would bode well for his little business. If the convict let him change his business insurance plan before he left, then it might be worth it -

While Stede weighed the pros and cons of leather pants and General Liability Insurance, his future kidnapper let out a disconsolate groan from the tiled floor.

“Oh! Oh my god, oh my god, are you okay?” As if sparked into action, Stede started scurrying around the floundered body. “Just stay right there, stay right there, don’t move. I’m calling an ambulance now.”

“No. No,” The man’s hands grasped up into the air as if looking to hold Stede back. “Do not f*cking call anyone. They can’t-can’t know where I am.”

Something cold and dark gripped Stede’s heart. Fear. Even despite his obvious drunken state, there was something menacing about this stranger. And his barked orders revealed something more: This man was running from a greater force.

The image of Stede Bonnet dressed in leather flashed across his mind once more.

And then, without realizing that he was doing it in the first place, Stede found himself smiling. Grinning, actually, ear-to-ear, as he watched the man struggle to sit up and orient himself. He was only half-aware that he was smiling; the entire situation felt as if it were outside himself and he was simply peering in.

The idea of complete desertion, a new life with no anchors. . .Stede couldn’t help but smile.

“Mate, your face is freaking me out.”

The smile dropped.

“Oh yes, sorry. Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone? I haven’t been able to appraise the state of your injuries and-”

“I’m sure you’d just love to do that, wouldn’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Appraise the state of my injuries- ” With nothing around to use as leverage, it was difficult for the man to get to his feet. With much swaying, he managed.

“You bloody paps would love that.”

“Um-”

“I don’t need your f*cking help.” The words were drawn out, as if they were hesitant to leave his mouth. “Now,” He slurred, “Where’s the nearest bar?”

Stede blinked.

“Upstairs?”

If the man had been sober, he might have noticed how the answer ended with a question. If Stede had been sober, he might not have beckoned a stumbling stranger to his room. If either one of them had been sober, it wouldn’t have taken forty-five minutes to make it up the stairs, but fifty minutes later, that same stumbling stranger was snoring loudly in his bed.

In the gentle ambient lighting of his chandelier set on low and with the situation sobering him up as rapidly as possible, Stede was able to actually make out some features of the future DUI holder as he peered over him.

The man’s most defining characteristic was easily his beard. For starters, it was wide - Taking up enough space on the man’s face to put Kris Kringle to shame - and paired with a mustache to match. Similar to the hair on his head, the beard was dark gray in color, rather curled. It appeared surprisingly soft. The man didn’t look old enough to have gray hair - and his eyebrows were brown - But as he seemed to be around’s Stede’s own age, he wondered if he was simply being defensive. Slight creases in the man’s cheeks and the crow’s feet around his eyes displayed his age in a more natural way, with flakes of mascara and smudged eyeliner only adding more questions to Stede’s guesses. The hair on his head was almost as long as his beardand messily splayed around his face, obscuring the Egyptian cotton sheets beneath him as he happily snored away.

Leather had to be the man’s favorite fabric, as it seemed to be the only material worn. Shirt, belt, pants. Lightly, Stede brushed the sleeve of the stranger's get-up, feeling with purpose this time around, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Obviously fake. It was a wonder he hadn’t noticed it before.

Well, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be kidnapped if the required ensemble was pleather. That did not paint as attractive a picture.

With a final glance, Stede withdrew from the man and took a seat instead at the tiny kitchen table where his previously abandoned bottle of wine awaited him once more. He resisted the urge, choosing instead to ponder what the life of an outlaw would be like.

It’s not that Stede wanted to commit crimes - He could only imagine what Nigel or Chauncey or whoever else would have to say about that - but there was something intriguing about the idea nonetheless. Such a life of endless possibility could possess no tedium. The variety of a thousand different days would beckon the start of each morning and the night would only end at Stede’s command.

It was exciting simply to think about. Exciting and decidedly not his life. Stede was anchored down. By the expectations of his peers, by his own cowardice - He was afraid even the bakery was an anchor in its own way, holding him back. What if he always remained the constant cowering craven he had been termed as a child, deemed to live a life of obscurity and meaninglessness?

Besides, he’d never be able to pull off leather pants.

Stede acquiesced to the bottle; it would be rude to leave it deserted.

He drained the final sour drops.

Even the wine could not stop the progression of his thoughts once they started but it certainly helped him ignore them, and so, with a clouded mind and a vague yearning that was impossible not to feel at this time of night, Stede surrendered to sleep. Amid the stranger’s loud snores acting as static in the background, his final thought was the acknowledgment that, regardless of anything else, with a stranger in his bed, tomorrow would certainly be interesting.

When Stede woke up the next morning - Eyes opening reluctantly, as if hesitant to bear witness to the events of the night previous, head slowly rising from the round marble table that had served as both pillow and bed - the first thing he registered was an achingly sharp pain in his neck. A soft groan escaped him as he forced his body to lean into the pain, rolling his neck shoulder-to-shoulder and stretching the sore muscles.

The second thing he registered was the sight of an empty bed. Stede’s mattress was in shambles; the comforter miserably laid in a heap on the side of the bed, and the fitted sheet was completely ripped off the corners, as if the occupant had wrestled the mattress and, after a long struggle, ultimately lost.

Stede approached the bed carefully, as if something might be hiding under the crumpled blankets waiting to jump out at him. No clues had been left behind. Initial appearance seemed to indicate a hasty departure.He attempted to scoff at the inherent disappointment he felt at that revelation. As if he, Stede Bonnet, a middle aged baker, was ever going to run off with a stranger, and in faux leather, no less. It was a ridiculous notion - Much like the bakery had been, he could not help but think to himself as the cold hardwood floor began to freeze his bare feet.

Why would an escaped criminal stay at the scene of the crime? More than that, why would Stede ever go with him? Why would he want Stede to go with him?

Before he could try and muddle together an appropriate answer to any of these questions, a pan clattering to the ground interrupted. A gasp escaped him, automatically. In only a few seconds, his velvet house slippers were on his feet and he was treading carefully down the stairs, as quietly as he could endeavor. Stede’s thoughts were racing; it was impossible for him to come up with any coherent one, but it did not stop his mind from trying, hastening through every imaginable interaction with this stranger. His heart pounded loudly in his chest, obviously trying to keep time with his thoughts.

The noises of movement seemed to emanate from the kitchen; before entering the room, Stede grabbed the glass tip jar and clutched it tight in his hand. It wasn’t an ideal weapon, but it would have to do.

As Stede walked through the batwing door, both his expectations and his raised weapon fell. There was no handsome stranger ransacking his kitchen. It was simply Lucius. Brunette, mutton-chopped, perpetually raised eyebrow Lucius, showing up for work.

His employee finished sliding a metal pan of dough into one of the few industrial ovens they possessed before turning around and, true to character, raising an unimpressed eyebrow as he caught sight of Stede.

“It’s not often that I beat you to the kitchen. What’s with the jar? Are you trying to talk to me about the amount of tips again?" Lucius huffed. "Because what I’m doing technically falls under customer service.”

“What? No, nothing like that.” Stede’s own eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. The words didn’t make much sense but he was too busy trying to tamper his disappointment.

“What does that -”

“Well, anyway, late start to the morning today, isn’t it?”

“Late start?”

“I’d say so. We open in thirty minutes-”

“It’s seven-thirty?!”

“And I’ve made about two trays of muffins so, as much as I hate the sleepwear look,” Lucius grabbed an apron off the metal hooks lining the wall and tossed it to Stede, “I wouldn’t mind some help with the bagels.”

Throwing the apron over his pajamas, Stede jumped into his usual morning routine a few hours late, retrieving chilled dough from the freezer and rushing from decorating tea cookies one moment to filling cream puffs the next. Stede had been saved by the fact that it was the middle of the week - Thursday mornings were not often busy. (So how Lucius was able to consistently leave with a full tip jar, Stede didn’t know and frankly, was too afraid to ask.)

Despite the lack of patronage, Stede was kept rather busy himself throughout the afternoon, preparing the pastries for the next day and cleaning up the impressive mess Lucius had managed to create with no supervision. It wasn’t until an hour before close when Stede realized that - Having spent the day in the kitchen - he was still wearing his silken matched set.

Thank god the Badmintons never came to this town.

The bakery cleared out early on, leaving plenty of time to get changed, and leaving his store’s tiny dining room with plenty of chairs to sit and wallow in instead of getting changed. He appreciated Lucius’s attempt at wiping the already spotless counter, but Stede knew he would be sending him home early.

A part of Stede wanted to think up some sort of excuse to get his employee to stay. The sanitized ovens had to be cleaned once more, perhaps, or the rustic wooden floors mopped. Anything to prevent the silence that Stede knew would overtake his little shop in the later hours.

Of course, the silence could never be inside Stede’s head, he was not that fortunate.

Lucius would leave but Stede wouldn’t be alone. He’d be trapped. Trapped with the sneering comments of childhood taunts or the sharp disapproval of his father’s words. It was these comments that pushed Stede a little closer every night, pushed him to do something drastic like selling his bakery or disappearing. Or selling his bakery and disappearing. Some part of Stede, frenzied and desperate though it was, wanted to stay and prove them wrong. He knew he was stuck in the worst kind of self-fulfilling prophecy: they had told him that he would never be happy with the decisions he made, and because of the constant decision to listen to such doubts, he never was.

But he knew, somehow he knew, that happiness could exist inside the bakery and inside of himself. He knew that the bakery meant something to someone - To him and to his employees, he was sure. And he knew that he would rather die lonely here than lonely in that mansion.

There was one more thing Stede knew. He knew that if he listened to them, if he gave in to his fears and sold the bakery and moved back into his gapingly empty house and spent his days pondering whether or not to invest in Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing, or whatever the stock of the week was, and spent his weekends watching every other person he knew manage to uphold their front of contentedness far better than he, then Stede was going to die. One way or another: Whether he killed himself or slowly withered away, it hardly mattered. But he felt the end that came with that choice as firmly as if it were foretold.

Stede didn’t want to die. At least, not yet. And until Stede Bonnet was ready to shovel six feet under, he was never going to sell the bakery.

Lucius had gathered up his belongings and was ready to head out for the night, dutifully leaving little for Stede to do to close up shop save lock the door. Still, there was one more question, and it was with a tone that struggled ardently to be casual that Stede inquired of his employee, “Lucius, what would you be doing if you weren’t working here?”

Lucius didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t bother meeting Stede’s plaintive gaze as his hand turned the doorknob and let in the fresh night air.

“Something similar. Working down the street at Olive Garden, maybe.”

The chime of the door as he left seemed to emphasize his comment.

On second thought, perhaps it was time to start digging.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three: Hush Money

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the first time Edward Teach had run into a fire hydrant with a rusty pick-up truck.

The first time, Ed had been thirteen. It had been his father’s pick-up truck. Ed’s first time behind the wheel. And, it had just so happened to be the fire hydrant in front of the police station.

A combination of unfortunate coincidences.

The remaining times Ed had crashed into a fire hydrant were also in his father’s pick-up truck. It just so happened that after the death of the asshole in question, he had come into possession of it. That possession of it wasn’t necessarily through legal means - An issue, when one runs so often into fire hydrants - but trouble with the law soon became as routine as running into stationary objects in the dead of night.

Both issues seemed to be the type that either money or threats, or both, could solve.

In his defense, it wasn’t always a fire hydrant. Sometimes it was a telephone pole. Or a street sign. Once, a tree. No pedestrians, yet, though he knew statistically it was probably only a matter of time.

And it was never as if he did it on purpose.

He just happened to be drunk and possessing poor motor skills when such events took place.

More often than not, he simply woke up at the scene of the crash, slumped over in the driver’s seat. Once or twice he had woken up in a jail cell. Several times, he woke up to the flash of a camera in his face and the threat of exposure on tomorrow’s front page news.

Sometimes he did wake up to front page news proclaiming his drunken actions of the night prior, but never before had he woken up tucked into someone else’s bed.

The first thing Ed had noticed upon waking up was how comfortable his body felt. He still felt like ass, of course. His muscles were sore from the impact of last night’s crash, he was as hungover as a man of his tolerance could get, and there was the tension that came with waking up in any unfamiliar place - That tight clench in his stomach.

It had still been dark outside, early morning if Ed were to guess after a quick glance through the tiny window of the even tinier apartment.

The place reminded Ed of the crummy house he had grown up in, at least at first, when the space of it - Or the lack thereof - was the only noticeable feature. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim lighting, it was easy to see that this was no dirty dwelling falling apart at the seams. The bed Ed laid in was soft, his heavy frame sunk into it with only slight resistance. The sheets, not necessarily over him but rather twisted up all around his chest and legs, felt luxurious beneath his fingertips.

He sat up slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. Ed couldn’t make out much in the subdued lighting of the - chandelier? Was that a goddamn chandelier in an apartment as big as La Concorde ’s walk-in freezer? - but he could make out enough to discern the slumped body of a person sleeping, using the kitchen table as a headrest.

Ed had no idea where he was or who the person was either, but he knew enough to realize that the sooner he left, the better for himself.

Incredibly, it was tempting to stay and sleep for just a little more. The bed called to him. He had spent years siring edible creations that were the envy of the food world, and yet, he had never experienced anything nearly as tantalizing as the way the mattress felt underneath him. The sheets - Some smooth silk, others fine cotton - beckoned him; a bed like this practically demanded to be rolled around naked in.

Then he’d really end up in the headlines.

Blackbeard Found Guilty of Breaking and Entering, Naked in Terrified Man’s Bed, [PICTURES]!

Izzy would be pissed off if Ed did anything else to drive off sales and if Ed’s current headache was any indication of the hangover to come, he would be in no mood to deal with a pissed off Izzy.

Still. It had been so long since he had just…stayed in bed. It had been so long since a bed felt comfortable enough to stay in, and that was the crazy part. Even despite his aches and bruises and burns, laying in this bed, his body still felt good. Cozy. Implausibly, safe.

His usual discomfort returned by the time Ed got out of bed.

There was a voice that sounded like his annoying sous chef, urging him to make a clean escape while he still could. It was a plan Ed was on board for, and with quiet footsteps and tense limbs, he headed for the entrance. He had even managed to open the door and was just about to step through when a glint of metal caught his eye.

A golden clothing rack was situated in the corner. Every spare inch of space was occupied with outfit after outfit. Most of them hung delicately on wooden hangers, but several seemed to be tossed on top, as if the owner couldn’t be bothered to hang them back up.

Ed spared a glance back towards the sleeping figure. Only bits and pieces were returning to him from the hours before, but if the rest of the room was anything to go by, the man didn’t seem like the type to have a messy house. Not like Ed, who didn’t have any type of wardrobe because he made enough mess alone with the leather uniform.

It might have been the allure of that unfamiliar excess that gave Ed pause. Regardless, instead of walking through the door, he moved closer to the furniture until he was near enough to touch the fabric. At first, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the compiled clothing: ribbons, ruffles, sequins, and everything in between. Ed couldn’t stop himself from running his hand through all the variations. It was…fascinating.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen crazy outfits before; with the type of patrons he serviced, all he saw was the ridiculous and the garish. Upon closer reflection, these seemed different; the pieces reflected actual taste.

Or maybe Ed was just biased from the bed.

With a final glance behind him at the peacefully slumbering figure, Ed left the brownstone apartment.

The keys to his truck were still in the ignition. He was lucky they hadn’t been stolen, but then, this didn’t seem like that sort of neighborhood. Ed surveyed the damage done to his truck and was proud at what he saw. The fire hydrant was minimally marked; really, no one would be able to tell. As far as his front bumper, it was simply another dent in a gallery of dents. The night of the tree had definitely been worse.

Ed climbed into the front seat the way one would shrug on a particularly ugly winter coat, started the car and drove far away from Bonnet’s Bakery.

He found out by driving that he didn’t live far from the scene of the accident - The bakery was situated in a suburban area, meaning he had driven out of the city that he now lived in. Considering its proximity to his childhood hometown - A mere ten minute drive - Ed could guess where he had been headed. The truck always seemed to end up there.

As the sun rose, Ed wasn’t given much time to think about either the modest bakery or the assumed owner of it whose living quarters he had broken into.

He was far too busy tasking himself with the challenge of figuring out how to blackmail the modest bakery and the assumed owner with it - Stede Bonnet was his name, he found out with minimal research.

No one had explicitly said he should blackmail him, but Ed had been in enough of these situations to know exactly how it would go down.

In a couple of days, he would be contacted by whoever that man was. The appearance of incriminating photos of his dangerous, drunken behavior might be presented, likely along with the threat of pressing charges. It wasn’t anything new and, in fact, dangerous behavior was usually a boon to his brand, not a drawback. At least, that was what his agent believed. But it would only work if they were the ones to control the narrative. Some stranger releasing pictures of Blackbeard at his worst angle? That wasn’t something that Ed could allow - Not with the grand opening of his newest restaurant set to launch in the next six months, Izzy would be quick to remind him.

With the highly successful combination of hush money and the subtle warning of physical violence, Ed would be able to quell any possible release of bad press. Or, bad press that wasn’t their own.

This wasn’t normally something the Edward Teach would take care of. That’s what he had assistants and publicists and, essentially, henchmen for. Even worse than a breaking and entering headline would be one proclaiming that Edward Teach was paying his victims off. But there was something different this time around. Maybe it was the memory of delicate fabric, or it was curiosity as to who would have such a large bed in such a tiny space.

Regardless, Ed knew that he would be the only one taking care of this situation. He would be the only one taking care of Stede Bonnet.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four: Panera Bread

Chapter Text

It took about seven days for Stede Bonnet to forget about the drunken stranger.

Well, not forget per se; occasionally the image of the stranger sleeping in his bed would flash unprompted and he would have to excuse himself from the bakery and his employee’s questioning looks for a few minutes of fresh air. Other times, Stede would be lying in that same apartment bed, imagining the former visitor wrapped in the blankets he was laying on, and there would be more intention behind the prompting.

Regardless, a week was the duration of time that had to pass before Stede’s thoughts stopped centering so incessantly around the mystery.

In the beginning, it was as if he couldn’t help it. He was worried about the man’s safety, about his bakery’s safety, and about the general lifespan and durability of pleather.

(3-5 years, scoffable.)

A certain melancholy took over the thoughts that surrounded him as the week stretched on, however. In the daylight it was more shameful to admit: Stede was disappointed at the man’s absence.

It felt as if his appearance had been a sign of some sort; the provocation needed for some drastic turn that was to be taken in Stede’s life, like they were connected as a matter of fate or destiny. Stede was supposed to have gone with him or aided him in some way or fought him in a bare knuckle brawl, perhaps. Something was supposed to have happened to show that Stede was more than just a nameless side character in the exciting tale of someone else’s life.

The story had seemed to prove otherwise, however.

He was fortunate then that those seven days had kept him busy. Between long discussions on the phone with his insurance agency about increasing his coverage and a catering request for three dozen red velvet cupcakes needed by the weekend, Stede had no more time to sit around in his bathrobe.

When he had first obtained his bakery, his uniform was rather fanciful for such an intensive job. After all, his tastes had always been considered a bit…colorful, even among his more extravagant neighbors. Still, after his third (third !) vicuña wool sweater was peppered with flour, Stede had realized some more sensible clothes were needed: Merino wool only when in the kitchen.

With Oluwande prepping for the next morning, however, and Lucius sent home for the day, Stede was left to happily man the front counter - And in a tasteful baby blue cashmere polo no less.

(Stede was open to just about any avant-garde fashion choice, but he was starting to think that Lucius was trying to test him by showing up in nearly assless chaps. There was something to be said about class!)

The cupcakes were soon to become a pressing matter, but Stede had decided to take care of the order after close of next day. Mixing the batter, prepping the frosting, there was always something cathartic about such routine motions, and Stede wanted the free time to lose himself in them instead of the corked pinot grigio waiting for him in his bed upstairs.

He wasn’t particularly proud of that.

Besides, despite being the boss, Stede enjoyed being able to interact with his guests, enthusiastically trying to make connections and likely scaring them away with that very same enthusiasm. Still, it made him feel particularly in sync to the heartbeat of the bakery.

That being said, it was a quiet day and Stede was preoccupying his time by staring at the, frankly disconcerting, amount of tips that had been left in the bakery’s glass jar in the short time frame of Lucius’ shift. When the gentle call of the bell ringing announced the opening of the door, Stede mostly ignored it.

“Welcome to Bonnet’s Bakery! Today’s special is on anything Italian, so mangiare via!”

Stede certainly started paying attention, however, when the new customer, wearing a simple gray hoodie and jeans, walked up to the counter and slammed his fist down between them.

“Sir, please!” Stede proclaimed, staring aghast at the hand printed smudge left on his glass countertop. “I know my accent needs work but it’s certainly not a call to violence - Oh! ”

The exclamation happened involuntarily at the moment Stede tore his eyes away from the clenched fist and up at the owner of said hand. Dark circles almost looked painted on and his hair appeared as if it hadn’t been brushed since he had been in Stede’s bed; he was altogether quite unmistakable.

The criminal had returned to the scene of the crime.

Stede’s smile was reflexive - Like Pavlov’s dog it seemed he had begun associating this stranger with freedom and adventure and change - but it died on his lips at the obvious anger being reflected back at him.

The stranger, whoever he was, did not seem to appreciate Stede’s recognition.

“I don’t have time to waste,” The man started out gruffly, “And if I did, I wouldn’t be spending it here at this shabby second-rate Panera Bread dressed up as a quaint little bakery house, so tell me how much you want and let’s make each other happy.”

Stede was stunned into silence.

A Panera Bread?

He didn’t know if this man was a citizen of the town, but if the general public shared the same sentiment and was quick to liken Bonnet’s Bakery to Panera bloody Bread - Bonnet’s didn’t even sell sandwiches! - then Stede really was going to have to close down shop.

Stede Bonnet couldn’t say with any certainty that he’d ever find the right words when facing Nigel and Chauncey and the rest of them, but he’d be damned to hell and beyond if he’d let some scraggly-looking, faux leather-wearing intruder insult his bakery.

He quickly glanced around to make sure his bakery was truly empty of any other patrons before slamming his own fist into the glass. He even managed to hide his wince at the sharp pain that shot through his hand.

“Excuse me, sir, I’ll have you know that this establishment has won several small business awards since its creation four years ago. These pastries are hand-made fresh every single day, work you would obviously know nothing about since you’re so quick to compare it to some bland corporation. Furthermore, you appear to be in no condition to criticize anyone or anything as shabby, do you? I personally could never dream of showing my face again after wearing such cheap imitation fabric, but you obviously are not grappling with that dilemma.”

“Wait-”

“Now you can either stuff your mouth with a chiacchiere still warm from the oven or you can walk out the same door you just came in, but either way, I would like you quiet and gone in the next five minutes. Do I make myself clear?”

Stede was, embarrassingly, fuming rather audibly, loud huffs of air exhaling from his nose like some angered mythical beast. He felt angry, yes, but he also felt good. He was sick of taking insults lying down with a forced smile. Stede Bonnet wanted to fight back.

It was the stranger’s turn to be stunned into silence. Irritatingly enough however, only a couple of seconds had to pass before the man opposite him found his reply - In a tone as politely inquisitive as if he were asking about the weather, no less.

“I thought that chiacchieres were supposed to be fried?”

“Ex-Excuse me?”

“I thought that chiacchieres are traditionally fried pastries. Not oven-baked.”

“Oh. Well - Yes, that’s correct, it is traditionally fried. Both forms are accepted, however. We just happen to bake them.”

“Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever tried an oven-baked version.”

Stede was astounded. It was as if a switch of emotion had been flipped off; what he wouldn’t give for some similar control over his own countenance. He tried anyway.

“We-Well, certainly, feel free to try one. It’s buy one, get one free.”

For a moment, the stranger with anger issues seemed to be considering it - It was, frankly, a very good deal, after all. But it was only a moment that passed before the anger was back with renewed force, as if he were irate with allowing his guard to be let down.

“Your little game isn’t going to work on me, mate.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There’s no reason to drag this out, so stop f*cking with me. Tell me how much you want to keep everything under wraps and I’ll pay it. Else I’ll have this place burnt to the ground.”

Stede realized that the man in front of him might genuinely be crazy. Crazy-crazy, not exciting-crazy, and he was just about to ask if he needed assistance of the mental kind when he glanced down at his still clenched hand. Or rather, the profitable tip jar next to his clenched hand.

Oh, he was going to kill Lucius.

Stede’s voice was cold, steely and unforgiving - At least he hoped it was - When he responded.

“I apologize for the misconstrued notion you obviously possess but this is not that type of establishment. And what my employees do in their own time is their business so don’t ask me about any of it! No one here wants your money so going to such dastardly extremes is hardly necessary. And I’ll be the first to say that I believe everyone is entitled to their own desires but, if you don’t mind my saying, it’s rather perverted to conduct such business in daylight hours.”

The man’s gob was smacked.

“What the f*ck are you talking about?”

Stede’s face flushed with color. He may have been a tad presumptuous. He had a habit of being so.

“Are you not-”

“You don’t want money?” There was a strange expression playing on the man’s face. The edge of his lips was quirked up in - Not quite a smile, but something warmer than the glare he had stormed in with, as if he couldn’t quite believe Stede had responded to him in such a way.

“Well, sure I do.”

The edge plummeted. “That’s what I thought.”

“But only in exchange for me giving you baked goods. That is how a bakery works. So will that be one chiacchiere or two?”

“Two obviously if it’s buy one - Okay, do you know who I am?”

“Yes! You’re the jerk that ran into my fire hydrant!”

“And that’s all you know me by?”

“Well, no, I also know that you-” Stede thought for a moment before scoffing, “You mussed up my bedsheets rather rudely and-Oh, and you left without so much as even a note to let me know of your safety.”

“My… My safety. I broke into your bakery and slept in your bed, forcing you to spend the night on a table, and you wanted to know about my safety?” The man’s voice had taken on a quality of incredulity. He was staring completely aghast at Stede, as if he were some monstrosity before him.

“Oh, is that what you were so worried about? I would hardly call that breaking in. I invited you inside! Dragged you, really, but then, I wasn’t sure as to the state of your injuries.” Unwittingly, Stede peered a little closer, as if that would allow him to tell whether or not the man was still secretly injured.

“I did try to inquire but you-Well, you didn’t seem forthcoming. I could hardly have you drive away in such a state of intoxication. What if you hurt yourself?”

The man’s response was so quiet Stede had to lean forward even further to catch the breathless statement.

“You really don’t know who I am?”

Stede hurriedly straightened. How many times would he offend this man? He felt as if he were attempting to navigate a minefield in a blind gavotte.

“I don't know if you go around crashing into many fire hydrants, but no, I certainly do not know you, please forgive me the transgression.” He attempted to keep his tone even. “I’m not really from this town.”

Stede’s gaze briefly flickered down. The stranger’s hand was no longer clenched.

“Neither am I.” It was said in a tone of resignation, almost as if - Oh, and wasn’t Stede Bonnet just projecting here - Almost as if the stranger didn’t quite know where he belonged.

“Wait one moment, please.”

Stede’s instructions were followed. The man watched with a curious stare as he bustled about, grabbing a chiacchiere and a few other pastries for good measure, before delicately packaging them into a small white box. Stede sealed their sanctity with a lovely pink ribbon and pushed it across the countertop, covering the smudged handprint.

“Here, take these. On the bakery.”

Stede shut it down before the man could even begin to protest.

“From one visitor to another.”

A thick moment of silence passed. The stranger reached forward and placed his hands around the box in a delicate hold, as if he were scared of damaging it. He cleared his throat but his voice still sounded scratchy when he next spoke.

“Let me pay for these.”

Stede held out his palm vertically.

“I couldn’t dream of it.”

“But I-”

“I told you that we’re having a special on Italian pastries today.”

The man quirked a dark eyebrow.

“A 100% off special?”

“It’s a special-special.”

And then, the man laughed. It wasn’t a full laugh - More a huff of disbelief than anything, but it was the only positive emotion Stede had seen from him thus far.

And, Stede suddenly realized, it was likely the only emotion, positive or otherwise, he would see from this stranger ever again. The man had only been worried about damages and the threat of legal action it had seemed. Beyond that, there was no reason for him to come back to the bakery. No reason for Stede’s routine to ever be interrupted again.

“Wait!”

It was silly for Stede to sound so desperate - The man hadn’t even yet turned to leave. But it was coming, and Stede knew it was coming, and as pathetic as it made him, he didn’t want this to be the final interaction he ever had with this fake leather wearing maniac.

“Yes?”

“I just thought of a way you could pay.”

“What is it?”

Was it Stede’s imagination or did the stranger’s shoulders fall a little bit? Obviously, he had no desire to be beholden to Stede, and of course, Stede couldn’t blame him. This was a man free from any responsibilities, not anchored down to anything. His opposite.

“Ah - Sorry, nevermind. Forget it.”

“Say it.” The sharpness was back. Talking to this man was akin to a particularly engaging tennis match and truly Stede didn’t mind the game. But you needed two people to play, and evidently this man wanted nothing to do with him.

It was too late, however. Stede had opened his big mouth.

“I just thought that you might be willing to tell me your name.” Stede said weakly, his fire extinguished. “So I might stop calling you pleather man in my head.”

“Oh. It’s-It’s Edward. Ed.”

Stede received the distinct impression that the man had given him someone else’s name. He spoke it with the same familiarity one might possess when finding an old childhood photo buried in a box somewhere.

“Edward.” Stede repeated softly. He could appreciate a soft rejection better than a hard one, a stale pastry versus an empty plate.

“That is a lovely name. Thank you for sharing it with me. My name is Stede.”

“Stede...Bonnet?” Edward guessed.

“One and the same. Yes, this is my bakery.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t believe what Stede was saying either, but he didn’t openly question it.

“Thank you for the-” At this, Ed held up the box, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to refer to the gift. “Thank you for this. And-”

“Yes?”

“Goodbye.”

Stede blinked in surprise at the sudden withdrawal and watched with the same shock as Ed stalked back to the door he had thrown open not fifteen minutes before.

“You’re welcome to visit anytime, Edward!” He called out, too eagerly, always too eager.

The door settling into place and the forlorn bell were the only answer he received.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five: Management

Chapter Text

“I just thought of another way you could pay me.”

Stede felt an abrupt surge of gratitude that his employees had already gone home for the day. If Lucius had been around to hear what he definitely would have called a come-on, Stede would never have heard the end of it.

He really hadn’t meant for it to come across that way - Though Edward might have thought otherwise, as the man’s expression had quickly become incensed at the words.

This whole thing was Edward’s fault anyway. For starters, he had distracted Stede to the point of impotence. Three dozen cupcakes were due tomorrow and the baker of Bonnet’s Bakery fame had done nothing to prepare for the order. No batches of cream-cheese frosting had been made and no practice runs baked either. Stede had barely been able to handle the normal duties of the bakery in the past two days because he had been so consumed with Edward. Edward and the myriad of questions that came with him.

The first question Stede was dying to know was: What did Ed do for a living?

Stede’s leading theory was that he was the leader of some notorious gang in the city. There wasn’t much evidence backing up his hypothesis, of course, but the full leather look felt like irrefutable proof in its own way.

Stede was also curious about what else this man’s wardrobe could possibly contain. It was an enigma. The first look had been the complete leather ensemble, both dashing and daring, even if the leather was fake - Stede could never sacrifice on quality, but he was completely sold on the style. The second look had been so seemingly pedestrian, and yet Stede would be remiss if he hadn’t noticed the color coordination, the recognizable yet simplistic effort put into looking casual. It was so audacious Stede was almost envious. To go out in public in an unadorned hoodie with a half-up hairstyle that didn’t even come close to appearing brushed? Locks of hair strewn around his face like streamers from a confetti cannon? Stede would have to attempt to embody such effortless blasé one day. But the pièce de résistance was today’s outfit:

The same outfit as two days ago.

Truly a madcap decision, but quite effective in its statement. Stede was blown away.

In his old neighborhood, it was better to be caught dead rather than be seen in a repeated outfit. Stede was never as profligate in his behavior as his neighbors, but he had attended the annual burning of last year’s resort collection just like the rest of them.

Maybe tomorrow he would step out into the public eye wearing the same cream-colored cable knit lambswool sweater that he was wearing today.

Well, likely not, but the idea was there.

He hoped Ed didn’t notice the staring.

Because, the most important question Stede possessed for Edward, and the one at the forefront of his mind, was the question of what he was doing back in the bakery.

For the past two days, Stede hadn’t been able to even think about the cupcakes because he had been so busy trying to come to terms with the evident fact that he was never going to see Edward again. It was tough, and he had been fairly melancholy for the entire daytime shift - So much so that Lucius had dismissed himself because he “wasn’t getting paid to deal with your emotion”, even as Oluwande had argued that that was exactly what they got paid for.

Stede really hadn’t appreciated either side of the discussion.

Edward wasn’t supposed to be here, and by virtue of the unwritten rules of customer interaction, he certainly wasn’t supposed to show up a mere five minutes from close.

Stede had been in the kitchen when the front door bell signaled. He cursed himself out loud and loudly for not locking the door, despite the shop technically still being open. Stede waited, for only a moment, to wait and see if the customer would notice the empty shop and leave.

He waited a couple of moments.

Even though owning a bakery was his dream and Stede considered himself fairly adept at customer service, his dejected thoughts had dragged him low and he simply wasn’t in the mood tonight.

And then, very tentatively...

“Hello?”

Stede’s heartbeat was on an upward trajectory as soon as he heard Edward’s gruff voice break the silence. He almost tripped and slammed head first into the counter in his rush from back of house to front, but that was neither here nor there.

“Hello! Hi! Edward! What are you doing here?”

“I thought - You told me that I could stop by. Should I not have?”

“No, not at all. I’m so happy you stopped by! And I love your jacket by the way, truly a bold choice.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. Stede felt like he was still tripping.

“Um-How did you like the desserts?”

The hardness of his gaze softened. “Oh, mate, they were fantastic. Seriously, you have a gift.”

“Stop it, you’re just saying that.”

“No, I mean it. It’s been a while since I’ve tried something that good that wasn’t - It’s been a while since I’ve tried something that good.”

Stede rather considered himself to be a connoisseur when it came to baked goods; he had tried many pâtissiers' finest creations.

(As soon as time had willed him into his father’s will, he had used such disposable means to summon only the best desserts from around the globe: Sonhos from Brazil, Fengli Su from China, Mandelhörnchen from Germany. He had, rather embarrassingly, gorged himself on cannolis and Künefe alike - So much so that his only appearance at that week’s social event had been nothing more but a signed apology note and an appropriate gift basket.)

Ed’s praise made him feel, ridiculously, like his expertise in tasting had somehow transferred to baking them as well. The same rush of warmth he felt whenever he witnessed someone enjoying his dessert flooded through his chest. He aggressively tamped it down before it could show in his smile.

“Ah, so you came back to procure some more, I can only presume. Well, I believe I strayed more into French territory this morning and there are only a handful left, so as long as that doesn’t deter you-”

“No, no. Am I too late? I would have stopped by earlier but it’s hard for me to get away from my, uh, my responsibilities.”

Stede nodded understandably. The responsibilities of being a mob boss. He could only imagine the hardships.

“Not at all. Let me wrap some up for you. Please, sit down.” Stede gestured to the empty stools lining the counter. Obediently, Ed sat.

“Is it a long journey back home?”

“Uh, not very long, no. It’s not a bad drive. Not too many fire hydrants on the way.”

“Or have you already run all of them over?” Stede teased before he could stop himself, as he turned around to grab a box for the pastries. He heard an unhappy huff of air behind him.

“Fine, that’s-that’s fair. I’m paying for these this time, by the way.”

“Absolutely not, my dear patron. You’ve saved these pastries from an untimely death down the chute. I owe you their lives and couldn’t possibly charge otherwise.”

“That’s not happening.”

“And whyever not?”

“How about because I heard you getting chewed out for giving away free sh*t the last time?”

Stede blanched as he filled the box with what few desserts he had left.

It was true that he had received a rather stern talking to from Oluwande after Edward’s initial visit. He had been pulled into the kitchen as if he were a misbehaving child. It hadn’t been the first time Stede willingly gave away his baked commodities and it obviously wasn’t to be the last.

We’re going to have a negative bottom line this year too if you keep it up.

Think of how close we were last year! I barely had to dip into my personal savings whatsoever.

Oluwande hadn’t been satisfied with the optimistic viewpoint, but Stede had meant it genuinely. Besides - Though he wouldn’t even know how to begin to express this outlook to his apathetic employees - Stede would rather deplete his entire family fortune than have Bonnet’s Bakery fall into bankruptcy.

The only issue was that, in that moment, Stede would also rather give away some free pastries to a mysterious guest than secure a positive bottom line.

It didn’t make for a very savvy business plan.

“Oh, well, that was - That was -” Stede thought for a moment, before turning around to face Edward. “That was none of your business, I believe! How did you even hear that? I thought you left?”

Now it was Ed’s turn to stumble, as if he had been caught eavesdropping. Which he had.

“Easy, I thought I-uh, I forgot something. But I didn’t.”

Stede could remember Edward entering his shop armed with nothing but a fiery attitude. What could he have possibly forgotten?

“That’s funny. I didn’t hear the bell go off.”

“He was kind of yelling at you.”

Stede winced. It probably looked as if he had no control over his employees whatsoever. Well, he didn’t really, but he didn’t want Edward to know that! The intimidating don probably had no issue keeping his staff in check.

“Of course he wasn’t yelling at me.” Stede struggled to save face. “I mean, he was, but I was simply letting him yell at me so that he could express his point of view. So I could address it properly. It’s a-Um, a people-positive management style, is what I call it. The benefits that have been yielded are. . .truly astounding.”

That wasn’t a lie, technically. It was truly astounding how little benefits had been yielded from Stede’s style of management.

(Truly astounding how Lucius had essentially likened this job to Olive Garden.)

If Edward knew to call his bluff, the man didn’t reveal it. Rather, he was looking at Stede with an expression that almost seemed to indicate respect. Stede imagined it was similar to how people looked at Ed.

“'People-positive' management. Huh. I’ve never considered that before.”

“You have your own team?”

“You could say that.”

Definitely mafia of some sort. Stede was sure of it.

While he debated which color ribbon to use for the box, he continued to ask questions. The other man hadn’t seemed to realize yet that he was actually revealing information about himself.

“What management style do you find works best?”

“Oh god, putting me on the spot here. Usually, uh, fear and insults tend to work well for me. You know, if someone messes up, tell them I’m going to cook them alive or something along those lines. Gets the blood pumping.”

“That’s quite-quite, um, effective, I’m sure.”

“You wouldn’t f*cking believe it.”

“Do you ever um, compliment your employees when they’ve done a good job? Or encourage them to try again if they make a mistake?”

“No.” Something in Ed’s tone led Stede to believe he wasn’t trying to appear tougher than he was. “Never.”

“Oh. Well, constant fear can’t be good for anybody.”

“Probably not.”

Stede frowned, setting the box down in front of his guest. This type of callousness wasn’t nearly as appealing to hear about as it first seemed.

Struck by a sudden idea, he brightened considerably.“Well, perhaps we could try implementing each other’s management style for a day, wouldn’t that be fun? I’ll be tough and unforgiving, and you can be - Pleasant?”

“Pleasant? Like-”

Stede rested his arms on the counter.“Like don’t threaten to cook someone alive. Unless they’re for that type of thing. If they take after their boss, who knows what they might be into?”

Edward, who had already cracked open the box and was making quick work of a beignet, proceeded to choke on it. Once he was able to regain an unblocked respiratory tract, he struggled to defend himself.

“That was - That was a misunderstanding. I never meant to imply-”

“That I run a brothel?”

“Yes. That wasn’t what I was - I was trying to - Nevermind. I’ll be pleasant for a day. Fine. Easy enough. I can be pleasant. I am pleasant. Several reputable newspapers have called me, well, not pleasant but-”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.” Stede gestured forgivingly, “I believe you completely.”

Stede tried not to smile as Ed next tore into a croissant.

“Besides, you can consider it as my apology for having to kick you out early.”

The rending of the baked goods paused. Ed froze, as if he had been caught stealing. This time, Stede couldn’t resist the laugh.

“I have a catering order due tomorrow morning that I haven’t prepared for whatsoever. I’m afraid if I put it off any longer I’ll have a very angry first grader’s birthday party to answer to and - Oh!”

“What?”

“I just thought of another way you could pay me.”

For someone who was so keen on offering payment, Edward seemed to shut down every time Stede brought it up, as if Stede wanted to take advantage of him in some way. He was the one that kept on insisting!

Ed said nothing. Stede was second-guessing his second attempt at connection and so he struggled to keep his voice casual when he asked,“Would you like to help me make the cupcakes?”

The question wasn’t even out of his mouth before Stede began defending it.

“It’s merely a suggestion, you really don’t have to, and I realize now in retrospect it might be strange to enlist you for labor because then you really would be paying off the debt and I don’t mean to imply that you’re in any. Because you’re not. At least, not with me, it’s not as if I own the fire hydrant. Besides, it’s already late and you might work tomorrow and a good night's rest is the foundation for a people positive management style-“

“Stede.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll help you with the cupcakes.”

Stede’s smile was wide and genuine. Edward’s was cautious and tentative.

“Grand!”

“And after that, we’re even.”

So he really was concerned with the debt. Well, maybe if he helped stir some frosting, he’d realize that Stede was holding nothing against him. And if that meant Ed was never going to visit Bonnet’s Bakery again and thus never inaugurate Stede Bonnet into his gang, then he’d better make the most of it now.

“You know, it’s rather silly of me. I didn’t even ask if you bake.”

Edward shrugged. “Not as good as you. Or as often. I’m better at cooking.”

Stede clasped his hands together excitedly.

“The two practically go hand-in-hand!”

There was a smirk present in Edward’s voice when he asked, “Do they now?”

“Yes, of course! Measuring and-and heat and all that. Both are art forms, are they not? And they both make people happy and really, isn’t that the most important thing?”

“It was the most important thing. Once.”

“Well, that’s horribly melancholic! You’ll be in charge of the frosting then. I don’t want these cupcakes to reek of despair.”

Stede waited until Ed finished off the pastries before leading him behind the counter and into the heart of the bakery: The kitchen.

This was allowed only after Stede prompted his guest to take off his hoodie, however. Stede knew that Ed would get hot with both a stove and a jacket on. There was no fail-safe plan for regulating his own body temperature when that discarded hoodie revealed a fitted cotton blend t-shirt, as black as his many, many tattoos that only partially covered the patches and streaks of burned scar tissue. Stede couldn’t help but wonder if there were more tattoos waiting to be found in less apparent places, the bared skin already revealing a myriad of art pieces: Skulls, crosses, and a rather magnificent serpent crawling its way down Ed’s forearm.

The sleeves of the shirt seemed ready to burst against the man’s biceps.

That was important. Strong arms meant optimal stirring.

As Stede flew around the kitchen, grabbing various ingredients and instruments and setting them on the steel island in the middle of the room, and Ed grabbed various ingredients and instruments to study them for a moment before carefully putting them back, the former saw fit to question the latter once more.

“You said you’re better at cooking. Do you cook often?”

“Not as much anymore. For shows, sometimes.”

“Shows for cooking? Like seminars?”

“Kind of.”

“How delightful! You must love cooking then.”

“Yes…Yeah, I did. Or do. I do love cooking.” Ed’s words came out slowly, as if he were just discovering them himself.

“What do you like to cook?”

“What do I like to cook? Uh, anything. Burgers. Cornish hens.”

“I do love a good Cornish hen. I might have to consign you to a dinner one day.” Stede said as he continued to dash about, his tone as light and breezy as a spring day,

“I don’t do dinners anymore.” Ed said, as cryptically as any self-respecting mob boss would. “Besides, my price is too high. No offense, mate, but you couldn’t afford me.”

There were very few moments when Stede could trace his lineage along a historical route that could easily be termed “old money”, and be grateful for the accrued fortune. He knew he was privileged, he knew he was lucky, even though his family’s legacy loomed over his shoulder like a threatening raincloud. Stede worried that like so many other people in his ancestry, he would die surrounded with nothing but his wealth.

When that wealth allowed Stede to be the first in his HOA to obtain this season’s Cuccinelli Malfilé cotton cardigan, however, he maintained that it was no difficult thing to possess. Thus it was usually with the acquiring of clothes that Stede felt most grateful for his fortune.It was with no private boutique in sight that the same sentiment took hold. He stood with a whisk in hand and smiled nigh smugly at the compelling man on the other side of his bakery’s kitchen counter. He leveled the looped end in Ed’s direction as if it were a weapon.

“You’re hired.”

Chapter 6: Chapter Six: Chocolate Chip Cookies

Chapter Text

Stede had not been quite correct: Baking was decidedly not the same as cooking - Ed’s repeated grumbling about that realization throughout the night had made that more than clear.

At first, Stede had stuck to his word. The guest-turned-worker had been assigned to frosting and little else, and even that decision had seemed a mistake at first.

“We’ll refrigerate the frosting while the cupcakes bake, but I’ll have you whip it up in the meantime.”

Stede slipped Ed a folded piece of paper. Inside revealed a simple recipe for cream cheese frosting, a perfect match to the red velvet and a classic one for good reason.The recipe was standard but tried and true: softened butter, powdered sugar, vanilla extract, a bit of salt and, the titular ingredient, cream cheese. And though Stede was an ardent believer in the old fashioned method of hand-mixing, he wasn’t cruel enough to inflict that on Ed. At least not for first graders’ cupcakes.

Still, first graders or not, Stede still held all of his clients' requests to a high standard. It was his own fault that, lost in the joys of creamy buttermilk, unsweetened cocoa powder, tangy white vinegar and so on being combined in an amalgamation of flavors and the scarlet swirl of red food coloring, he failed to pick up on the warning beeps of a microwave finishing it’s ominous countdown.

No, he only realized the monumental error when Ed proudly presented him his bowl of mixed sweetness just as Stede had finished folding in the last of the cake flour.

“I’m done. That was easy. I’m great at this.” Ed was smirking, looking quite satisfied with himself.

Bold words for such a newcomer, but baking was a fickle creature and if Ed had managed to tame her on his first go, then Stede certainly wasn’t going to hold that against him. The congratulatory exclamation was already on his lips when Stede happened to glance down at the bowl. He paused.

Silently, Stede assumed the bowl from Ed’s hands and gave it a gentle stir. It yielded to the motion in the same manner his cake batter did. Stede frowned. Ed frowned when he saw Stede’s expression.

“Did you follow the recipe?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly?”

“Yes.”

Stede squinted up at Ed. “What was the microwave for?”

“To melt the butter. To make it easier to stir.”

Stede slowly set the bowl down onto the metal counter as if it were dangerous.“Well, there’s your problem.”

“What?”

“The recipe asked for softened butter.”

“Yes.”

“Not melted.”

“Ye-Oh. Huh.”

Stede patted his shoulder. Ed continued to frown.

“Easy mistake to make. Softened butter does not mean melted. When you bake, you have to follow a recipe to the exact letter. And number - Precise measurements are quite important as well.”

“Oh, then, there’s not nearly enough flour in there.”

“Why-Um, why not?”

“Experimentation is the backbone of cooking.”

“Understood. Well. You know what we should have you do? Practice! Practice is the backbone of baking. Practice and exact measurements. Here-”With a gentle hand steering him towards a corner of the kitchen, Stede set Edward up with a fresh bowl, spatula, and common ingredients used to make the most basic of all desserts: Chocolate chip cookies.

He wasn’t sure if the measly distraction would work, but after only a few minutes of squinting suspiciously at the items before him, Ed grabbed the recipe off the counter and got to work.

Stede’s sigh of relief was silent as he went back to his own cupcake station. As soon as Ed was out of his sight, he was able to focus once more on the task before him. With practiced ease, he finished mixing the batter with vigorous and enthused stirring. Quickly he moved on to ladling his creation into a cupcake pan lined with multi-colored wrappers.

The first batches of cupcakes, forty-eight in total, were slid into the preheated oven with a gentle, mitted hand before Stede remembered that Ed was still with him. He took a break from filling the next pan to waltz over to his sous chef'sside and examine the work.It had seemed Ed had followed the recipe this time, and followed it to the letter. Perfect spheres of sticky dough mingled with semi-sweet morsels were lined up on a metal pan lined with parchment paper. Stede hadn’t even told him where the parchment paper was!

The used utensils were neatly lined up on the side of the bowl - And suspiciously clean, but Stede decided he wasn’t going to bring that up right now.

“Great job, Ed! You did wonderfully.”

“Did I? I mean, I did, didn’t I? You were right.”

Stede grinned. “What did I tell you? Cooking and baking, the two go hand-in-hand. A bit like how-”

“No, not about that. They’re fundamentally different. They don’t resemble each other in technique even a little bit.”

The smile inverted. “Oh, well. Fair enough, I suppose.”

Stede had been rather talking out of his derriere when he had said that, so it was fair, but still. What was so outrageous about the idea of cooking and baking going together? Baking was simply a subset of cooking, was it not? Or vice versa, perhaps. As such, it only made sense they fit together well, even despite baking being understated. Sure, a flick of the wrist on a frying pan and a flash of flame might look all well and impressive, but baking was interesting too. Baking could be adventurous. Baking could be fun and imposing and captivating all at once, just like cooking.

Baking could wear an all leather outfit if it wanted to.

Stede was more than ready to change the subject, but Ed continued talking.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant you were right about the management style. When I made a mistake, you didn’t threaten to use my organs as filling for the cupcakes.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were showing me an example of, what’d you call it? The positive-people style. Didn’t even think about it at first, but then, when I was mixing in the chocolate chips, I realized that I didn’t want to walk out or even vandalize your bakery.”

Stede tried to figure out whether or not he was supposed to look surprised.

“And that is a big deal because-”

“I don’t think I’ve ever worked in a restaurant where a manager didn’t make me want to quit. I’ve made plenty of people quit.”

“By-”

“By threatening to take their organs and slow cook them into a confit, yeah. I can get pretty creative with my criticism.” There was a certain sort of complacent pride in the way Ed revealed his typical administration. Stede wasn’t having it. He wasn’t sure if he really even believed him, but on the off-chance there was truth in Ed’s words…

“I suppose a healthy dose of respect cannot go amiss among a-a captain of sorts. But really, threats of physical violence take it too far in my opinion. I’ve always said that all enemies are potential friends! Of course, my enemies didn’t seem to like that sentiment very much, but still.”

At this, Stede looked up into Edward’s gaze. The man was but a few inches taller than him, but even that gap of height seemed to speak to a distinct otherness.

“Well, threats are one thing I suppose. Um, not a good thing in most cases, but it’s not like you’re physically harming people, right?”

Ed pretended to think about it. Stede laughed lightly.

“Of course you aren’t. That would be insane.”

“As insane as inviting a stranger into your kitchen to bake cupcakes? I could have had your organs slow cooking on the stovetop by now.”

“My invitation is nowhere near as insane, Edward, because - Well, because it was rather reasonable in my mind. You’re a good man. Maybe the type of man that makes threats of violence - and quite easily I might add - but not the type of man who would ever harm someone.”

Ed wasn’t laughing along with Stede.

“And if I was?”

“If you were what?”

“If I was the type of person to keep my threats.”

Stede's response was easy. “You’d be paying full-price for the croissants.”

The first laugh Ed let out was one of surprise, before something more genuine replaced it.

“I can’t have that happening, now can I? Else I’d have to come up with another reason to visit.”

Before Stede could think of a response that was even close to suitable, a rapid series of beeps from one of the ovens interrupted them. Without needing to be told what to do, Ed grabbed the tray and moved to the row of appliances, opening up the metal door and sliding the tray in.

“Twelve minutes at that temperature and they’ll be perfect. They look perfect already.”

“Yeah, they taste pretty good too.”

Stede busied himself with gathering up the few utensils and placing them gently in the dirty mixing bowl. He decidedly avoided Ed’s steady eye contact when he asked,

“Eating the dough then? Is there anyone that would be mad if it turns out you’ve contracted salmonella from some indiscriminate bakery? I don’t want to get into any trouble here.”

“Sure, plenty of people would be mad. Dozens, probably. Izzy most of all.”

The spoon Stede had been holding made a loud clattering sound when he dropped it into the bowl.

“Ah...Good to know.”

Edward didn’t seem to think much about his own revelation, but Stede was surprised. He had figured that any man with a wife would have been prevented from wearing the same clothes twice in the same week. Of course, that had never been an issue between them when he was with Mary, so what did he know about married life - Or successful married life anyway.

He was surprised and...a little disappointed, if he was being honest with himself. A lot disappointed. Stede wasn’t fond of the honesty.

He smiled brightly. Or tried to, anyway.

“Make it thirteen minutes then. I don’t want an angry wife down here storming my doors or-or running into any fire hydrants.”

Ed furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “A reasonable request. Whose wife did you piss off?”

Stede blinked. “Yours. At least, I’m trying not to.”

It was Edward’s turn to smile, but he managed to look a lot more amused than Stede had.

“I don’t have a wife, mate. And believe me, that’s for the best.” Stede waited for the man to elaborate, but after a moment it was clear he didn’t intend to. Ed cleared his throat.“I was just talking about Izzy. If I was out of commission, first he’d kill me and then he’d kill whoever did it to me. But he wouldn’t make confit out of our organs. No style that one.”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t nearly enough information to garner Ed’s relationship to this stranger. Not that Stede cared. He was simply curious. Curious to unravel more of the mystery.

“Sounds like you’re quite important to this Izzy. What does he do when you take a vacation?”

Edward was laughing again, but it sounded bitter this time around.

“Vacation? What is that?”

“Well, it’s when you take a break from working and spend some time relaxing, or doing something you enjoy-”

“I know what a vacation is.”

“Right, of course.”

“But I’ve never had one. I mean, I took some days off for my mother’s funeral a couple years ago, but other than that...”

It might have been Stede’s open mouthed stare of horror that caused Ed to trail off.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Stede thought about the paid vacation hours for his employees to use every quarter that were practically mandatory. “Not nothing. I can only imagine what your boss is like, Ed, but you have to have a serious talk with him. That’s not healthy!”

“Where would I even go on vacation? Fiji? Tahiti? New Zealand?”

Stede raised an eyebrow.“Well, it doesn’t necessarily have to be an island country but I’m sure any of those places would be quite nice to visit. I know I’d sure like to. I can only imagine how the pastries would taste freshly made and not priority mailed.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. The point is, a vacation in this day and age is practically a requirement. Jobs are stressful. If you don’t have the time to sail around and explore the world, well then you’re at least entitled to three weeks off. I hear Hawaii is lovely this time of year.”

Ed was studying Stede closely.

“Where do you usually vacation?”

“Well, the countryside typically. Last year, my dear fellow pastry chef invited me on his trip to St. Augustine.” Stede felt his own excitement suddenly bubbling at the opportunity to recount the experience. With most of his neighbors summering in Lake Como or the Amalfi Coast, it hadn’t seemed worth bringing up - No matter how much he had enjoyed himself.

“Oh, Ed, it was gorgeous! We came back with an orchard practically, and made a forty orange glaze cake that was truly magnificent. The patrons couldn’t have enough. If I visit again this year I could make it for you-” With a sharp inhale, Stede cut himself off mid-sentence before he could embarrass himself further. Luckily, Ed didn’t seem offended in any way - There was a slight smile present as he looked at Stede.

“That sounds nice. But I couldn’t afford to do that. Izzy couldn’t afford to have me do that.”

“Then this Izzy character is not a good boss, if I may be so bold. Besides, a vacation doesn’t need to be abroad. There’s plenty to see right in your hometown! Like a quaint bakery one might have missed otherwise. The important part isn’t where you go, it’s giving yourself a break so that you don’t end up breaking.”

Oluwande had rolled his eyes at Stede the first time he had said it, but Stede was rather proud of the line.

Ed shrugged his shoulders, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. His gaze, however, never left Stede.

“Maybe I’ll have that vacation someday soon. Who knows.”

“I do hope you’ll let me hire you for dinner before that happens then.” Stede said with a shy smile.

Edward opened his mouth to respond but whatever was going to be said next, he didn’t get the chance to hear.

“MY CUPCAKES!”

The, usually, vigilant baker rushed over to the oven holding the red velvet delights. He carefully opened the door but a single glance told all he needed to know. The cupcakes had burned.

Well, singed at the most, really, but regardless, it was unacceptable for the first graders or anyone else Stede served. Though aloud he chided himself for the amateur mistake, inwardly Stede found he couldn’t regret the loss - They had been a worthy sacrifice and he would burn a dozen more if it meant spending more time with Ed.

Shaking off his own dramatics, Stede resolved to focus on the task at hand: Only once he had inserted the next batch of cupcakes into the oven and whipped up a new batch of frosting did something said in the previous conversation make itself known in his memory.

Stede stared with betrayal at the man in front of him, happily chewing on a warm chocolate chip cookie apparently stolen straight from the heat.

“I can’t believe it...”

Ed looked up at him, his mouth full when he responded.

“What?”

“You’re not a mob boss.”

It was the second dessert Ed choked on that night.

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven: Wine

Chapter Text

Stede Bonnet was wine-drunk the next time he saw Edward. Nothing about the situation was intentional.

For starters, he hadn’t meant to be drunk.

The urge had sort of crept over him, like an insatiable itch demanding to be scratched. The twisting off of the cork was nearly as satisfying.

The bakery had been closed for a few hours; a single glass certainly couldn’t hurt anybody - And even if it could, there was no one save Stede for it to hurt. Truth be told, he was seeking its familiar comfort.

He hadn’t seen Ed for an entire week and that was completely unrelated to anything, to everything. Edward was his own person with his own life, his own presumably busy schedule of a possible-maybe-mob boss. And it's not as if the man were beholden to Stede in any way - That was obvious. Every interaction since that first fateful night concluded like a period at the end of a sentence; no implication that anything more would follow. Stede had been too cowardly to ask Ed for his number - He couldn't bring himself to take the risk. Not with that sly cookie-filled smile looking up at him - or even to provide his email for Bonnet's Bakery ’s mailing list to access exclusive coupons and weekly sales.

He didn't even know Ed's last name. He didn’t think he ever would.

Which is how Ed must have wanted it, certainly. He wanted Stede to spend every day in a swirling torrent of expectation and apprehension that inevitably settled into disappointment by close of bakery. Or, more realistically, Edward NoLastName didn't want anything of the sort because he wasn't even thinking of Stede. He wasn't fancying that their connection was more than a strange passing interaction. He definitely wasn't mentally referring to their initial meeting as "that fateful night".

That was the problem. It felt like fate to Stede, or the closest he was ever going to get to fate anyway. Destiny had forsaken Stede Bonnet all his life; if he did have a role, it was nondescript and of the background variety. There was nothing grand about his existence, nothing dramatic or exciting. Nothing fulfilling. Ed was grand - Stede could tell, even after just a few meetings. Ed was dramatic and exciting, if his rapid heartbeats were anything to go by, and he could probably make Stede the same by proxy.

If he ever saw him again.

Which he likely never would.

All of that was completely unrelated to him deciding to imbibe on a simple glass of wine.

But then, he couldn't find a glass. Which brought him to the second unintentional mistake.

He hadn't meant to get drunk in the bakery.

Soon after the divorce, there had been a couple - Or a few, or several. He couldn't quite remember, honestly - mortifying instances of being awoken by his employees sleeping at a table in the bakery, or behind the counter of the bakery or, on one occasion, on the kitchen floor of the bakery, hands still covered in flour. Empty bottles of whatever Stede had blearily chosen the night prior tended to be discovered in the adjacent proximity.

Every time it happened, his employees silently received a raise, leaving them hyper-vigilant and arguably too eager for their morning shifts, and Stede increasingly insistent on walking up the stairs to his apartment before indulging.

He couldn’t find a glass because this time around he had, stubbornly, refused to retire upstairs. All at once it had seemed like too much effort. The incessant cycling of his thoughts had left him too beaten to do much more than contemplate using a measuring cup as his receptacle. The thought of being consciously aware of just how much cab sauv he was consuming proved too depressing, however, so in the end, as in many things, Stede was left with nothing but the bottle.

He was nearly halfway through that bottle when he saw Edward peering through the large front glass window of his bakery. His scream was shrill and if he had been standing, Stede likely would have fallen to the ground. As luck would have it, he was already on the floor, sitting with his back against the counter.

It had seemed easier than taking down a stacked chair from off the tables.

The bakery lights were dim, but Stede could still make out his wild beard. Ed was looking through the window, one hand cupped on top of his forehead as if searching, and - Having seen, but hopefully not heard, Stede’s surprise - an amused smile had appeared. Stede left one hand on top of his chest to help quell a heartbeat that had not diminished at the revelation of Ed’s appearance and used the other to beckon him inside.

As fate - Or random luck - would have it, he had forgotten to lock the door.

He debated hiding the wine behind his back and just as quickly dismissed the thought. It was too late for that, and besides, he didn’t have a better excuse for why he was sitting on the floor. As if reading his thoughts, Edward greeted him with a question.

“What are you doing on the floor?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Cowering from intruders?”

Stede’s smile was muted, despite the initial excitement - and the thrilled realization that, in a simple black shirt, Ed’s arms were on full display tonight.

He had expected Ed’s presence to be a balm; instead, he found his thoughts souring. He could only imagine how pathetic he looked to the man right now.

“Something like that.”

“Rough night, mate?”

Stede’s hands curled around nothing but imagined the stem of the bottle nonetheless.

“Something like that. What are you doing here, Ed? I don’t have any pastries left - You’re too late.” Stede avoided making eye contact up until the moment Edward walked in front of him and his line of sight was filled with a pair of worn black boots.

“Damn. Damn it. That’s what I came here for. Pastries. That’s - Damn, too bad.”

Stede was either too tired or too tipsy - Either way, he didn’t hide his incredulity.

Ed cleared his throat.

“I actually was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be open.”

Stede’s lips pursed.

“Technically, we are closed.”

“Got it, got it.” The boots shuffled an awkward step. “Should I leave?”

Despite his general melancholy, something in Stede’s stomach twisted at the offer.“No, no, please. Um - I would invite you to join me but-”

Stede couldn’t even finish the sentence before Ed was joining him on the floor. A sudden popping sound from the man’s knee betrayed his age; how quickly Stede recognized it as familiar betrayed his own.

As he looked over at his unexpected guest the ache in his stomach slowly began to unfurl. Perhaps...

“You know, I haven’t seen the jumpsuit since that first-” fateful “-night. Only save it for special occasions, do you?”

The easy, open expression Ed had been wearing shuttered in an instant. He turned to look at the checkered floor, preferring it in the moment to Stede, who was being racked with a fresh wave of self-loathing. Desperation for a distraction took over and before he could stop himself, Stede reached for the bottle of wine and brought it to his lips, savoring the heady taste.

From the corner of his vision, he discerned Ed staring at him once more, and that was enough to convince him to set the bottle back down. His head hung as low as he felt.

“Edward,” Stede murmured dejectedly, feeling his own body tense in expectation of the next - And, if fate were merciful - final rejection.

“What’s your last name?”

The answer was swift.

“Teach.”

Stede hardly dared to look up.

“What?”

“Teach. That’s my last name. Edward Teach born on a beach .” He recited the words as if they were a popular nursery rhyme, ignoring Stede’s shocked glance.

“You were born on a beach?” Was this the reason for his insistence on tropical vacations?

Ed’s responding grin was only slightly sardonic.

“No, I don’t know why I say that. I was born close by, actually. In - Well, close by. sh*tty little place.”

“Edward Teach.” Stede murmured the name, savoring the way it felt on his lips. It tasted like his wine; astringent, complex, full. It made him feel the same way the drink did: Dizzy, capricious, foolish.

Edward’s response was similarly quiet.

“Stede Bonnet. Not a lot of rhymes for that one.”

“No, not quite. It’s not really a storybook name, not the way yours is.”When Stede glanced over he saw that he was being sent a look of disbelief, eyebrows drawn in and lips puckered.

“What do you mean?”

The wine sloshing through his veins made it difficult to resist the urge to roll his eyes or hold his tongue.

“You know what I mean, Ed. You and your-your leather and your beard and your tattoos. Your name. You’re-” Stede paused, searching for the right word and coming up short. No one word could possibly encapsulate the entirety of Edward Teach.

“-Special.” He finally finished, dissatisfied at the choice before it even left his mouth. “Obviously, you’re special.”

“You think Edward Teach is special?” Ed asked the question as if he didn’t know the answer. It was Stede’s turn for disbelief. He had to know the effect he had.

“Special enough to be referred to in the third person.”

Ed snorted at that and Stede returned the favor.

“Stede isn’t even a real name, it’s a misspelling on a birth certificate.” He had gotten that particular line from Chauncey Badminton. “Or a horse. A noble steed.”

The wine was truly loosening his tongue now; Stede found himself unable to quell his ramblings. All he could do was hope he wasn’t slurring too noticeably.“But it makes sense. It’s fitting, isn’t it? Bakers are never the main character. And even if I wasn’t-I could be anything and would still never be like you. I’ll never-”

Stede felt pinned beneath Ed’s sudden frown and clamped his mouth shut. His father had always told him he never knew when to stop talking. He had gotten better at it over the years, but his restraint was obviously not yet good enough.

“What the f*ck are you talking about?”

An automatic response, Stede winced away, a pitiful defense already rising to his lips, but Ed gave him no time to get it out.

“You shouldn’t want to be like me, Stede. I’m not someone to f*cking-to aspire to. I’m not a good person. I don’t know if I’ve ever been one. The further off you are from me the better.”

It was a rather ridiculous thing to say when sitting down on the floor next to him.

“Don’t be absurd, Ed.” Stede’s tone was firm, as if he were the resident expert on the affair. “I know you.”

The fact that he had learned the man’s full name no more than three minutes ago no longer seemed to matter. Ed’s expression made it clear he felt inclined to disagree, but Stede wouldn’t allow him the chance.

“More than that, I know people who are not good - People who take pleasure in the misfortune of others. I have experience with the type and I would be able to tell if you were one of them.” Stede spoke the words as confidently as gospel. To him, it might as well have been.

“You don’t know me.” Ed grumbled, but the words weren’t intended to be harsh. Stede was speechless for a moment, marveling at the faint spread of color that had appeared across Ed’s cheeks.

“Maybe,” He eventually replied evasively, leaning his head back against the counter. The wine had been chosen for a different purpose at the start of the night, but it was delivering results nonetheless. Slowly, he could feel the effects start to stack.

“But I’d like to. Edward Teach.” He repeated the name, smiling again at how quickly it had been shared and looking over at the owner of it as he did so.

The red quickly spread.

“I know one thing,” He let the statement hang for a moment to build suspense before gesturing to his legs. “You’re an old man, Teach.”

Ed followed the movement of Stede’s hands and growled at the accusation.

“I’m as fit as a goddamn fiddle-”

It was divine intervention that prevented Stede from voicing his agreement.

“-Has nothing to do with age. I - Uh, it got injured. Years ago. Never really healed the right way.”

Stede made an encouraging face. The fear of his questions being shut down had dulled with the latest swig so he dared to venture.

“How was it injured?”

Of course, Stede had his own theory and that theory might have included sweeping danger and feats of bravery, worthy of a proper leading man. Nothing said next dissuaded Stede of that notion. In fact, the flash of a darkened expression only supported it.

“Blunt force.”

Stede waited for more. Begrudgingly, Edward elaborated.

“Someone got the jump on me. Thought he was a customer. First in a week. Got real pumped. Was not a customer.”

“Ah, I see,” Stede tutted sympathetically, despite the fact he really did not see. That heavy feeling a strong red always brought on was making itself known in his head, layering his thoughts, making it difficult to imagine the situation, to imagine who would want to hurt Edward Teach.

He could count the number of times Ed had barreled into his bakery on one hand, and still, Stede felt a compulsion to shower the man in baked goods. To keep him close. To keep close to him. Really, that was it. Stede felt a compulsion towards him; it felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, not bothering to even try resisting the gravitational pull beckoning him to fall. It was battling fiercely with his usual compulsion to finish off the cabernet.

His derailed train of thought searched for a more adequate response. All that he could come up with was a clicking sound of tongue against teeth.

“Sounds like a-”

“You better not say what I think you're going to say.”

Stede’s lips paused around the words, main character.

“Like an Edward Teach sort of story.”

It was difficult to tell if Ed was unhappy with the replacement - He certainly didn’t look pleased, but then he shifted his leg and the twisted grimace fell away.

“Sounds like a lame story.” He responded derisively.

Stede huffed in as dignified a manner as he could drunkenly manage. “Well, it’s not. It’s exciting. More than I can say about my...story.”

A protesting sort of noise came from the back of Ed’s throat. The desire to use his tongue to discover its place of origin erupted so fiercely inside Stede’s abdomen, he was momentarily dazed. It gave Ed plenty of time to voice his disagreement.

“Being a - f*ck you say? Main character? - Whatever, it’s overrated. Especially when there’s a million f*cking other people writing the story. Don’t-” He frowned, and Stede’s gaze followed the curve of his lips, “-Don’t underestimate what you have.”

What did Stede have? Stede had a few ounces left of his bottle. An empty bakery. A searching desperate ache in his chest, worse than the itch, worse than anything, that all the wine in the world couldn’t satisfy.

And he had Edward Teach next to him. For now, at least. Although he didn’t know how much longer that would last. If the way he was restlessly glancing around was any indication, Stede didn’t have much time, and he had spent what time Ed had given whining about his life story and sitting on the floor. It was almost too easy to force back the words twisting on his tongue, an apology for his own pathetic wretchedness, but then, the time had also been spent forcing things down.

Ed’s hands moved, palms flat against the ground, as if preparing to boost himself up and out of the sitting position, out of the bakery, out of Stede’s boring, monotonous life once more.

Panic again quickened Stede’s heartbeat. His eyes darted to the man’s forearms, his hands, the fingers tensed against the tiled floor, and then back up, unexpectedly meeting a questioning, solicitous look. Ed’s hands were suddenly all he could think about.

He found himself asking, probably rudely, “There are so many burns on your hands. They all came from your line of work?”

Ed raised the hand that lay in between them up into the warm lighting of the bakery, providing them both a better angle, and looking at it with his own muted surprise, as if just now seeing the mélange of what looked to be old cuts, deep scrapes, and healed scar tissue. Stede could recognize the purplish streaks as grease burns - Oluwande sported a few of those himself from his time as a cook. He turned it over slowly, revealing more faded slashes across the palm and patches of lighter skin that shone as Ed rotated his hand.

Stede’s own skin was miraculously burn-free considering his occupation. Then again, he always made sure to wear proper protection in the kitchen, even when it clashed with his outfit.

“Most of them, yeah.” If Ed was aware of the inherent implication of that statement, he made no acknowledgement of it. “They get numb ‘nd tingly sometimes.”

There was probably something wrong with Stede - There were multiple things wrong with Stede, he grew more confident in that fact with every passing day, but this was a malady on the forefront of his mind - that he had to restrain himself from grasping Ed’s hands in his own as the man flexed his fingers, the muscles tensing, the veins now emphasized.

Stede’s own fingers were twitching. He wanted to run them along Ed’s forearms, trace the patterns of divergence, feel the callouses for himself; embers from a heat below his stomach were igniting. He clasped his own hands together, an embarrassing clap of a sound, in an effort to stop himself from reaching for Ed’s, no longer able to rely on the divine.

It brought his own hands to the light.

Soft in comparison. Pale, like the blonde hair that sprouted above and below the knuckles. The differences between his own hand and Ed’s were obvious and appeared so monumental that Stede abruptly felt sobered, the heat extinguished. Whatever Stede’s story was, it seemed impossible that Ed could be a part of it. Whatever Ed’s story was - And that urge to find out more had only intensified next to the consuming one to touch him, to connect them in some tangible way - Stede didn’t think he would make the footnotes. There could be no by proxy if he wasn’t meaningful enough to make the cut - And that particular fact had been reinforced by many people in his life. His thoughts had made a full cycle to the beginning of the night; a sullen dread swarmed him once more.

“Ed, when am I going to see you again?”

It was almost as if Stede knew what the answer was going to be, as if he had even asked to obtain confirmation of the fear that had been plaguing him the entire day. What did it prove that Stede knew his last name? Plenty of people knew his name, probably. No, he was expecting it, braced for it, really. The disappointment, somehow, was no less crushing when Ed replied quickly - No, urgently, maybe even panickedly, “Never, probably.”

“I’m gonna be busy for the next - f*cking forever, so, uh, who knows.”

If there was one mercy, it was that the statement left no room for error. It would have been gratifying to have his - his ineffectuality, the blatant insignificance of his presence, confirmed, if it hadn’t felt like the worst kind of burning, like being scorched from the inside out.

Stede didn’t even know where the smile came from, but it felt as saccharine as fondant. He didn’t even like using fondant in his desserts.

“Right, I’m sure you’re busy. Please feel free-”

Edward was on his feet and looking down at Stede - Poor, pathetic, drunk off of cabernet Stede - before he had time to process, even considering the reduced reaction time.

“Yeah, no, yeah. I should go, Izzy’ll be looking for me anyway. And I - Uh, came here for the pastries and there’s no pastries. So. Yeah.”

“Of course.” Stede hesitated to look up, too afraid of what he might recognize in Ed’s gaze. Would he wear the pity his ex-wife always did when she looked at him? Or the derision of those he had grown up with?

“Goodbye then, Edward Teach.”

The door had barely shut, Ed’s figure striding down the sidewalk and out of sight, before the bottle was reclaimed, raised to Stede’s lips and finally, mercifully drained.

The remnants of the name on his lips tasted just like the wine. Bitter.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight: Whiskey

Chapter Text

Edward Teach was pretty sure he was grinding away the top layer of his molars clenching his jaw as hard as he was.

It wouldn’t be the first dental injury he’d experienced with Izzy. They’d loosened a few of each other’s teeth over the years - Minor, really, if you compare it to what they used to do to other people’s teeth. Extracted teeth always sent a strong message in the restaurant industry. Customer service and all that.

They hadn’t done that in ages though. No reason to anymore. Ed didn’t mind. Except, if socking Izzy in the jaw could get Ed to release the tension in his, that seemed like a good enough f*cking reason.

Ed hated, he f*cking hated, being talked down to. It always reminded him of his piece of sh*t dad standing over him in their piece of sh*t house with no escape from their piece of sh*t town. And Izzy knew that. Knew that Ed hated it then and hated it now.

He also knew the exact way to use it to rile Ed up.

It was an effective weapon. Iz wielded it well for a packed evening with an important guest list. And Ed relied on Izzy’s knowledge of him, because often enough he couldn’t summon the basic energy it would take to get into the suit without a tub of petroleum jelly, much less to yell at his entire staff.

People-positive management…Ed wondered what that would look like in his own restaurants.Not using the chef knife when he made his threats?

It proved difficult to ponder with Izzy standing over him, snapping, in his own apartment no less, for jeopardizing their “entire operation for a f*cking git”.

He knew he shouldn’t have told him about the bakery. He hadn’t revealed the name of it or its owner, but mentioning it to Izzy more than once, getting on his bad side about it more than once, it might as well have been the equivalent of hoisting a flag.

Was it his fault that he wanted to have a conversation about something other than f*cking Blackbeard?

He didn’t have to worry about that with Stede Bonnet. Stede Bonnet must have been living under a rock for the past two decades because Stede Bonnet didn’t know Blackbeard. Ed might have been offended if he hadn’t been so f*cking thrilled. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so… excited, and that feeling was warring with the tight frustration Izzy could stir up so well.

It was tiring to even listen to the man - And over the years, Ed had gotten aggravatingly good at ignoring him. It all meant nothing. Just like everything else in Ed’s life, it was insubstantial.

And Ed knew Iz was being dramatic. First off, he was always f*cking dramatic. Secondly, their entire operation was self-sufficient these days - They weren’t the same raging, desperate bruisers of twenty years prior, ready to crawl their way to the top, unhinged and frenzied enough to do whatever it might take to stay up there. In fact, Ed had long been ready to jump off. It was f*cking lonely at the top.

Besides, his restaurants - ten in total, six domestic and four international - might have needed Izzy to keep things in order, but they sure as hell didn’t need Ed. It shouldn’t have been a big deal that he skipped an appearance at Blackbeard’s, one f*cking appearance, to do something else.

Even if that something else was visit an unknown bakery.

Ed had thought about handing the reins off to Izzy before, have him take the mantle of Blackbeard - Iz could grow his beard out longer if he really wanted to. Meanwhile, Ed could retire. Whatever that meant. He wanted to find out. Live out the rest of his life somewhere remote and sandy and warm, so he never again had to feel that ache in his knee the cold always brought out. Maybe he would even own a little shop. He might sell fishing gear and - Well, he could figure it out when he got there.

For years now, he had been daydreaming - there wasn’t another word to describe it, he had looked - about finding a place where nobody knew Blackbeard. They just knew Ed. He hadn’t realized that place could exist twenty minutes away. Half an hour with traffic.

If he wanted to return to that place with minimal injuries, he figured it was around time to start listening to Iz.

“-new opening means that every single person in this city has to know Blackbeard. We can’t afford them not to. And they can’t f*cking know you if you’re not f*cking there, now can we?”

Ed was pretty sure he managed a low growl of agreement.

“It was one f*cking shift, Iz. Lay off it.”

“Since when the f*ck does Blackbeard call out like a f*cking kid with a cold?”

“I haven’t had a vacation in years.”

Iz’s eyes went wide when Ed said that. Ed tried to remember how Stede had phrased it. It had sounded so reasonable coming from those lips.

“Since when the f*ck does Blackbeard take a vacation? ”

Iz was right. Blackbeard had never gone on vacation before. Hardly ever took a day off, his mother’s funeral being the only exception a few years back.

When Blackbeard had reached the point of fame, the first thing he had done was give his mother as much money as she would take - Not nearly enough. Ed didn’t visit her nearly enough. Even though he thought about his childhood constantly, back when the food they had was never f*cking close to nearly enough.

As a kid, he would pretend to make his mom meals from their sparse ingredients, serve it to her like they were in a restaurant. His mom would make exaggerated sounds of delight and pretend to devour it, telling him he was the best cook in the whole world.

And then she died, without warning and without reason.

It was nearly enough for him to quit everything - The restaurants, Blackbeard, cooking.

Instead, he took a single day off and went right back to work.

For a moment, Ed debated whether or not punching him would make the conversation end faster. Iz would like it, might appreciate it, even. It would be more Blackbeard than Ed had felt for the past two weeks. But then, Iz might swing back. And Ed was quick, but not as quick as he used to be, and Izzy knew all his tricks besides.

They never bothered to avoid the face, a show of bruises good for the brand. But Ed didn’t want to show up at the bakery with something he couldn’t explain. He’d rather take another punch than have that conversation. He also knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away for much longer, even with his final words, hurled at Stede.

The last time someone had wanted to lock down their next meeting, Ed had woken up to his dick trending online. The photos weren’t bad, actually, and the comments were overwhelmingly positive, good-looking, his PR specialist had said. He should be flattered.

He had really just felt nauseous.

His gut told him that Stede wasn’t like that, there was no f*cking way. He was so f*cking earnest. His mind had been too busy panicking like a little bitch to listen to his gut.

Ed thought about Stede’s crestfallen expression, the disappointment in those hazel eyes, and bit his tongue until he tasted iron.

“Since when should Blackbeard have a perfect f*cking attendance record?” The words were spat out, nearly right along with bloody spittle.

Izzy must have read something on Ed’s face because he paused in his pacing tracks, stared fully at him, registered something Ed wasn’t completely aware of himself.

“If you’re not at the restaurant, people are going to wonder where you are. And we know what they’ll do to find out. And we know who’s willing to give information.”

Ed hated this conversation nearly as much as he hated being talked down to.

“Who’s willing?” He asked, reluctant and sullen.

“Everyone.” Iz seethed. “Everyone who knows Blackbeard. Should we look out for another 'Blackbeard Exposed' headline?” He didn’t let the question settle. “Or do you want more to be exposed this time around?”

Ed rolled his eyes, attempting to appear dismissive of the implication. But his shoulders tensed all the same. His jaw tightened. Izzy had noticed it, he already knew.

“You wouldn’t let that happen. You took care of that one jackass that was trying to link us back to Hornigold.”

“We are linked to Hornigold, Ed. Everything we’ve built doesn’t stand a chance if you forget that. That’s who we are and that’s who Blackbeard is. That’s who you are. Your hands are dirty. If you try to go anywhere else, you’d just f*cking stain it.”

Strangely, the image of a wool sweater came to Ed’s mind, pristine fabric torn and soiled, smeared with dirt and blood and grime.

He knew that Izzy knew he had won when Ed didn’t respond.

“The investors’ dinner is coming up soon. We can’t have Blackbeard’s disappearance reaching their ears. You know what that means.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” Ed’s voice was caustic. It was the only way he knew to retaliate when it came to Izzy, mock him for his allegiance. His loyalty to Blackbeard. Their history.

Iz’s eyes narrowed.

“What’d you say the name of that bakery was? The one you crashed into?”

Ed held his sharpened gaze, one they had sharpened together over the years against fire and iron and bone. Looking away would indicate something, a fondness, a weakness, so he returned the glare.

“I didn’t. And I don’t f*cking remember, anyway, I was drunk. Like I f*cking wish I was now.”

Izzy pulled out his phone and glanced at it.

“Let’s get to it then.”

Ed’s stomach squelched cowardly at the thought. It had been tough, f*cking ridiculous actually, but in recent weeks he had been trying to limit his drunken nights. Ever since the fire hydrant incident. It had been lucky, the minimal damage, but as a general rule, Ed wasn’t.

What if he showed up drunk and missed the fire hydrant, ran straight through the bakery instead? Destroyed the culmination of Stede’s entire career? He could imagine with startling clarity the owner’s devastation, the horrified expression that would be turned to him. No amount of money would ever be able to make that go away, not in his mind. Worse than that even. Ed knew now that Stede sometimes spent late nights in the bakery - With doors f*cking unlocked, no less. There was no one Ed trusted less than himself.

“We both have to work in a few hours.”

Iz was unimpressed. Ed knew he would be.

“Since when has that stopped us? No one cares if Blackbeard shows up drunk, so long as he shows up.”

Israel was right. It had never stopped them before. And if Ed wanted Izzy to drop any notions about the bakery - He did want it, wanted it as badly as Iz demanded it of Ed - then he would have to convince him that they were still in the before. There was never any “after” when it came to Blackbeard.

“Where’s the f*cking rum?”

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine: Library

Chapter Text

Never happened to be two days later when Ed showed up, as he seemed want to do, when the bakery was closed.

It was simple coincidence that Stede had sent his employees home early, a slow shift preceding the decision, but he was grateful all the same. He already had a headache imagining the questions Lucius would have for him if he caught even a single glimpse of Ed - And he had had plenty of headaches in the past two days, including the one the wine had caused. He was still recovering from that actually.

There had been another headache when Oluwande had found him on the floor of the bakery the morning following Ed’s sudden departure. Stede was furious at himself for being caught by his employee once more - Gratefully just Oluwande this time around, although nothing stayed secret in their little bakery for long.

He had several disjointed memories of trying to ascend the stairs and wasn’t quite sure how he had failed so miserably.

That had not been a conversation Stede had wanted to have, but at close that same day, Oluwande left him little choice, cornering him into sitting down at one of the tables. He might as well have been the boss, chastising an unruly employee. Somehow, he managed to look authoritative even while sporting his usual beanie and swath of baker’s apron.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this, Boss.” Oluwande started out, which somehow felt like a mutiny, although Stede knew he was being ridiculous - As ridiculous as his employee’s insistence on referring to him as “boss”.

Oluwande had leaned in, peering at him as if trying to discern by himself the answer to the next question he asked.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, my dear patissier!” Stede had exclaimed so forcefully that it was difficult to hide the immediate cringe that followed. Going off of Oluwande’s expression, the man had clearly seen it anyway. He was reminded of the first time that, four years ago, Oluwande had briefly, vaguely even, inquired about his well-being. That conversation had gone about the same thus far.

“Everything is fine.” He repeated again, restrained this time. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Oluwande sighed, a deep exhale. Those deep-set eyes of his were looking off to the side, as if there was somewhere else he wanted to be. There was somewhere else Stede wanted to be too. Upstairs, in his bed, preferably with the bottle of malbec that had been patiently waiting for his attention since the week prior.

When Oluwande had first talked to Stede all those years ago, it was blatantly obvious that he did so out of a strange employee-loyalty compulsion to the person who signed his paychecks - And the man had clearly resented the unspoken task.

Stede couldn’t help but wonder if that was the same angle Oluwande was approaching from this time around.

“You remember my partner, Jim? I think I’ve mentioned them once or twice.”

The hiring process for Bonnet’s Bakery had been simple. Stede had requested that they bake something for him in Bonnet’s kitchen. No time-limit, no resume and an almost comical amount of resources for ingredients.

Oluwande had created a blood orange glazed confection. An initial bite into the spongy cake was bitter, almost painfully sour in the intensity of the citrus. After a moment, Stede’s mouth had been flooded with sweetness. One bite was all Stede needed to know he was hiring. He had never regretted the decision. Despite that initial bitterness, he had never regretted the bite either.

Almost a full year of employment had passed before Oluwande confessed that he had created the dessert in honor of his incarcerated partner.

Stede nodded his confirmation.

“They’ve dealt with certain…vices in the past. And I’ve seen what it can do to a person, how it changes who you are by changing how you act. They joined an AA group and they plan to continue to go when they get out in a few months. They want me to go with them for support, which I will, of course.” Oluwande spoke slowly, but with purpose, as if each word had been carefully considered.

“I can get you information on that. If you want. It might be good to look into.”

Stede’s laugh was loud and just a bit frenzied - For a moment he even thought Oluwande was mocking him - but he quickly reigned it in at seeing his employee so taken aback by his reaction.

“That is very kind of you, Oluwande, really, but completely unnecessary. I apologize for worrying you, it shan’t happen again. I promise.”

“Can’t fix something if you don’t admit there’s something to fix. You know?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the premise of Alcoholics Anonymous.” Stede’s reply had come out with more of a bite than he intended, but he doubled down, pursing his lips and arching an eyebrow and trying to look, for all intents and purposes, like he was the one in charge.

His employee didn’t seem convinced, but, smartly, Oluwande didn’t push the matter. Instead, he stood from the table, hanging his apron on one of the coat hooks for the night.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Boss.”

He couldn’t fault Oluwande his concern, even with the initial burst of irritation. He knew how it looked, discovering your boss sprawled on the floor with a wine bottle rolling around. It really wasn’t like that, though. Still, to prove to his employees - Stede imagined if Lucius didn’t already know, he would hear about it soon enough - that there was nothing for them to dwell on, or gossip about, he’d leave the Malbec for another day more.

Alone in the bakery the next day, Stede had buried himself in the cleaning of the business; sterilizing the equipment, mopping the floors, polishing the display glass. He fought to lose himself in the chores, trying to quell his sense of restlessness and letting the more turbulent of his thoughts be replaced with concerns of smudges and stains until the entire place was gleaming and pristine.

Stede was feeling fine - Ignoring the headache that had plagued him the entire day. The night of Ed’s impromptu visit had been rough, but it hadn’t been his first rough night, and, well, he had lost the hope there would be a last years ago. He still felt rather hollow, like he had been emptied out and drained, but then that was always the case after nights like those.

He would be able to build himself back up, until the next fall, at least, and so the cycle would repeat - Likely until he stopped the cowardice and did something about it. Or until his wine cellar ran dry. Whichever came first.

Tonight, Stede was sitting on the one chair he had yet to stack upside down, staring listlessly at the wall and attempting to summon the strength to rise, perpetually failing to do so. He was wiped even more from the hours of cleaning, and could barely summon the effort to retire to bed, much less find one of the bottles he kept stashed around the bakery. Tomorrow he was going to finish off that Malbec though, regardless of Olwande’s heartwarming but ultimately misguided regard.

There was only one job left. He still had to lock the door. He only remembered that final task after Ed loudly burst through it.

He hadn’t even seen the man approach the window. That might explain why the sudden clamor caused him to leap out of the chair and land - rather painfully - on the floor.

His own movement caused Ed to return the stare of bewilderment that Stede was currently leveling at him.

“What are you doing on the floor?” The man asked, as if he had nothing to do with the fact.

“Cowering from intruders.” Stede offered dryly, gratified beyond belief that his tone came across as halfway normal. Ed hadn’t just burst into his bakery well after close. Ed had burst into his bakery well after close in leather.

Again.

It was more than enough reason to stay shell-shocked on the floor, but Stede didn’t even have a wet floor sign, or a bottle, as an excuse. With a soft exhale - Christsake, he really was getting old - he managed to pick himself up in what he hoped was a dignified manner.

Ed whirled around abruptly.

“Where are they? I’ll get them. Stay behind me.”

Despite himself, despite the swirl of emotion of seeing Edward so soon again in person, Stede chuckled softly. The sound caused Ed to turn again, just as quickly. That, of course, caused him to raise a hand to his head, dazed by his own movement.

“Woah. Headrush.”

“No worries, Ed, I believe you’ve scared them off.” As if to emphasize the point, Stede walked around him to the door and locked it from the inside. Edward would be able to leave but nobody, criminal or otherwise, would be able to enter and startle Stede all over again.

He stalled at the door, not wanting to turn around and face his unexpected guest. Just because he felt hollow didn’t mean Ed’s presence didn’t still sting, like antiseptic on a cut.

“Why are you here, Ed? I thought you said you would be busy-” Stede faltered, not sure how to finish the sentence. He remembered the rejection he had been given as clearly as if it were yesterday, which really wasn’t far off. From dusk till dawn it had been a series of one humiliation after the other, ending with Oluwande’s discovery; he wasn’t soon to forget anything about that night, no matter how much he wanted to.

Stede turned on his heel to face Ed, the bite of embarrassment steeling what resolve he had left.

“Busy for the next forever, if I remember correctly. Bit too soon to be forever, isn’t it?”

Stede had faced the man head-on, but it still took a moment for him to actually see Edward - Or at least, to see the obvious.

Ed was swaying on his feet, seemingly unable to stand still. His gaze wasn’t entirely clear, brown eyes glassy, but his expression…God, his expression as he returned Stede’s stare was - Indescribable, really, all perturbed and pouting. Or maybe what that look, accompanied by a full leather jumpsuit and smudged eyeliner, was doing to Stede was indescribable.

It seemed unfair that Stede was still having trouble focusing, with nary a drop of alcohol in his bloodstream.

“I don’t want to stay away for the next forever.” Ed stated the words as if they made sense and stated it with an admirable amount of petulance - Lips pouted, eyebrows furrowed. Stede was being driven to insanity.

“I want to be here in Bonnet’s f*cking bakery, f*ck what he says.”

The exclamation was enough to freeze Stede in place. He didn’t dare move and spoil the scene. Obviously, this was a dream his brain had conjured for him as consolation for what had happened two nights prior. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Absently, Stede hoped that meant his conversation with Oluwande had been a dream as well.

Dream or not, Ed was becoming more agitated and increasingly unable to maintain his footing, nearly losing balance despite just standing there. The wild flailing of arms certainly wasn’t helping, but Ed seemed unable to stop as he ranted about - Well, Stede wasn’t quite sure; it sounded like it had something to do with a season finale of Iron Chef.

Stede switched tactics, trying to subtly guide Edward into a chair as he did so, in much the same way Oluwande had done to him the day before.

“Well, it’s still quite early for restaurant hours, isn’t it?”

It worked, momentarily. Ed paused his rantings and gave Stede a questioning look.

“You’ve worked in the industry?”

“Not at all. But one of my employees has. He’s more than willing to trade a closing shift for an early start instead.”

That was Oluwande, of course. Lucius, on the other hand, actively resented having to come in at 5AM. He took much of the closing shifts.

The tactic didn’t last long. That look of agitation appeared once more.

“Restaurant’s not closed. Who says I have to be there every goddamn second?”

Now that Stede was standing closer to Edward, he could actually smell the man - And he smelled like he always did, all heat and rustic, like roasted vegetables drizzled with oil atop an open flame. But tonight, he also smelled like something stronger, and noticeably distilled.

Stede glanced behind him out the glass doors. It wasn’t even fully dark yet.

Oluwande talked to the wrong person, Stede thought, feeling both guilty and vindicated at the idea.

Ed wasn’t completely plastered, obviously. Stede had fallen over more times thus far, but he wouldn’t trust him behind the wheel of a car, either. Secretly, he hoped his fire hydrant was still intact - He couldn’t see it from his current angle, but there was no sound of rushing water, which was a good sign. His business insurance now had more encompassing coverage for theft, fire, business interruption and so on - With a higher deductible to go along with it, of course - but he had glossed over water damage.

He made a mental note to call them again tomorrow.

“No one says that, I hope.” Stede finally responded, making an effort to keep his tone lighthearted.

“You’d be wrong. Izzy says that. Izzy says that every f*cking day.” Ed’s tone was darker than normal, - Stede thought he had seen the man at his roughest during their first sober encounter - and, even despite their last interaction, it worried him. This Izzy fellow had been mentioned before, usually with varying levels of frustration or annoyance. Edward sounded as if he had reached his peak.

Stede asked for clarification anyway.

“Izzy. He’s your boss?”

Ed stared at him for a moment before barking out a laugh, loud and brash and not anything like the low, molten sound, always managing to come across as surprised, that Stede had begun to covet and collect like a secret.

“Izzy isn’t and never will be my f*cking boss. He’s my-” There was another pause, during which Stede had only too much time to fill in the blank. When the answer came, it was the culmination of everything he could have guessed.

“Partner, I guess. But he’s not the f*cking boss of me. Especially not tonight.”

Something in Stede’s chest clenched at Ed’s revelation - He had assumed from the last time they talked about the mysterious character that he and Ed weren’t, and yet…One thing clicked into place, at least, and it lightened Stede’s sudden heaviness, if only slightly.

Izzy must have been the one steering Ed away from the bakery.

“What happened tonight?”

It was obviously the wrong question. Ed shut down at it, his lips pursing and a guarded look, whose disappearance Stede had just been relishing, reappeared.

“Nothing. Same sh*t that always happens.”

Attempting to peer more intently at the man did nothing to reveal his secrets - Stede had tried multiple times by that point, so instead, he beckoned him once more towards the chair he himself had fallen out of. Only when Ed petulantly sat down did Stede grab one off another table for himself and draw it up close.

“How long have you and Izzy been…partners?”

It was difficult for Stede to even ask, but he kept his tone free from accusation, innocent, hoping Ed didn’t reject the offering for what it was: a chance to open up.

“Too f*cking long.” He muttered sullenly. There was a wait, as if he didn’t know if he wanted to continue.

After a beat more, he did.

“We got into the industry around the same time. Worked for the same dickhe*d. He was there when I opened my first restaurant.” The last part came out quieter than the rest, as if it were some sort of admission.

Stede’s head tilted to the side with a question. “Your first?”

Something flickered across Ed’s eyes, too quickly for Stede to recognize it.

“This was years ago, and in a part of the city you wouldn’t know, trust me. Took out a loan from another dickhe*d to get it, which was a stupid f*cking idea. I had to-” Stede was familiar enough with a tongue loosened from alcohol, but there Ed shut his mouth so tightly, Stede was worried he'd injured himself in some way. The concern was proven unnecessary soon enough.

“Took me years to pay it back. Izzy was there for all of that. He helped me do what I had to do to pay it, and the f*ckton of interest that came with it, off.”

Stede received the sense there was plenty of information hidden in-between the carefully woven layers of Edward’s words, but he didn’t even know where to begin in uncovering it. He had wanted to know more about Ed, wanted to know everything about Ed but this…He wasn’t sure it would be right of him to even attempt. If Edward decided to tell him, it would have to be on the man’s own terms. His sober mind made that easier to realize than it had been before.

With that decision made, what he replied with was simple.

“He sounds like a loyal partner.”

Suddenly, Ed was gripping the table tightly, as if needing something to tether him.

“That’s the f*cking problem, he’s too loyal. Loyal to someone, something, who doesn’t exist anymore. He can’t f*cking accept that. Don’t think he ever will.”

Stede knew the commiseration must have been showing only too plainly on his face. He had always been rather empathetic - And being a sympathetic crier as a child had gotten him into enough tearful situations all on its own.

Maybe that was why Ed chose to stare down at his own hands instead, growing lighter from the held tension.

“He’d do anything to keep me as that version I used to be. Can’t even stop him when he tries.”

“Ed,” Stede’s concern was strong enough to convince him to reach out across the table - Fighting back the reminder of two nights ago all the while - and rest a gentle hand on one of Ed’s own.

“That doesn’t sound very healthy.”

Ed swallowed thickly, still staring at his - Now their - hands.

“Yeah, don’t suppose it is.”

Stede squeezed in a manner he hoped was reassuring.

“You can’t let that hold you back from change. Change is-Well, it’s natural. It’s inevitable, really. And we should embrace it when it comes. If this Izzy is holding you back from growing and developing, then his loyalty is severely misguided. Don’t let it keep you from what you really want.”

The words caused Edward to finally look up and meet Stede’s gaze.

“You think?”

“I do, Ed. Look at me. I became a baker around the same time I became a divorcee. It wasn’t an easy choice. The bakery, not - Well, actually-” That was not the conversation he meant to be having. He tried again.

“Nevermind. What I’m trying to say is if I let other people decide the course of my actions, my life would be completely different. And worse, I think.” The uncertainty in his own statement, specifically the last part, neutralized any point he might have had, he was sure.

“Worse. You really think so?” Ed asked.

Stede tried for a smile.

“Well, I likely would never have met you for starters.” There was no uncertainty there, as if his aching chest had already forgotten the events of two nights prior, as if Ed’s appearance alone had absolved it all already. The absence of any hesitance was what propelled Stede to fling backwards, dangerously close to tipping his chair too far. He snatched his hand away in the process, as if reaching into an oven without a mitt.

It caused Ed to release his own tight grip on the table, at least.

He struggled to cover up his forwardness, his delusion.

“And the bakery, of course, the bakery. I picked out every item of decor in here myself you know.” It was a desperate bid, they both had to have known it. Stede was grateful Ed focused on it nonetheless.

“Every piece?” His tone was skeptical, as if it was a difficult thing to believe. It helped settle the wild beating happening in Stede’s ribs.

“Every single piece. Wallpaper to tile to that chair you’re sitting on. Took me months to decide on it all.”

It was true, and Stede was proud of it. The entire bakery felt like, well, like Stede: Sharp squares of dark wooden paneling, damask wallpaper sea green in color, chairs of red velvet and mahogany tables that matched the walls, and even a library off in the corner - One that Stede often had to re-fill with his own books because his patrons didn’t seem to quite understand the borrowing concept.

It was possibly the only true representation of himself that existed. He felt something shift inside him at the thought.

Ed smiled, a small one, but Stede latched on.

“I never had much say when it came to - Well, many things. Clothes, a wife, you get the idea. My childhood bedroom was no exception. This bakery was the first place I ever had,” He tried to think of a word less dramatic than freedom. “-Creative control, I suppose you could call it. I wasn’t going to waste it. Did you do the same for your restaurant?”

Stede was worried it was too much of a leap over Edward’s obvious reticence, but his fears were allayed when the man’s smile widened, just a bit more. He had to keep reminding himself of the words Edward had entered the bakery with.

I want to be here.

“Yeah, I did. Well, kind of. We were trying to fit a…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Theme?”

“Sure, why not.”

Stede tried to imagine it.

“A themed restaurant, how exciting!”

Edward laughed at his enthusiasm. Stede didn’t really care, as long as it kept the smile on his face.

“Is this where the leather get-up was conceived?”

“Yeah. Yeah it was. f*cking decades ago.”

Stede winced sympathetically.“That is a long time to be wearing an outfit.”

“Tell me about it.”

Stede tried to search for some sort of authority to embellish his words when he said, “Ed, I really think you’re due for a vacation, Izzy be damned!”

He didn’t quite mean to phrase it that way, but Ed perked up a little at the statement so he couldn’t really find it in himself to regret it.“A long vacation, by the sound of it.”

“I don’t know what he would do if I went on a vacation.”

“What could he possibly do?”

Ed’s eyebrows furrowed at the question and his shoulders dropped back to their former dejected position as he sat in contemplative silence, apparently perusing a very long list of possible retaliations.

Stede hoped his eyes weren't too wide.

“That much?”

“Yup.” The response was as certain as it was dolorous.

“Well, why not go on a vacation with him? That would solve the issue of him…” Stede wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence, Ed had been so vague about what it is this Izzy could possibly do.

“...Retaliating.” He finished lamely.

Ed stared at him if Stede had suggested a vacation of pillaging and plundering.

“A vacation with him wouldn’t be much of a vacation at all.”

Automatically, Stede’s eyebrows knit together. It could be so difficult keeping up with Edward.“Isn’t that what spouses do with each other?”

Ed scoffed and sat back in his chair.

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know. And that’s even more reason for him not to come with me. Would probably need another vacation to recover from a vacation with him.”

Stede wouldn’t have known that something was still clenching tight inside his chest if it hadn’t released at Ed’s words. He couldn’t stop himself from asking for clarification, nonetheless.

“So when you say partner-”

“Work partner, obviously. He’s my sous chef. More than that now I guess. Cares more about it than I do.” He let out a deep breath. “He was…angry, about me leaving the restaurant tonight. Like I have to spend all my time there. They don’t even need me. Just my name is - Takes all the fun out of it.”

It was continually difficult for Stede to follow Edward’s train of thought - And he hadn’t even been drinking tonight, but it was clear there had been some sort of interaction between the two that hadn’t ended well.

There was a heavy swallow, like Ed was choking back something.

“I should probably go back. Save myself the headache.”

Stede was eager - Arguably too eager - to offer another option. Really, he didn’t care what Edward chose to do, so long as it was an option that would take care of that frown so blatantly plastered on his face.

“Or you could stay here - Um, if you like-” He glanced around desperately, looking for some sort of reason to justify keeping him here, something that could even begin to hold his interest. It was harder than he wanted to admit.

“-And, um, listen to me talk about the origin of these decorations.”

It was a poor substitute, and Edward surely must have been aware of that. That was what made it so difficult to try and reason away his wide grin. Ed was willing, more so than what made basic sense.

“Go on then. Tell me about the chairs.”

Ed moved his hand so that his chin rested in the palm of it, and he was staring at Stede in such a strange manner, he found any quick response stolen away. His eyes, shining and brown and as deep as well-water, were looking up at Stede through long lashes, and it caused his mouth, and any reply it might have had, to dry up. It coincided eerily well with the flash of a sensation, that hollowness in his chest disappearing - Or, not quite that. More complete. Being filled.

Stede was frozen for a moment. There was no way it was a genuine inquiry - Stede hardly qualified as anyone’s second choice, much less a first. Ed must have been more desperate to escape Izzy than he thought. But, if he truly was the lesser of two evils of Edward’s options for the night, the least he could try to do was make the answers entertaining, and to revel in the attention for as long as it lasted.

Besides, it was rather amusing how he obtained the chairs, and so he attempted to settle in and spin a worthy tale.

“-And at that point I had knocked over her entire jar of - Actually, I’m not quite sure what it was. Horrid looking things. I think she was ready to have me strung up, honestly. I had to buy the entire stock of tables before she let me leave. Fortunately, they fit the vision I had.”

Stede was certain he had to be boring Ed - He couldn’t even remember the last time someone let him talk so unabashedly. But the man across from him had shown no signs of ennui, even during the tangent Stede went on regarding the entry carpet. It was frighteningly easy to lose - Or was it find? - himself when talking to Ed. Easy to believe he was actually listening.

Even if he weren’t, however, he couldn’t convince himself to stop. If he were to, Ed would be sure to go back to the restaurant. Stede didn’t think he was the only one that couldn't stand the thought.

“I even haggled with her! The total was well above the asking price and I told her very firmly that I would appreciate a discount. She almost gave it to me too. It was a very stimulating exchange.”

Edward laughing along with him was all the prompt he had needed for the past hour to recall every tale he had about the interior decorating process of Bonnet’s Bakery, but eventually there were simply no more stories to tell - Regarding the furniture at least.

He let his words trail off, an indication that the recounting had come to an end, but there was no time for even the beginning of an awkward pause to permeate. Ed was suddenly asking him about his library, which, of course, gave Stede the perfect excuse to haul him up from his chair and lead him over to the stacked shelves. It was difficult to drag him along while hiding his amusem*nt at Ed’s still slightly drunken steps, but he managed it well enough.

“This might be my favorite part of the bakery.” Stede revealed once they paused in front. Ed was staring at the shelves in wonder, as if the books were going to reveal something to him.“Other than the baking itself, of course. I spend plenty of hours in the kitchen, there’s no doubt about that, but it’s a privilege to come out and man the counter, because then I’m allowed to watch.”

Ed could hardly tear his gaze away. It made Stede wonder whether or not the man had his own library. He lifted a tentative hand, as if to stroke the spines, but hesitated, fingers hovering and uncertain, and Stede could guess the answer.

“Watch? Watch what?” His tone was breathless. Stede couldn’t help but imagine the reaction Ed might have if he saw the mansion library, one that easily dwarfed what they were seeing in front of them now.

“The patrons. As they sit and eat their pastries and drink their coffee and look over the books, just as you’re doing now. Most of these titles are from my own collection.”

Edward’s hands drifted back down to his sides and Stede stifled his disappointment, just in time for the man’s next question.

“You creep on your customers?”

The genuine bewilderment in the query made Stede choke on nothing, and it delayed his attempt to defend himself.

“I do not creep!” He protested, once he was physically able to. “I simply…observe.”

“That sounds creepy, mate.”

“It’s not done in a creepy manner! And I’m notoglingthem. I-It’s because, I get to watch when they-This really isn’t coming out right.” He groaned, running a hand over his eyes, if only to block off the massive grin Ed was sending his way, his lingering intoxication apparently only serving to make him more of a menace.

“And you had the nerve to accuse me of perversion.”

“Oh my god.”

“-Did you call it? Dastardly extremes? Good deflection, Stede, I never saw it coming.”

“I do not creep on my patrons. I just like to watch when they taste something for the first time, that’s it!”

“I’m sure there’s a word out there for what you’re describing.”

Stede knew Ed had only been teasing, but there was still something fervent in the way he tried to defend himself. Perhaps he would always be on the defense when it came to his bakery.

“It’s really not like that, Edward. Don’t you do the same thing at your restaurant? Ensuring your guests are enjoying their meal, enjoying your cooking?”

The teasing tone was still there, but there was something more unfeigned in the words when Edward responded,“Yeah. I used to do the same thing.”

The admission released the urge to justify himself, at least until Ed asked his next question, perhaps the most difficult one to answer yet.

“Why did you become a baker?”

Before Stede could consider his response, inspect his next words for flaws and blemishes and ultimately discard them for something logical, they tumbled out ahead of him.

“Desserts make people happy. When someone first tastes an eclair, for instance, they’re experiencing that-that combination of chocolate and cream and light, fluffy choux dough. It hardly matters who made the pastry, or what they’ve done. What matters is that it brought joy to someone.”

But then, perhaps the question was not so difficult after all.

“Why did you become a chef?”

There was a place in Stede’s chest that ached at the reaction. Something shuttered in Edward, as if preparing for a storm, and there was something raw and-and hurt when he responded.

“I don’t think I know anymore.”

Stede knew - He didn’t know how he knew, whether he was projecting or sensing or simply feeling Ed, but he knew - that there was too much bubbling beneath the surface, heated and boiling and trying to overflow. He knew - He thought - that Ed was pressing down on a lid and trying to keep it all from brimming over and burning himself in the process.

Stede didn’t know if there was much more that he could do for Ed then try to release some of the steam.

With a light touch, he guided Edward back to the empty table, hiding his wince of sympathy when he practically collapsed in the chair. There was no stated reason he could hide behind for why he kept one hand on Ed’s shoulder, rubbing soothing light circular touches and hoping the man could feel it through the leather.

“You can stay here till you remember.”

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten: Lambchops

Chapter Text

It was official. Ed wasn’t a mob boss. The man had a job in a much more common industry: Food.

Stede should have guessed as much by the way Ed had handled himself in his bakery kitchen, but the faded burns he had paid such close attention a few nights prior were the true give away.

Of course, Ed was no pastry chef - At least, not yet. With the apparent reticence and embarrassment that Ed spoke with regarding his job, it seemed safe to assume the man was a line cook of some sort. With the seemingly endless amount of black t-shirts and the grizzled beard, Stede would have guessed bartender, but Ed was firm on the fact that the majority of his work had been done in the kitchen.

Even with the beard?

Beard nets exist, Stede.

Stede didn’t confirm any of this information until a week later, when Ed was over at his apartment, gleefully watching him attempt to cook dinner for the both of them.

Something had shifted between them during, or perhaps as a result of, those two nights of respective drunken stupor. An interesting development, slight though it was, considering that both parties, flush with copious levels of personal embarrassment, had agreed never to mention either instance again.

Still, Edward remained less flighty, his visits to the bakery more consistent, each one inspiring a greater level of devotion - or frankly, delusion - on Stede’s part that he wrestled back until the next social call. Stede didn’t think he had been too transparent, too wretchedly pitiful, on his night of stupor - His memories regarding their conversation were just a bit blurry, as if Stede had been out-of-focus for the entire exchange. He remembered a worryingly strong and sudden obsessive onset for Ed’s hands, though he was fairly certain he had been able to adequately hide that. He also remembered the explanation of Edward’s knee injury; he didn’t think he would be forgetting that anytime soon, nor the rush of protectiveness that surely would have sent Ed running if Stede had given voice to it.

Not that his suppression had prevented the man from fleeing, anyway.

Yes, there was much that Stede had not given voice to, but the same went for Ed the following night. Every day following, Stede carried that surge of pleasure, of intense gratification that had sparked at the reveal, the insistence that Edward wanted to be in Bonnet’s Bakery.

Stede would be lying if he said he weren’t very grateful to the state of intoxication for it. Who said that some indulgence was dangerous?

Well, that had been one of his employees, and though Stede was still struggling to feel appreciation for Oluwande’s misplaced concern rather than sullen, petty resentment, he knew the man’s inherent likability would win out against Stede’s, relatively weak, will. He relied on Oluwande, for more than either of them admitted aloud - Including, but not limited to, a sounding board for new confection creations. The pair of them had created some true Frankenstein’s monsters in the bakery’s kitchen. Impressive really, that only once had they vomited up an experimental treat.

Stede took to focusing on the sentiment behind the solo intervention more than anything else. Oluwande had been worried about him. He had also obviously been projecting his own fears regarding his partner, but there had definitely been some concern for Stede nonetheless. He likely wouldn’t head off to Olive Garden if something were to happen to Bonnet’s Bakery.

At least not immediately, anyway.

Stupid Olive Garden.

Perhaps Stede simply needed to act more in charge, or even possibly inhibit the same type of management style that Ed mentioned using: A stern voice and a creative threat.

Stede had a strong suspicion that if he were to mention slow-roasting anyone’s organs, his employees would definitely think him drunk again. But he hadn’t even really indulged since that night of unfortunate drunkenness, no more than a glass or two after dinner. He even took care to dress a tad bit sharper, shave a day earlier, and sign his two employee’s paychecks on the actual day. Oluwande hadn’t said anything outright, but he had stopped sending Stede that look of irritated concern - The look that indicated he was worried about someone or something, and pissed off about it.

If it was all the apology Stede was going to get, he would take it.

It was fortunate then that Stede wouldn’t have to find a new pastry chef, as Ed had refused to take Stede up on his offer of employment. Not that Stede had wanted Ed to work in the bakery, although the idea was intriguing. What he wanted was to taste the man’s cooking, particularly after witnessing that co*cky grin overtake Ed’s face upon Stede tasting his chocolate chip cookies.

Stede didn’t have to wait too long.

It took only a few more visits to the bakery before Edward, seemingly taken by his skill with dough, had struck a deal.

The one way Stede would be able to experience his cooking was if Ed tried his first.

Stede was more than aware of the fact that he was getting the better part of the deal. Stede had never mentioned any culinary skills - There had been no co*cky grin on his end. And if he had mentioned any, they’d have been an exaggeration. However, it was easy to believe that with such knowledge in an ability so close in proximity to cooking, with enough time, with enough money, he would be able to figure something out.

Beyond burning the lamb, of course.

He shouldn’t have let Ed into the house until after he had finished cooking, but part of the deal had been witnessing the act itself. It was a blessing that the man hadn’t wanted to accompany him for the shopping - Although, the fridge now overfilled with a vegetable medley and several types of meat was an obvious indication for how that trip went.

Stede had considered hosting this dinner at his...other house, but he was afraid to tempt fate. It was a humble bakery owner Ed had asked to have dinner with. He didn’t want to scare him away anymore than he already had.

That being said, a full-sized kitchen - Or at least one with more than a square foot of counter space - would have been preferable. The apartment was just big enough to harbor a stove, however, so Stede vowed to make the most of it.

If the most of it was something within his ability to achieve.

“I’ve never seen lamb chops with that color before.”

Ed was sitting at the small, round table that acted as the only border between the kitchen and the bedroom. It was the same table Stede had fallen asleep on nearly a month prior.

Earlier, while he had been gingerly - cautiously, really - seasoning with salt and pepper the cuts of meat he had chosen, Stede had allowed himself to privately revel in the sight. Edward at his table, a lopsided smirk adding its own decoration to the room and the ridiculously ornate chandelier above him highlighting all his glory. It was exactly what he had been hoping to see the morning following the accident - Minus the leather, of course. Edward’s arms were covered in a long-sleeved shirt, thin, worn at the elbows, and following the rest of his wardrobe, black. That culminated in two losses to mourn tonight.

There wasn’t much time to wallow in such grief, unfortunately, and not much room for it either amongst all the panic. Stede was standing in front of the stove, tightly gripping the handle of the pan as if it were a lifeline. Four pieces of meat were sizzling loudly, tiny drops of hot grease sparking up and burning his wrist with brief flickers of pain.

Still, Stede did not release his grip.

He had flipped each piece over about six times now, and frankly, he wasn’t sure what to do past that.

Of course, there was a recipe, and Stede knew how important it was to follow recipes in baking, but Ed had said that experimentation was the foundation of cooking! Right now, Stede was experimenting with how many grease burns he could withstand.

“Mate, you’re burning away whatever flavor is left.”

The statement convinced Stede to finally relinquish his hold on the frying pan. With uncertainty, he turned the stove off, resisting the urge to look back at Ed for confirmation.

It only took Stede thirty more minutes to plate both the lambchops and the mashed potatoes. The potatoes were noticeably lumpy as he spooned them onto the plates. The meat looked edible, but only just. Stede figured it would look better cut into tiny pieces.

The most attractive part of the meal, in Stede’s opinion, was the Marie Daage Ciels Bleus Dinnerware Collection, but he wasn’t sure that would be enough to impress Ed. If only Stede had just held the dinner at his home, he would have been able to use the Audubon flatware set, and any crimes against the meal would have been easily forgotten.

Unfortunately, that meant there was truly nothing to distract either of them from the attempt at a meal that lay before them, as it was with great hesitancy that Stede set down the two plates.

“Looks like…food.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Stede had always gotten into trouble anytime his father caught him playing with his dinner, but that didn’t stop him from making patterns out of the mashed potatoes to avoid eating them. Ed was eating the dish with no complaints, which, in Stede’s opinion, was more than enough to cover the damage of a hundred fire hydrants.

“Ed, really, I’m not sure you should be eating this. Salmonella is one thing, but this might actually kill you.”

“Mate, it’s not that bad. I’ve had far worse, believe me.”

Stede had been trying to cut through the lamb for the past two minutes. Even his Audubon steak knife wouldn’t have made a difference. He didn’t have a pet; unstable in the idea that he could take care of himself, let alone another living creature. Still, a dog to slip pieces of charred meat to would have been very convenient.

Then again, Stede couldn’t do that to a fellow living creature. He winced as Edward took another large bite.

“I appreciate that, but you don’t have to lie to me, Ed. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked a meal before.”

“What?” Stede focused on the conversation, ardently pretending he couldn’t feel the heat of Ed’s leg touching his own. Ed’s own expression - Curiosity, maybe? Whatever it was, it wasn’t helping.

“Genuinely.”

“How is that possible? Not even pasta? Toast?”

“I find myself ordering food or eating out for convenience.” And desperation for social interaction, regardless of how brief, but Stede didn’t think it necessary to mention that.

“I think-I think I’ve made toast once.”

It was true, he had made toast once, he was pretty sure. It had been one of those blurred mornings spent in the squalor of the night’s previous drunkenness, a more common occurrence in the dreary aftermath of the divorce. After countless pieces of toast resembling square hockey pucks, Stede had managed a perfect golden brown creation. It was dry because he forgotten to put butter or jam on it, but he had still eaten it.

Ed shook his head. “That doesn’t count. Toast isn’t cooking.”

“But you - Well, I agree, toast isn’t cooking.” Even though it had been a rather complicated mechanism to figure out. “Oh! You know what, I did make a pasta dinner one time.”

“There you go. How’d it turn out?”

That had been the night before Stede had been served his divorce papers, but honestly, he was fairly sure it was unrelated.

“Fine, fine. But baking has always been my strong suit so - Oh, what if you handle the dinners, and I’ll take care of the dessert? That seems like a fair trade, if I do say so myself.”

Ed was smiling around the chunk of meat he had been chewing for the past couple of minutes.

“What are you propositioning here, exactly?”

Stede was lucky he had avoided putting anything inside his mouth, otherwise he might have choked on it.

“I’m-I’m proposing a business deal! That’s it, a business deal. I’ve been thinking about extending the bakery into-into a cafe. Soups and sandwiches and the like. Nothing too difficult. But obviously, while I can bake, I would need someone to do the cooking.”

“Which would be me.”

“Which would be you, yes.”

Ed pretended to think about it, eyebrows set in a straight line.

“I’m already in the restaurant business. You’d have to make this offer real convincing.”

“I don’t doubt that I could. For starters, you could choose which days you’d like to work.”

A curious eyebrow, as bushy and magnificent as ever, was raised. “I’m listening.”

“And all my employees get unlimited paid vacation.”

His dinner guest was laughing now. Stede drunk in the sight of his smile lines, the jubilant crinkles at the edges of his eyes and the indents guarding his lips.

“You’re lying.”

“Honest to god! I mean, it has to get approved and usually not during our busier times, but I meant what I said. A vacation is a necessity. You can’t have a people positive management style without it.”

Edward huffed. “That might explain a few things then.”

“And most importantly, free pastries, whenever you want.”

“You would definitely regret that. I’d never leave.” Ed was full smiling now, and the image was so different from the first night they met that for a moment it stole Stede’s ability to respond.

“I don’t think I would ever regret that.” He said honestly. “But you might regret eating so much of the lamb.”

“You make a good offer, Stede.”

But Stede wasn’t done.

“And, of course, it goes without saying, since it would be half bakery and half cafe, you would get a half share of the bakery. It would only be fair.”

“Half of the bakery?”

“If-If you want. All of the perks, half of the responsibility. And all of the croissants. On top of that-” It was as if he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out “-Better hours than the restaurant industry, that’s for sure. We close at six PM.”

It was a bit that had gone on a little too long, but Stede still couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to have a co-owner. Oluwande was helpful to a fault, to be sure, but at the end of the night, Stede was still the only one left in the bakery. Just as he had been the only one left in the house.

Not that that would change with a co-owner. But maybe Stede would get some cooking lessons out of it.

“You know what you should do?” Edward sat back against his chair, looking as comfortable as if he belonged there. The grin he wore looked so easy.

“What’s that?”

“Visit my restaurant. You’ll be able to try lamb that isn’t…”

“Burnt?”

“Yes.”

“Noted.”

“Well, I’ll have to do that then. Remind me to ask you the name of the restaurant you work at. I do believe you owe me a dinner of your own though.” The heat against his leg became pressure as Ed suddenly forward and in and Stede almost choked on his own unpalatable creation. Ed didn’t notice.

“That was the deal, yes. What do you want to eat?”

“I will settle for edibility over anything else. Pasta. Toast, even.”

Both men took a hard look at their plates.

“Do you want to get dinner somewhere else?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven: Restaurant

Chapter Text

Edward Teach hadn’t told Stede Bonnet about his restaurant.

Yet.

He had mentioned it, offhand, a couple of times, but he hadn’t told him the name of the restaurant, or even the location. There was a reason for it. A good one.

See, Ed wanted to plan some things out beforehand. For instance, the matcha black sesame cheesecake was just about to rotate back into season. It was a piece Edward knew Stede, a dessert connoisseur, would appreciate. Then the dinner itself was going to have to be pre-planned courses to ensure optimal success; it was an option only the VIPs with reservations set months in advance could obtain. Stede was obviously worth it. Nevermind the fact it had been at least a few years since Ed was even involved in something as mechanical as planning out the menu, flexing his control over the food creation.

Of course, he was still questioning whether or not he should have Stede even visit Blackbeard’s. Would La Concorde be the better option, even despite the trip? His international restaurants were out of the question…for the time being. No, Blackbeard’s would be the best choice - But that meant that the attendance of every staff member working on that chosen night would have to be hand-chosen: Fang would be on the roster. Roach as well. And Ed himself would be on the line. Only the best of the best, after all.

When Stede finally did visit his restaurant, Ed wanted it to be impressive. Because Bonnet’s Bakery was impressive. It wasn’t pretentious, or pompous. It wasn’t trying to show off and be something more, always more, constantly and unceasingly more.

He respected Bonnet’s Bakery for that.

Edward met new people every single night. People falling over themselves to meet the fearsome Blackbeard. People trying to influence him, seduce him, manipulate him. He had met international political figures, rockstars, models, actors and actresses that were household names. They had all met Blackbeard. Blackbeard was the only one they cared about knowing.

No, that wasn’t quite it. They didn’t really care about knowing Blackbeard either. They cared about witnessing theatrics. They wanted to see him perform the role of violent, aggressive savagery, like some sort of circus act.

But Stede had asked about Ed. Stede couldn’t even fathom Blackbeard. He didn’t care about showing off to either one of them. And yet, he had still managed to. His pastries were some of the best Ed had ever tasted, and he was the only pâtissier in recent memory that he hadn’t yelled at until they were on the brink of tears.

He had yelled at Stede a little. And even then, Stede had given him free pastries that same day.

Stede was different. Different from anything or anyone Ed had ever experienced. Stede had impressed him. Ed wanted to impress him back.

But that meant things had to be planned and planned out well, with no room for error. It was the most involved Ed had been with the restaurant in months. Even Roach commented on his repeated appearances, before stammering out an apology and scurrying away. That gave Ed a sort of warmth in his stomach, but more was contributing to that. It was nice to have some sort of direct purpose again.

The past couple of years had been filled with photo shoot after interview after brand deal after guest starring after Grand Opening! None of it felt substantial. All of it felt familiar. The only break in monotony recently had been Ed visiting the bakery. The only break had been Stede Bonnet.

How something so simple could be so impactful, why it - he - even mattered so much to Ed, he wasn’t yet sure. But the past couple of weeks had been like stepping out from a room on fire into fresh air. It was all he could to just stand and inhale it in. Like the electric shock of a defibrillator bringing him back to life. He had even felt the urge to cook again, to create. He didn’t plan on letting go of it anytime soon, regardless of any of Izzy’s threats. And that meant he had to give Stede something to stay around for, past the ever-increasing dusk encounters, single restaurant dinner, and the one and only coffee date Ed had ever had in his life.

Suddenly and without warning, an error in his carefully constructed plan appeared.

That error was Stede Bonnet, sitting at a two-top a whole month earlier than planned, with a beautiful brunette swathed in black across the table from him.

The first few courses had been served already. She had a hand on Stede’s own. They were staring at each other. Ed was staring at them.

Ed wasn’t even supposed to have been at this restaurant tonight - He had been told La Concorde could use the boost in sales his presence would bring - but Izzy had wanted him to show face for one of the personalities present. That meant Ed was dressed in the typical leather get up that characterized Blackbeard; the outfit was almost as notorious as the chef himself. He had once worn it with pride. But that was many years ago. Now, the only thing Ed could think of every time he put it on was the fact that it was apparently pleather. Cheap imitation fabric.

It seemed symbolic of what Ed had become. Like his appearance tonight. Decorative. Fake. He had yet to even touch an ingredient.

He had already let Stede witness it two too many times - He hadn’t meant to show up at the bakery leathered and drunk, again, but the fight with Iz had left him rankled. There was nowhere else he had wanted to go - and in that moment it was the last thing Ed wanted the baker to see him in. Standing in the entrance to the bustling kitchen, he had a full view of the man now. Luck, or something more twisted, deemed Stede too distracted staring into the eyes of this unknown woman to catch sight of him.

Unknown to Ed, of course. But more than well-acquainted with Stede, it seemed.

There was a part of Ed that had expected, or maybe even demanded, Stede to look…overwhelmed. To show the same quiet panic Ed had experienced upon first stepping into a professional kitchen. To show confusion at how many forks were laying down on his table right now - there were four of them, a ridiculous f*cking amount. And Ed had wanted to be there when Stede showed that bewilderment. He could have guided him through the mess, down the path Ed had to forge himself as Blackbeard and, hell, maybe even show off a little about his food knowledge while he was at it.

But Stede looked perfectly content. Composed. Unsurprisingly dignified, in a dark green dinner jacket. There was no hesitation on what to do when the palette cleanser was placed before him, and the man didn’t even glance at the utensil he picked up upon the escargot’s arrival. Neither did his dinner partner.

It seemed Stede fit into this environment well. He looked like he belonged here. More than Ed ever would.

Ed was using a lime as a stress ball - So he had touched one ingredient - and he didn’t release his hold, even when the juice started trailing down his forearm. It was only when Izzy clapped him on the shoulder did his concentration break.

“Captain.”

“I told you not to call me that, Iz.”

Things had been tense between them, since the night Ed had run out of the dinner rush and practically fled to the bakery, the rum they had brought from his apartment still in hand. There was barely a time when things weren’t tense between them though. Izzy was good at putting it away during the shifts, tended not to wear his stormy emotions on his face the way Ed did.

Outside of the restaurant was an entirely different f*cking story.

“None of that. Not tonight. We have a VIP in the private dining room. Network president for the new show. He’s been wanting to meet you personally.”

“Blackbeard.”

“What?”

Edward released the death grip he had on the fruit.

“He’s been wanting to meet Blackbeard.”

“That’s what I said.”

A heavy breath was released next.

“Fine. I’ll go dance for the network CEO or whoever the f*ck it is this time. But he’s not the only VIP tonight.”

Ed savored the flash of panic that appeared in Izzy’s eyes. It was good to know that if one thing could be used against him, it was the restaurants.

“What? Who else is here?”

“Table Eighteen. He’s top priority. Fasttrack his entire meal. And comp it.”

“Who is he? I don’t recognize him.”

“Izzy?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to go over there. Introduce yourself. Make sure everything is f*cking perfect.”

Izzy had known him long enough to realize that wasn’t everything. He narrowed his eyes, possibly with suspicion. Ed wasn’t going to risk looking away from Stede to find out.

“And?”

“And find out who the woman is. See if it’s their anniversary. Anything. Just figure it out.”

“What-“

“Just do it. Ask any questions and I’ll slow cook your organs for tomorrow night’s duck confit.”

Jesus, he was overusing that line. Izzy grinned at it though, the same way he always did whenever Blackbeard displayed his infamous sadism. In a way, it was their mutated version of a - Not an apology, they’d never go that far, but an acknowledgement, maybe.

“Aye-aye captain.”

He rolled his eyes as Iz approached the table with his most pleasant customer service smile. It was wide, and a little scary. Blackbeard had made a name for himself in this industry by his ferocious behavior, but it remained focused towards his employees and subordinates, never the customers.Even the most obnoxious of guests were expected to be catered to on hand and foot.

Keeping his gaze on table eighteen and the distinguished looking couple sitting at it, Ed felt a clenched fist tighten around his heart.

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve: Marriage

Chapter Text

The first graders had loved the cupcakes and it was with a joyous smile that Stede added their order to the list of satisfied customers. It was no surprise that they had enjoyed the tasty treat and, in truth, despite the rushed timeframe of his own making, Stede had hardly broken a sweat.

In fact, he had even felt sorry for the young students. They had missed the true star of the show: Edward’s chocolate chip cookies.

Stede’s enthusiastic reaction was one Ed had been taken aback by.

They’re cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. You’d have to be an idiot to f*ck up chocolate chip cookies.

But Stede had refused to hear any of it.

This shows great baking promise!

He had even brought it up again that night at dinner - The second dinner, following Stede’s disastrous attempt. They had gone to, of all places, the Olive Garden down the street. It was a restaurant that the people of the town considered suitable for those days of flights of fancy, and the establishment was, Stede had to believe, if Lucius’ comments were to be taken seriously, his direct competitor.

Stede had regretted he couldn’t offer a restaurant of higher caliber to his date. Then again, comparing Olive Garden’s tour of Italy to the ruined lamb that had been their first meal of the night, the pair might as well have been dining at Piazza Duomo in Piedmont.

Now that you’ve proven your skill in baking, I think I definitely have to hire you.

Ed had just stared at him in disbelief.

Mate, they’re just cookies.

He hadn’t seen Edward since, and Stede worried he had scared the man off. Again. He felt it intrinsically, the same way Lucius had known that his boss was moping during their entire shift. The only difference was that Lucius had commented on it rather gleefully.

Stede had sent the man home early again, but it was completely unrelated.

Three business days had passed since the Olive Garden dinner and Edward had not yet visited the bakery. Stede was taking his frustration out on a piece of dough that was being kneaded for far longer than necessary.

It was a bad habit, but one that Stede had never been able to break in the four years of owning the bakery. There had been too many loaves of bread baked after neighborhood soirees that had turned out tough and chewy from over-kneading. The rhythmic motions of the push and pull, as consistent as the tides, was a mindless activity. It left all the time in the world for Stede to think through his mistakes for the night, or even his general life regrets. The more days that passed from their dinner, the more Stede was certain he had spoiled it all.

Even a pleasant meal with his ex-wife over the weekend, something he normally enjoyed, failed to soften the sting.

He had been certain things were going well. Stede didn’t know what kind of impression he had been making, but he obviously had to be making one, because Ed had stood there in the middle of his bakery and declared it.

I want to be here.

And he had followed through. Never again had he left Stede hanging on an open-ending, blindly waiting for more. No, Ed had started to let Stede know when he was coming back, and those easy promises had felt like deliverance.

It had been the job offer that had pushed the man away. Or maybe, the fact that Stede had critiqued the lack of vacation. Or perhaps taking him to Olive Garden had been the final straw - Stede truly couldn’t blame him, if that was the case.

The why didn’t matter. Because regardless, the underlying reason would always be Stede Bonnet. It was a depressing conclusion. One that he always seemed to reach. And tonight, the bread had to suffer for it.

Closing time was upon Stede, but he knew with this melancholy settling on his shoulders like a thick blanket, a long night awaited him. If he were lucky, he would be joined by a bottle of Reisling, and both the sweetness and the high alcohol content would wash away the bitter taste in his mouth he had yet to lose. He could only assume the culprit was Olive Garden’s selection of vin ordinaire.

Then the bell signaling the front door rang.

Stede’s hands froze, knuckle-deep in loose flour and dough. He waited, expecting some sort of call.

Silence greeted him.

Content with haphazardly wiping his hands on his white apron instead of washing up, he walked with less than cautious steps into the front. There, with one hand still on the door - as if he were going to leave in the next second - was Ed.

“Ed!” Stede was grinning, the enthusiasm he had been missing the past few days returning in a wave so powerful it nearly took his breath away. And then, some part of him, perpetually terrified of scaring the man away, forced himself to correct.

“Ed.” He repeated in a much more level tone, the smile dimming. “It’s good to see you.”

Ed just stared at him. His hand didn’t drop from the doorknob. Stede felt a sharp pang in his chest.

“Here for more pastries?”

“No.” The reply was instant. Stede’s smile dropped completely. “I mean, yes.”

“Are you going to...let go of the door?”

Ed let go of the door but remained where he was. The man was wearing dark, rather baggy jeans and a simple white cotton shirt. A black zip-up jacket was his outerwear of choice this time around.

“What would you like? I have some, um, specialty cake left and-”

“What have you been up to?”

When Ed asked the question, he didn’t even acknowledge the fact that it had steamrolled Stede’s. The tone he asked it in was the epitome of casual, as if he didn’t care about the answer. As if the answer didn’t matter.

Stede was the proud owner of a bakery. He did more than just wait for Ed to grace him with his presence.

“Quite a lot actually! I delivered the cupcakes for one and-and that was just the beginning of it. Another order came in for a wedding cake, so that’s certainly kept me occupied.”

The second order was a complete fabrication, but the story wasn’t completely false. Occasionally, Stede would practice making wedding cakes, often when his two nosy employees were absent. He did this purely to hone his skills, and sometimes if he created the wedding cake of his dreams - A creation radically different then the ridiculous one that had been served at his own wedding - then that was no one else’s business save Stede’s.

His wedding cake had been immense. Pillared and columned with dozens of vined flowers cascading down the multiple tiers. Really, the amount of flowers was obnoxious - And it would have made the national botanical gardens ashamed.

The wedding cakes Stede made were simpler. Less fondant. Less flowers - And pink ones instead of white. These cakes were never as ostentatious and ridiculous as the old one had been. Of course, he tried not to make too many wedding cakes. He didn’t appreciate waste - A divine irony when considering his life - and so that meant many desserts as dinners and many takeout boxes of sliced cake shoved in the hands of his employees. And it wasn’t like he was ever going to get married again, so really, the only true purpose it served was broadening his waistline. He got enough comments from the Badmintons concerning what they labeled his paunchyness, what with his dependance on ordering or eating out. That usually set him down the path of tearfully - and rather drunkenly - making wedding cakes and thus the vicious cycle spun on.

Yes, between obsessively crafting iced flowers and compulsively kneading bread, Stede had been very occupied.

“And-And I went out to dinner. That was nice. And I-”

“How was that?” Ed asked suddenly, still not making eye contact with the baker in front of him. The man was still standing. Stede motioned for him to take a seat at the counter.

After a beat, he gave in.

“How was what-Dinner?”

“Yeah.”

Stede was surprised. He had only mentioned it to make a point. “It was good. It was very nice.”He paused to truly consider the question. “It wasn’t quite my scene, if I’m being honest.”

And wasn’t there something about Ed that just compelled Stede to be honest, even at his own detriment.

“Why not?”

This was an interesting turn. Maybe one of the only ways to hold the man’s attention was through discussions of food. Stede supposed that made sense. Ed worked in the industry after all. Maybe he had heard of the restaurant.

“I chose it at the behest of my dinner partner. She’s been wanting to go for years. I never took her before. Apparently reservations can be rather difficult to come by.”

Stede bit his lip. The implication came out closer to bragging than he had intended, but it had served its purpose.

“How did you get reservations then?”

Ed’s tone was borderline aggressive. The man was practically interrogating him. He managed to hide the sudden thrill of pleasure that climbed up his throat, but could do little about the sudden blush.

“Well, I don’t mean to flaunt, but I am quite well-known in my homeowner’s association.”

Of course, Stede’s notoriety in his HOA was not positive - the bakery kept him busy and so his front garden was unlawfully overrun - but there was no need for Ed to know that.

“I simply gave them my name and they said they had an opening later that week.”

Ed nodded, as if that reason made sense, but he wasn’t done questioning.

“What did you think of the food?”

“Oh-Well, delicious. Scrumptious, actually. There was a passion fruit pavlova that really impressed me. I’ve been meaning to try and make it myself. I’ll save a piece of it for you when I do.” Stede added on the last part absentmindedly.

Ed’s voice was quiet when he asked, “And your dinner partner?”

“Oh, yes, she enjoyed it very much. She’s always fit into that world better than I ever could. A long time ago, I thought we both wanted nothing to do with it. I wasn’t smart enough to realize at the time that that wasn’t the case.” His hands began to fiddle with air on the glass countertop.

“How do you mean?”

“She did want to be a part of that world. Just on her own terms.” Stede released a heavy sigh. “Perhaps that's why the relationship ended in divorce.”

Ed didn’t respond, and he didn’t ask any additional questions either. Obviously, Stede had scared the man once more, this time by oversharing. Everything Stede seemed to do was done in accidental excess.

He attempted to cover it up.

“As-As I was saying, the restaurant was nice but, in all honesty, more than anything else it reminded me of the reasons why I left to open up this bakery in the first place. The restaurant was-Well, I strive only to leave positive Yelp reviews, so I won’t elaborate but-”

“No. Elaborate.”

Stede stared at the man curiously. He really must have been invested in the matter of food. It’s true that he didn’t like talking badly about other businesses, as a business owner himself, but if it was the only way to delay Ed’s departure...

“I suppose, more than anything else, the restaurant felt arrogant.”

While he talked, Stede retrieved a plate of the one dessert he had left: A slice of a cake intended for an imaginary event. He placed the offering, along with a fork, in front of Ed, who didn’t hesitate to immediately sample it.

“It um, it reminds me of other places I’ve been to. And a lot of people I’ve met. It’s like they’re all on the same road, and there’s only ever one route for these types. One path laid before you. And if you dare to even imagine something else, going down a different path then-”

Stede took a deep breath, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

“Pardon, I’m not sure what that has to do with the restaurant. I simply mean that sometimes there needs to be acknowledgement that you’re not the most important person in the room. And you don't have to be. I value happiness more than importance...Even if I don’t quite know yet what makes me happiest.”

“And the restaurant?”

“And the restaurant was trying to be the most important person in the room.”

He couldn’t find it in himself to look at Ed. His tone was a bit breathless as he rushed to move on.

“I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not a food critic, yes? Here I am, blabbering on about a measly dinner. How was your week?”

“Fine. How was the service?”

“The - What?”

“The service. Of the restaurant.”

“Oh, it was pleasant. How one would expect at a place like that. No unlimited breadsticks though. No bread at all actually, but that’s probably a good thing for my waistline.”

Ed furrowed his eyes in confusion but Stede continued without acknowledgement, mentally cursing every other word that came out of his mouth.

“And, um, oh! The manager stopped by - Blackbeard himself.”

“Blackbeard visited your table?”

Ed was making a strange face. Stede didn't know whether he should continue talking.

“Yes. Well - I think he was Blackbeard. That was the name of the restaurant. Blackbeard’s. I - Well, I simply assumed. Mary thought he was Blackbeard.”

The man had introduced himself solely as the manager of the famed restaurant.

“He wasn’t Blackbeard.” Ed sounded firm in the revelation. Stede wasn’t as sure.

“He wasn’t?”

Mary really had been excited to go to the restaurant. She had mentioned the place multiple times during the course of the relationship. As telling as anything else he did, Stede had only taken her after the divorce.

When they had caught wind of the man approaching their table - Crisp white dress shirt, sharp black vest, a salt-and-pepper mane with a mostly peppered short-shaven beard - Mary had leaned across the table. In a whisper, she informed him of the manager’s identity and had scoffed at Stede’s ignorance in the same breath.

That must be the infamous Blackbeard. Stede, he’s the most well-known celebrity chef in this entire country, possibly the world. How haven’t you heard of him? Apparently, he salts his crème brûlée with the tears of his employees.

Stede had struggled to wipe off the look of distaste that had appeared at Mary’s words before the man reached the table.

“No.”

Ed, mouth no longer full of confection and thus with no excuse not to respond, simply pursed his lips. Obviously there was no intention to elaborate.

“Oh. Just as well. His beard was more gray than black. It would’ve been false advertising otherwise. But he was very polite, a nice man. A very nice man, actually. Almost-Almost too nice? He treated us as if we were some sort of celebrity.”

Ed’s smile was sudden and wicked.

“You said it yourself. You're quite well f*cking known in your homeowner’s association.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? But even despite that, it was strange.”

“What was?”

“Well, our entire meal was covered. He said that it was the honor of the restaurant. Mary was rather impressed.”

She really was. It had only somewhat softened the blow of the reason they had gone out to dinner to begin with. Mary was checking in on him. Was worried about him. Four years after the divorce and all Stede had to show for it was two small business awards.

Bonnet’s Bakery really felt like more of a medium-sized business to him.

After the marriage ended, Mary had found Doug. Stede, on the other hand, had found dough. In her mind, that wasn’t enough. Or rather, in the mind of the neighborhood. Some rather vicious rumors had been swirling amongst their usual circles about the simple baker. Tales of a firm grip on a bottle and a family legacy of alcoholism to back it up. It was nothing new to Stede but apparently there had been other talk, even nastier than that - Enough that Mary had taken it upon herself to step in.

She had offered a hand of support. Literally. It was embarrassing, and Stede didn’t know how to kindly refuse it without sounding like the misdirected addict they were painting him as. Then Mary had offered something more.

You’ve received the invite for the Badminton’s Spring Soiree, right?

Right. I’m not sure if I can make it. Spring is a busy season for the bakery and-

Stede, I want you to go.” Her tone had been firm. Stede recognized it as the tone she had used when asking for the divorce. This offer seemed to be along the same lines.

Come with me and Doug. Show them that everything is fine. That you are not who they say you are.

Dinner being covered by the management of Blackbeard’s - For a reason Stede could not pinpoint, homeowner's notoriety or no - really seemed to impress her. She had leaned back in her chair. Looked over him again, as if appraising one of her art pieces. Almost as if she had bought into what they had said about him too and was just now realizing otherwise.

She didn’t bring up the Badminton’s yearly show of wealth event again. Stede hadn’t been able to figure out why this was such a cause of concern for her to begin with. At least, not until hours had passed and he was laying alone in bed, stubbornly refusing the itching urge to break out the wine.

If Stede really were the cruel, alcoholic that their neighbors were so eager to portray him as, then that would change Mary’s perception as well. Her role would forcibly shift from the powerful, business-conscious, self-taught and critically acclaimed painter, to the much more common role of the victim. Accolades would be tinged with pity.

It stung just a little bit to admit, but there was no other reason for Mary to care what their society was saying about Stede. He hardly appeared in the neighborhood these days, other than to seemingly embarrass himself at the various functions.

He would show face at the Badminton’s; Stede owed Mary that much. But him and his bakery would be damned if he strolled up as the third wheel to his ex-wife and her new paramour. If he went alone, however, that would only stack the ammunition to be used against him. It was one of many paradoxes of Stede Bonnet's life.

Stede needed someone to come with him. Someone inscrutable. Someone so mysterious that there would be nothing but rumors about him. Someone who wasn’t Lucius - He had tried that once, it hadn’t ended well. Although Lucius had been able to secure a sugar daddy, so it wasn’t a complete loss.

Stede’s thoughts from the previous nights rushed him again all at once, connecting to his current position and the conversation he was still having.

“Of course, that’s because she thought that he was Blackbeard and that I somehow knew him, but, between you and me, I don’t think I ever want to meet him.”

A bushy eyebrow lifted.

“Why not?”

“Something my-Mary, something Mary told me about the seasoning of certain desserts.”

A sound of disgust escaped Ed.“Did it have to do with a creme brulee?”

“Yes! Yes it did, how did you know that?”

Ed muttered something under his breath, too quiet for Stede to pick up. He only seemed to realize a moment later that he hadn’t answered the question.

“I’ve heard about that. About him. About Blackbeard.”

“Well, it was my first time ever hearing about the man, but I can’t say I was too impressed. It’s creative, I will give him that, but so cruel. I don’t think I could patronize his restaurant again if that is an indication of what I’d be supporting.”

Ed sat silent.

“Obviously, he’s never heard of a people-positive management style, right, Edward?”

“Forget about Blackbeard. About the restaurant. You’re right, the whole bloody place is arrogant.”

“Oh, you’ve been?”

Ed seemed keen not to answer any of his questions, but Stede failed to notice that once the man asked a question of his own.

“I want to show you what a real dinner is like. Not at a restaurant. My place. I owe you that. Remember the deal?”

Stede would be hard-pressed to forget, but his smile in response was taut. In those few moments, he had concocted another plan to cash in the exchange. Instead of a dinner, Stede was going to try and convince Ed to accompany him to the Badminton’s party the following weekend.

It was a stretch. It was ridiculous. It was the only way Stede was going to make it to that party. And it would’ve worked too, Stede knew it would, because Ed seemed so determined to pay back any debts.

But the temptation to see where Edward lived, to click into place another piece of the puzzle, was just as strong.

“Yes. I remember the deal.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you in the next couple of weeks?”

There was a heavy stone settling on Stede’s chest, even as he agreed to the date and time of the dinner, as he imagined what type of talk his solitary appearance would spur on, how he might react to it.

The ringing of the bell as Ed walked out the door sounded melancholy, as if confirming his fate.

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen: Blogger

Chapter Text

Despite every passing day marking him one step closer to his inevitable, but still rather untimely, death, Stede was excited. His death would be, at least slightly, tragic, but there seemed no way around it. Either he would show up alone at the Badminton’s party and be strangled by the - surprisingly strong - grip of his ex-wife, or the embarrassment of showing up in tow with said ex and her new lover would kill him as soon as they reached the front steps.

Regardless, Stede was certain he would not be surviving the night of the Badminton’s Spring Soiree.

That’s why he was so determined to enjoy his and Ed’s own private dinner.

Stede used that same reasoning to explain why it had taken him nearly an hour to select the wine they would share - From his own private reserve, of course, in the mansion’s cellar. Thirty minutes in, Edward had finally responded to his text about what they were eating.

(Cornish Hens, as if Ed were Stede’s own personal wish fulfillment.)

((Stede still wasn’t quite sure his own mind hadn’t taken pity on itself and hallucinated Ed all this time.))

Eventually, he was able to confidently settle on a delectable cab sauv, Screaming Eagle’s vintage 2006 . It would be quite suitable for the protein rich meat, and besides anything else, Stede was counting on some liquid courage. He had decided that if all went well, he would ask Ed to accompany him to the Badminton’s anyway.

The decision was bolder than the wine clutched in Stede’s hand as he stood outside Ed’s apartment door, waiting patiently for the man to let him in.

The wine had ended up being the only selection Stede was certain of. Every other possible aspect - From his outfit to the street parking spot he had chosen - had been second-guessed, and then triple and quadruple guessed for good measure.

For instance, his sweater - Cashmere blend, ribbed rollneck, cuffs and hem, cream in color - while at first had seemed a perfect mix of casual formality, now felt suffocating and obscene, and he still wasn’t sure if his Brunello Cucinelli wouldn’t have been a better pick instead. His shoes - Wyatt leather, while stylish, screamed impractical. What if there was a fire? Stede would need to run, something he hadn’t done in ages, and the Chelsea boots wouldn’t cut it. That wasn’t to mention the parking space: Right over a puddle. If the fire didn’t ruin his shoes, then the water certainly would.

And while Stede had arrived nearly forty-five minutes early in a blind panic, certain that all this delayed decision-making had caused him to be late, he had sat in his car for thirty of those minutes, simply sweating. This, of course, left absolutely no time to go back home and change. He was impossibly close to canceling the whole thing altogether and drinking the cabernet alone in the dark as god intended, but the thought of all the effort Ed must have gone to stalled his hand.

That same stalled hand had been unable to knock on the door for an additional five minutes, but finally, heart loudly beating somewhere around his throat, Stede had signaled his arrival.

It was a few minutes before Ed was able to make it to the door. The pleasant greeting Stede had practiced several times in the mirror that night died unspoken on his lips as Edward invited him inside with a brief nod of his head. It wasn’t just the lack of words that threw Stede off, but the stormy expression that was paired with them.

Stede realized in a moment he had overdressed. His dinner partner was the epitome of casual with no formality in sight - The same black jeans and hoodie that Stede had seen him in twice before.

He felt a sharp stab of embarrassment make itself known low in his stomach. At least he hadn’t worn the vest.

As Ed ignored his stuttered greeting and led him inside his apartment, Stede was struck with a dizzying sense of déjà vu. He realized what it was only when Ed, still wordless, disappeared into the kitchen.Between the outfit and the attitude, Edward was acting quite similar to how it had been when they first met. Well, not quite first, but the meeting after the drunken one.

And Stede had no idea why.

The only exchange the pair had had with each other that day had been Ed’s relinquishing of his address and Stede’s innocent query into what they were eating, which had been in service of the wine, no less. The week prior had been filled with texts and calls alike - All of them seemingly positive, as indicated by the fact that they continued day after day.

Stede was clueless as to what could have possibly caused this regression in attitude, but he struggled not to overthink it. Perhaps it was simple hunger, or Edward’s own sort of nerves - Although, in the moment, as Stede heard from the kitchen the sound of dishes angrily being clattered together, the man didn’t seem quite capable of possessing such vulnerability.

With hesitant movements, Stede - Bottle of wine still clutched in his hand as if a shield - made his way around the living room.

It was certainly a nice apartment; new-looking furniture and appliances, a clean and well-kept space, but that didn’t seem too hard a feat. The residence - At least what Stede could see of it so far - was stark and bare. A leatherette sofa off to the side with a mounted TV in front of it took up the most space. Besides that, there was no artwork on the walls, no framed pictures of any family members and friends. The furnishings were all black - Even the dining room table where Stede assumed they would have their meal.

He could not be sure, as there were no place settings.

Stede shuddered, aware of a sudden chill in the air. Perhaps the sweater had been the right choice after all.

Tentatively, he crept his way around the corner into the kitchen, which continued to uphold the minimalist aesthetic. Black granite countertops, black wooden cabinets. White tile flooring, which was a nice contrast, but still. Stede watched as his host tore through the kitchen like a tornado, flipping meat that was sizzling in a pan on the stove in one moment and popping a bun out from an industrial toaster oven the next.

The reason why the clattering of the dishes had sounded so angry was because Ed seemed to be fairly angry, as he carelessly tossed dirtied utensils into the wide metal sink.

It took Stede a moment to find his courage before speaking up.

“Do you need any help, Edward? I can set the table if you’d like to point me in the direction of the-”

“No.”

“-Plates.” Stede finished, rather lamely.

“Don’t bother. I have paper plates right here.”

“Okay. Would you like-”

“What do you have there?”

Ed’s tone was sharp, as if Stede were an uninvited guest intruding on a private event. That’s often how he felt at the neighborhood events, and Stede wasn’t fond, was even resentful, of the familiar panic he felt creeping up. He might even have made that resentment known if that feeling wrapping its way around his throat like an allergic reaction stopped sabotaging any attempt Stede made at speaking.

It was a simple question that had managed to sound like an accusation. Stede resisted the urge to hide the wine behind his back, as if he were a child caught stealing.

“It’s um-It is a wine that I had picked out for the evening. Screaming Eagles. Have you heard of-” Ed’s stare turned withering; Stede’s question died on his lips and he struggled to continue. “I’ve-I was told in good faith that it pairs very well with poultry and-”

“I didn’t make the hens.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Disappointed?”

“No, not at all, though I would have loved to see your take on the dish.”

“Sure you would have.”

“What are we-”

“Hamburgers.”

There was a short silence, filled only by the movement of Ed turning his attention back to the frying meat.

Despite the tension, Stede smiled. He had made one good decision after all.

“How lucky! Cabernet is paired with red meat all the time. And it smells delicious. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a good hamburger. Would you like a glass of wine while you wait?”

Ed did not respond to the question. Instead, with resolute motions, he saved the final patty from the hot pan, sliding it off onto a plate filled with other circles of ground beef. He turned the stove off, still not looking at Stede, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of the man he had invited over for dinner.

Stede noticed that his host’s hand was tightly gripping the counter. He feared for the marble.

“Go ahead.” Ed growled. “I know what you came here for. Ask your question.”

Stede stood there, stricken. Now he was the one that could not make eye contact, staring instead at the grease still bubbling in the pan, the dishes piled in the sinks, the label of the wine bottle held in his sweaty grip. The fingers of the unoccupied hand had started a very slight nervous tremor.

“How did you-”

“Ask the bloody question.”

Despite that feeling of agitation boiling inside his chest, Stede was getting a little miffed that his inquiries kept on being cut off. How was he supposed to ask a “bloody question” if it kept on being interrupted?

Obviously it wasn’t worth asking Ed to the party at all, if he took this much offense to Stede showing up to a dinner he had been invited to. Still, he saw no way around it. Desperately wishing for a glass of wine to at least attempt to settle his nerves, Stede took a deep breath and charged forward.

“Would you like to accompany me to a party at my neighbor’s next weekend?”

Eye contact. Finally.

“What?”

“I said would you like to-”

“No, I heard you.”

Another question interrupted. Stede promised himself he would bring it up the next time it happened.

“You said yourself that you are very busy so I understand if you can’t. It’s a party for the neighborhood. I didn’t want to spring it on you. I thought maybe after dinner - Well, anyway,” Stede was rambling and it was embarrassing, so this time he cut himself off.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you invite me?”

Stede felt his stomach gurgle. He hadn’t eaten the whole day in preparation for the Cornish hens. He would just as gladly take a hamburger. Or a glass of liquefied grapes. Unfortunately, Edward’s interrogative stare was keeping him frozen where he stood.

He decided that a death by starvation might be worse than one by honesty, if only marginally, so Stede returned the unblinking gaze.

“Because I have been told that it would be rather humiliating for me to show up alone, again. And because I think that I would enjoy your company more than anyone else attending. And because it crosses a weird line when you invite one of your employees. And also, neither of them wanted to come anyway. Wine?”

Edward himself was frozen for only a moment before turning around to one of the many cabinets and retrieving two rock glasses.

“I don’t have wine glasses.”

“I would take a bowl at this point.”

Despite the strange atmosphere that had permeated the entire evening, despite the fact that Stede was certain Edward was furious at him, despite the fact that Stede didn’t know why, his host laughed. It was a brief laugh, more of a bark than anything, but it seemed to dispel some of the rigidity in Ed’s stance, some of the quiver in Stede’s fingers.

The nervous tremor fully dissipated around the time Stede had finished his first glass of wine - About fifteen seconds after he had poured it. Edward’s was downed around the same time.

“How did you know I was going to ask that? Did Lucius tell you?”

“No. I don’t know who Lucius is.”

“Oh. Well then how did you find out?”

“I didn’t. I had no idea you were going to ask me that.”

Stede felt as if the wine he had - rather impolitely - gulped down now wanted to make a secondary appearance.

“Are you hungry?” Ed asked, as if the entire point of this evening had not been dinner.

“Um…Yes.”

It was a unique set-up. Ground beef burgers, slightly melted slices of cheddar cheese laid on top, neatly sliced lettuce, onions and tomatoes sandwiched in between regular, white buns, and all of this presented on a thin paper plate. Stede could not remember the last time he ate with disposable tableware.

They had moved to the dining room, but even their placement was informal; Ed sitting at the chair closest to the door, Stede sitting across from him.

Stede didn’t know how to pick up from where they left off, so instead he poured himself another serving. It had also been quite some time since he had drunk wine in anything other than its intended glass...Or the bottle itself.

The last time he had finished off a bottle in a rock glass had been a darker time in his life indeed - Something he considered rather twistedly ironic considering the past few weeks. Still, the memory seemed mellow in comparison to the way Ed was frowning down at his dinner now. Maybe Stede would have more courage to ask what he did wrong after dinner. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but at least his stomach would be full.

So he gripped the burger with two hands on either side and he took a polite bite. And then, he let out a little moan of satisfaction as he chewed.

Ed whipped his head up and stared once more, eyes widening at the man in front of him.

“What the f*ck was that?”

Stede started choking on his hamburger. It was a theatrical affair; he began coughing, pounding on his chest to release the mashed up bit of meat and bread, waving off Ed’s attempts to help him. After a few moments he was finally able to force the food down, hastily swallowing a few more gulps of wine to speed up the process.

When he had recovered enough airflow to talk, Stede took it upon himself to apologize.

“I’m terribly sorry, I was just - Well, it was so good! I know you’re a chef but I wasn’t expecting it to be so delicious. Not that I doubted your skills, just with everything going on-I didn’t mean to make that sound. It was involuntary…”

Stede trailed off. The man in front of him was smiling. No, there was a smug element to it. Ed was smirking, as if Stede had lost a bet.

And Stede, as always, could not help but smile back.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Ed went back to glaring at his own hamburger.

Stede, reluctantly, set down his meal.

“Edward.” The call wasn’t a question, it was a prompt, and it worked as intended. The chef in question raised his gaze once more.

“How was your day?”

It was Ed’s turn to ask the question.

“What?”

“How was your day? It is clear to me that something has been bothering you and even if I was the one that caused it, I want to hear about it. So, how was your day?”

Ed’s forehead wrinkled in confusion, as if he couldn’t understand the question Stede was asking. It distracted Stede for a moment. When Ed wasn’t frowning, those deep lines were dormant. The lack of them made the man appear younger and less suspicious. As soon as they were triggered, however, they overtook his entire expression.

When Ed frowned or glared or even questioned anything, he looked angry. He looked mean.

But Stede didn’t think he was either of those things, not genuinely.

“You didn’t bother me.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Stede tried to hide his relief, breathing a reassured sigh into his wine. He couldn’t wait to ask the obvious follow-up question.

“So what did?”

The lines deepened. Ed pondered for a moment before answering the question.

“A…blogger.”

He assembled the words as if they didn’t belong together. Stede took another bite of his hamburger, if only to prevent himself from asking a dozen more follow-up questions.

“A blogger.” Edward repeated, as if solidifying the words. “Yeah. This f*cking moron of a wanna-be reporter wrote some piece on Bl-” He cut himself off, “-On me. It was stupid. He didn’t say anything that hasn’t been said before. And I’ve never cared about what some dumbass wants to say about me. They make up their own sh*t, the rumors f*cking make themselves.”

Ed’s grip on his glass, now devoid of wine, was tight.

Stede tried to urge Edward on with his own sympathetic smile. It was difficult to do around the burger in his mouth, so he hastily swallowed another bite.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ed. I am familiar with those types of fabrications myself. But let me ask you, if it’s never bothered you before, why now?”

Edward took his own bite. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the hamburger as much as Stede was.

“Who f*cking knows. I don’t.”

“You don’t know why?”

“No, I just, I’ve never cared who thought what about me.”

There was a rush of envy in Stede’s chest that might have just been the second glass of wine making itself known.

“Keep it that way, Ed! I mean it, truly. I-Well, I spend far too much time and money on what people think about me.”

“Like the people at this neighborhood party?”

Stede’s smile was strained. There was no more hamburger left to hide behind.

“Exactly like the people at this neighborhood party.”

Ed raised an eyebrow. “Your neighborhood doesn’t seem like the judgmental type. Other than that one Olive Garden waiter.”

Stede shook his head. “Not that neighborhood. I don’t actually live in the bakery. I barely spend any nights there. Believe me, the type I’m referring to are much worse than our Olive Garden waiter. They might even be worse than your blogger.”

“Eh, f*ck them then.”

Less strain. “Quite.”

An hour later, a hamburger later, the end of the cab sauv later, Stede had finally worked up the courage to ask another question.

“What did you expect me to ask?

They had migrated to the leather couch, which was more comfortable than it looked; Stede was willing to forgive its faux origin, if only for the moment. They were facing each other, in the same way the whiskey bottle they had moved on to stared at them accusingly from the coffee table. Stede’s mind was only slightly fuzzy, familiar and in a way he quite enjoyed.

Edward threw his head back with a groan, and in doing so his position on the couch shifted so that his body was that much closer to Stede’s own.

Stede’s head suddenly felt clear.

“I thought you were going to ask about the-” His response faltered for just a second. “-The blog. I assumed you saw it.”

Stede marveled at how cold Ed had been before dinner, obviously affected by what had been written about him, and at how different the man was now. Still, he was eager to reassure him.

“I’m afraid I’m not very ‘plugged in’ as it were. Any blogs I might follow have to do with baking techniques and they said not a peep. Besides, you said the writer of this piece was a want-to-be reporter! I’m sure no one even read what he wrote.”

Ed responded around a large swallow of whiskey.

“Sure.” He sounded neither convinced nor comforted.

Stede asked his next question hesitantly, as if approaching a wild animal.

“What did the blogger say about you?”

“He said the same thing you did.”

It was a good thing that they had finished dinner; Stede might have choked again otherwise

“What did I say? Oh no, Edward, I apologize. I never meant to say anything that might have-”

Ed was cackling sad*stically, but in the moment he also was touching him, his hand pressed against Stede’s shoulders as if to steady the man, despite himself shaking with laughter.

“Stede, Stede, calm down, I’m just joking, mate. Well, kind of.”

The concession did nothing to ease Stede’s panic.

“Ed, tell me what the blogger said. Right now.”

The pressure on his shoulder tightened.

“He said the usual sh*t. That I’m a fake leather man wearing cheap fabric.”

“I’m-I’m not sure I quite said that-”

“Well, he’s right, isn’t he? So were you. I didn’t even know my sh*t wasn’t real leather. I ought to thank you.”

Stede regretted the nickname. “Don’t listen to him. Don’t listen to me! Except - Well, as it turns out, real leather is more environmentally friendly, so perhaps it is worth the investment-”

“It’s not about the leather, Stede. I mean, it is a little bit. I didn’t know that. Whatever. Point is, people create their own twisted picture of me and then get pissed off when I fit the photo.”

Ed’s hand was burning a hole where it had landed and the only thing Stede could feel was resentment for his imbecilic sweater.

“What else did he say?” And Stede hated himself for asking the question, because it caused Edward to remove his hand as he sat back and looked at his guest.

“You want the full think piece?”

“Yes.”

“I lack culture. Style. Savoir-Faire. I lack everything that might mark me as worthwhile. Thank f*ck I can cook, I guess. Nothing he said was a lie. I didn’t even know what savoir-faire was, I had to ask Izzy." Ed's voice was incredibly bitter, unpalatable. "‘His ignorance and brutishness is part of the appeal, but it never fully satisfies,’ if you wanted a full quote.”

The hot blaze of indignation replaced Stede’s want for the previous heat he had just been deprived of.

“Disregard everything he said, Edward. It’s nonsense, completely sententious.”

“Sententious? Yeah, you’re kind of proving my point here, Stede.”

“I’m being serious, Ed. That’s exactly what those upper-crust types do, I’ve seen it myself. I’ve-I’ve lived it myself! They beat you to the ground with their passive aggressiveness and snide comments just to have someone to look down on. They don’t know you, not really. They don’t care about your passions or your wants or your fears.” Stede’s voice was fierce, fevered, as if he could convince Ed through fervor alone.

“Don’t let them dictate who you are. They don’t deserve to decide that. Besides, they make it so that you can never live up to their own distorted perception of you. You just hurt yourself trying.”

Inexplicably, Stede thought of his ex-wife. He thought of his own hypocrisy in giving such advice.

“Or you hurt others.”

Edward fell silent, taking particular interest in the final swallow of amber liquid swirling around in his glass. Stede’s own was still full, joining the bottle on the coffee table, the drink so much harsher than his usual indulgence.

“So, a neighborhood party then?”

Stede tried not to wince. His face contorted nonetheless.

“Yes. Filled with people just like your bloggers.”

“Hm. Drinks?”

“Copious amounts.”

“Food?”

“Not as good as yours.”

“Anything to look forward to?”

Stede thought about it for a moment. If Ed made the reasonable decision to not step foot anywhere close to Nigel’s massive property, then the answer would be a very easy no.

“Um, sticking it to the bloggers and the Badmintons alike?”

Ed seemed to be suppressing a smile, his tone softer now. Stede drank it all in. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“I’m not sure. By pretending to be happy? That always seemed to make them rather mad when I was younger.”

“Pretending to be happy. That’s quite the plan. And you’ll be there, at this neighborhood party?”

Stede grimaced. “All night.”

His host’s smile was full-blown now. Stede’s attention was drawn to more lines on the man’s face, but not the deep, angry ones that earlier had so contorted his expression into one of disdain. These were less marked, appearing en masse at the corner of his eyes, the edge of his lips.

“I guess I won’t have to pretend then.”

Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen: Executive Chef

Chapter Text

Stede had left the bakery in the very capable hands of Oluwande and the consistently capricious ones of Lucius.

The Bonnet himself of Bonnet’s Bakery was nowhere to be seen in the small town neighborhood on what felt like a fateful, if cloudy, afternoon.

There was no reason to be - The shops Stede wanted to patron were all a little more…haut monde then his bakery’s humble little town could claim. Ross and Marshalls were all well and good - He assumed; he hadn’t actually ever walked in, but he could only imagine they had been named after fine, upstanding gentlemen. Regardless, the last in-person conversation Edward and him had together meant that today called for something more than just a routine shopping trip.

That night at the dinner in Ed’s apartment, Stede had given into the ambience, the surprisingly comfortable couch, even, and eventually, the whiskey - Together, they had gone through nearly half of the bottle. Liquor always had a different effect on him than wine did. It wasn’t Stede’s first encounter with its excess; however, past experience had taught him to stay away from it.

Some of his worst nights post-divorce had been spent in the company of a myriad of alcohol, whiskey being a familiar accompaniment. When it had reached the point where Oluwande had first been compelled to awkwardly inquire about his well-being, Stede had shakily managed to secure a handle on it. No, wine was easier for all parties involved. Lower-alcohol content, antioxidant properties - Red wine could be considered a health boon, even. He had really turned around what could have been a terrible dependance.

He didn’t tell Edward any of this, of course, but he thought about it for a moment when asked by his host whether or not he was going to finish his glass.

Stede was nothing if not a gracious guest.

Besides, his past was soon forgotten when Ed leaned into him with a pained expression.

Edward had one leg outstretched, resting on a matching black ottoman, Stede with his own legs curled up beside him. They weren’t facing each other, not technically, but Ed’s entire body seemed to be inclining towards Stede. Stede was aware of his own as it felt pulled in by that same orbit.

It was difficult for him to focus on anything other than the hint of warmth urging him to push himself closer. He wanted his legs pressed against Ed’s side. He wanted to rest his hand against Ed’s chest. But it was the whiskey propelling such compulsions, and he knew that.

Stede had become very adept at repressing those urges after the first few voicemails he had left his sparse contacts list. There would be nothing but awkward apologies and avoided eye contact and he couldn’t stand the thought of going through that ritual again, not with Edward.

It had been a while since Stede had indulged in anything stronger than wine, however, and he could feel the liquor providing its own warmth deep in his stomach. It would have to do.

“I-Uh, I’m sorry for the way I acted tonight. And for the burgers.”

Stede had never been on this side of an awkward apology before. It felt so strange, this offering, this penance.

“Whyever would you apologize for dinner? It was delicious. Good enough to rival Blackbeard’s if I do say so myself. And - Well, please don’t tell my last dinner partner this but,” (The whiskey was loosening Stede’s tongue, but was he to deny it everything?) “I rather enjoyed the company better this time around as well.”

His words didn’t seem to console Edward very much.

“I was a piece of sh*t jerk. And I have the uncooked hens in my fridge to prove it. f*ckin’ stupid of me.”

“Edward, please-”

Stede loved the way the man’s full name sounded on his tongue, as naturally as if it belonged there.

“I would say I can’t believe I acted like that but actually, I knew sooner or later I would.” Ed shook his glass, clinking the ice cubes together. “'t’s why I have no friends.”

“Well, that’s just false, Edward. I am your friend. And as your friend, I’m telling you that that burger was the best dinner I’ve had in years. I wouldn’t have traded it for three Michelin stars.”

Ed was glaring at him now. “Take the apology this time, Stede.”

“I will not, Edward, but…I will accept an explanation.”

Ed huffed loudly, but after a moment the glare softened. Stede tried not to show so openly how it made him feel.

“I think an apology would be easier. 'sides, I basically told you all of it. That reporter got in my head. I’ve never been the fancy, rich type.”

“You do realize that’s not a bad thing, Edward? I don’t believe even the fancy, rich types want to be themselves.”

Edward groaned, and Stede wasn’t sure if it was the admonition or his own movement, as he shifted his leg off the ottoman, leaning forward to grab the bottle. To Ed’s credit, he seemed to be showing no signs of either the wine or the whiskey, at least not in the ways Stede knew he showed his insobriety: heavy-lidded eyelids, pink-tinged cheeks, generous smiles. Only later would the rambling speeches, stumbling steps and the inexplicable inability to hold onto his glass appear. If Stede somehow found himself in public right now, he’d be steadily approaching the phase where his drunken self gave away all the cash in his wallet.

No, Edward’s gaze was firm and clear, and there was no shaking as he refilled his glass.

“I want to know what it’s like to be them.” His tone was low, as if he were embarrassed to admit it. A shameful secret. “At least once, to see what it’s like being more than what they think I am.”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Stede couldn’t follow his line of thinking.

“What can they possibly think about you that’s so outrageous? That you’re too-too devoted to your work, so much so that you won’t even take a vacation? Or that your beard defines your face too well? Or that you haven’t been on vacation in years?”

“Mate, you’re losing it.”

“I’m afraid I simply don’t understand it. I don’t think I can understand it. I don’t think I want to-”

“Stede.” Very suddenly, there was a hand on Stede’s knee. A strong, comforting grip. Between the alcohol and the slight pressure Ed was exerting, Stede’s train of thought didn’t stand a chance.

“It’s fine. I’m used to sh*t like this and more. Besides, anything they say about me isn’t wrong. I didn’t grow up with money or anything close to it. I’ve worked in the industry for twenty-five years and I still don’t know why there’s so many goddamn forks. It’s f*cking embarrassing.”

Stede struggled to follow. “Forks, yes.”

“Or the difference between ascots and cravats.” His tone sounded almost wistful.

Stede's mouth suddenly felt dry. He moistened it with another swallow of whiskey, barely even wincing this time around, but the expression caused Ed to remove his hand.

“It doesn’t really matter. Forget it. I don’t give a sh*t about what they say and I never will.” Ed’s expression changed when he said that, as if he had pulled a mask down over his face. Perhaps Stede could recognize it because he so often donned his own mask.

Or perhaps he was projecting again.

It didn’t matter. Maybe it was because Stede was drunk or because he wasn’t drunk enough, or it was simply because Stede knew better than anyone else how consuming that urge to belong could be, how scathing the rejection, how devastating the feeling afterwards, but he wasn’t going to let this go.

“What if we go shopping?”

Stede hadn’t meant for that to be the grand proposition. No, Stede had wanted to impart on Ed that caring about what people think is not inherently a bad thing, and neither is change, and that going against expectations just for the sake of doing so is the same thing as fulfilling them just for the sake of doing so, and that at the end of it all, the only person whose opinion matters is your own self.

Then, to offer a solution, he had come up with the idea to go out with Edward, introduce him to the establishments Stede himself tended to frequent and help him dip his toe into the, admittedly complex, atmosphere of the rich, fancy types.

It was a fine idea, and rather good advice - Excellent even. Of course, it was all theoretical, because Stede had never employed it himself, and it was that realization that had caused the words to jam together in his throat, a senseless amalgamation of self-help garbage and a teenager’s proposition to go to the mall.

It was clear Edward didn’t understand the offer. He looked at Stede with an expression of confusion and general suspicion - Not that he could really be blamed for that. It was a suspicious proposal.

“What I mean by that is, um, well, we should…shop. We could get you an ascot or-or a cravat, whichever you end up preferring. And a leather ensemble that will put them all to shame. Last season I saw a crocodile piece that was rather enticing but I truly don’t believe I could pull it off like you could.”

Ed’s tone was laden with disbelief. “You really want to go shopping?”

“Edward,” The liquor was truly fueling his actions now, but Stede placed a hand on Ed’s arm and squeezed, trying to convey his earnest.

“There is never a moment where I would not want to go shopping.”

It had taken a while more to convince Ed regardless and Stede wasn’t confident that he had been successful, even after the night had ended. That is, until he had walked outside his bakery and a repeat image greeted him: A rusty pick-up truck idling next to a fire hydrant.

It was a perfect image this time around; the truck was illegally parked, yes, but not touching the hydrant. A complete win, in Stede’s book. And to complete the perfection, there was Edward, smiling down on him from the driver’s seat.

“You know, I’ve never ridden in a vehicle of this sort before. It’s so exciting!”

They were well on their way out of town and back into the city where Ed lived, and Stede had told a modest truth. Pre-divorce, it was a rare occasion for Stede to drive anywhere himself. That was why chauffeurs existed, afterall. Stede had offered to drive in, but Edward had refused without providing a reason. Maybe he wanted to pick Stede up, or he wanted to guarantee the presence of pastries before they left.

(Of which there were, obviously.)

Ed smirked at him, which provided a funny looking expression, since his mouth was full of danish.

Stede continued, “I suppose that means this is a new experience for us both!”

His companion was comfortable behind the wheel, only needing one hand to navigate the multiple lanes of highway. Ed could have been mistaken for a truck driver, Stede couldn’t help but think to himself. The man was clad in faded jeans, a nondescript black t-shirt with his usual jacket covering that (and covering his arms, Stede noted with disappointment). The outfit was topped off with a blue baseball cap, a sports logo Stede couldn’t recognize displayed on the front, and black sunglasses, despite the cloudy day. His hair had been pulled back into a low bun.

Stede had attempted not to find himself as overdressed as he had been the night of the dinner - Although it was hard to upstage Edward in that regard. His outfit was simple, however, for more reason than one. The collared, twill shirt was soft and breathable, but also pliable, easy to remove. His gabardine trousers had only a simple button to undo.

These were necessary accommodations when clothes shopping; there was nothing more annoying when trying on outfits than having to shed layer after layer. Ed obviously subscribed to that same notion.

Of course, usually Stede had no need to try on clothes. The establishments they were going to today already had his measurements - All Stede normally did was stand and point and he’d make formal acquaintances with the pieces, then tailored, in the comfort of his own home. But really, there was a sort of pageantry with the whole affair, and since this was new to Ed, Stede didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable by being the only one.

Not that Stede needed a good reason to shop.

“So, where do you tend to get your clothes from?”

“I don’t. If I need an outfit for something it’s usually provided.”

“That’s certainly convenient, but where’s the fun in that? What of that leather ensemble I first saw you in, where did that come from?”

“Izzy chose that for me years ago.”

There was no further elaboration, as there never seemed to be upon any mention of this Izzy character. He was Edward’s “work partner”, sure, but his reach seemed to extend far past that. Stede yearned to know more but was reluctant to breach. At any moment, Edward might decide to revert back to that other persona, the one he had exhibited at dinner, and Stede wasn’t sure he’d be able to bear it a second time around.

Still, he’d be quite reluctant indeed to be the Doug in someone’s relationship.

Ha. Imagine. Stede Bonnet being the catalyst for someone ending their relationship. He could dream, but much like the image of Stede Bonnet dressed all in leather, it wasn’t likely to manifest in real life.

“Well, I certainly envy you for being able to fit into an outfit from years ago. Do you wear it-Um, often?”

Stede hoped the question didn’t come across as strange as it sounded leaving his mouth, didn’t offend Ed the way his last inquiry about leather had. He had meant it genuinely, the twin images of Ed gracing the bakery in such an outfit at the forefront of his mind. It was always fun to come up with reasons to get all done-up, but even Stede might have trouble concocting an excuse for wearing that particular outfit more than a few times.

“Yeah, I have to. It’s my uniform.”

That certainly added a different element to the already fantastical image of a leather-clad Edward. Stede tried to sneak a glance at the man driving next to him. They were well into the city by now.

“I didn’t realize chef de parties had leather as a fabric requirement.”

Edward scoffed. It caused Stede to fully look over, only to meet the man’s gaze this time around. Ed was looking at him in pure disbelief, and for longer than traffic laws could consider safe.

“Chef de partie? As f*cking if. Maybe twenty years ago. Try chef de cuisine.”

Stede may not have been the most well-versed in the industry but he wasn’t ignorant. Some of his favorite pastries had come from esteemed restaurants in France. If that weren’t enough, Ed’s offended tone gave away Stede’s mistake.

“Oh, executive chef, of course. And you even mentioned your sous chef, I don’t know why I assumed otherwise. Well, the leather threw me off a bit, if I’m being honest, but what do I know?”

Edward, thankfully, turned back to the road. Stede hoped he hadn’t truly angered the man. Another glance to the side showed him that the look of offense had softened. A slight lifting of the edge of his lips reassured him that, despite the protest, Ed seemed to find his mishap amusing.

“It’s not a big deal.” He confirmed. “I was a line cook once upon a time, who wasn’t?”

Stede had never been a line cook, but he didn’t think he needed to point that out. Like listing the calories in a carrot cake, it seemed unnecessary.

“I remember you saying that most of your work is done in a kitchen. I think I heard that and simply assumed you were strictly a cook. You must forgive my presumption.”

“I said it used to be in the kitchen, but close enough.”

“Well, I am familiar with being head manager of a food establishment. Although, I often find myself more in the kitchen, but I digress. Do you miss it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. They say cooking is hard-”

“It is hard. I think my lamb chops proved that.”

“No, it’s not. You’re just bad at it. Anyway, they say cooking is hard, but it really isn’t. Not compared to the other side.”

“The other side?”

“f*cking people, mate. No one even cares about the food, it’s like a stage act. Being seen inside the restaurant. Putting on a role. It’s a show. All the fun gets taken out of it.”

Stede could recognize the role he played in his own life’s performance.

“I suppose there must be some grace in only having it limited to one restaurant. My audience includes my home neighborhood. They are...scathing critics.”

“Yeah, one restaurant.” Edward’s gaze was cloudy and unfocused, a growing storm in his expression. Stede yearned to chase it away.

“I know it can be quite difficult, but try not to think about any of that today. Today has nothing to do with them. Today is all about-”

“Ascots?”

“I was going to say cravets, but yes.”

The storm cleared, if only temporarily. Ed was glancing at Stede once more out of the corner of his eye, leaving the cautious driver side of him grateful that they were pulling up to the center.

One surprised valet later, they were being ushered into one of Stede’s favorite clothing establishments. There had been many different options to choose from, and Stede had put as much thought into it as he had the dinner’s wine.

Should he start off simple and non-intimidating? This would be Edward’s first foray into the delightful world of men’s fashion, but it could be quite overwhelming. Would a personal associate be too obtrusive? But then, Stede didn’t think he had the arm strength to hold both Ed’s and his own clothing choices, of which there would be plentiful amounts, he was sure. Perhaps online shopping would be the best route...

Harrods, Mytheresa, Talbots, 24Sèvres, Target; the options were endless.

There was one aspect, revered above all else, that cinched the decision.

His name was Buttons.

Chapter 15: Chapter Fifteen: Neckwear

Chapter Text

Edward Teach was angry.

He just couldn’t decide why. Not that he didn’t know why. He couldn’t decide why. There were too many reasons to choose from.

For starters, the entire idea of Blackbeard going shopping was ridiculous.

This caricature of himself, the Blackbeard of mythic legend, wouldn’t be caught dead shopping. His pastimes stopped at his two occupations: cooking and screaming at his employees. Or, when feeling versatile, screaming at aspiring chefs for national television.

His agent had informed him many times over: Blackbeard could only be seen through a certain lens. Crashing into a fire hydrant fit the picture. Leaving a small town bakery with a smile did not. If the paparazzi found him - And they’d never had any trouble with that before - he’d be seeing himself in the headlines the next day. Ed could only grind his teeth at the thought of what might happen then.

He had been in the industry long enough to have a few guesses. The public would connect the dots. A scathing New Yorker article criticizing his barbarity, and the next people see of him, he’s buying ascots. Or cravats. Or whatever the f*ck. Scarves. It didn’t matter what, that new image would be a blow to his brand, to the established character that had been created - Something that Izzy and his agent continually reminded him would only hurt the upcoming opening of his latest restaurant.

It would show that Blackbeard cared what was thought about him.

Vulnerability would do nothing but cause his stock to drop.

The age old adage had been drilled into his head ever since he had opened his first dingy restaurant decades ago. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. His agent liked to spell it out even clearer: Bad publicity is good publicity.

The implication of that statement was always left unsaid, but it always came across louder, and at this point, Blackbeard knew it well.

In his case, good publicity was bad publicity.

Besides, that revealed the deeper problem. Why was Blackbeard shopping in the first place? He shouldn’t care what was thought of him, but not because of that sappy sh*t Stede had spewed, not because ‘his opinion is the only one that matters’. No, the reason should be because Blackbeard would never take people’s opinion into consideration.

When someone disrespected him, Blackbeard wouldn't get introspective, he would get revenge. His entire career had been built on the identity of his ferocity. This was the same celebrity chef that was rumored to have burned down his competitor’s restaurant - Which was only partially fair. He had never been linked to the scene, after all. Moreover, Jack had been the one to actually set it on fire.

When that frustratingly critically acclaimed journalist had published his op-ed, Blackbeard’s only reaction should have been to track down his address and have someone nameless threaten his wife and kids. When the jackass inevitably posted a terrified follow up opinion piece, that would have been the bad-good publicity his team always strived for.

The paparazzi wasn’t even his biggest worry. A worse outcome, although just as likely, would be a civilian recognizing Blackbeard. A hat and eyewear could only do so much; his characteristic tattoos and bushy facial hair had deemed him no Clark Kent. And if he were recognized, both his image and the day would be ruined in one fell swoop.

But that wouldn’t be the end of it. Because Blackbeard wasn’t the only one that people paid attention to. They also focused on anyone in his immediate vicinity, and in this case, that would be Stede Bonnet, the man he was stiffly following into what was sure to be his doom.

Stede Bonnet would be identified and ripped apart within days and the quiet life the baker had built for himself would be more than interrupted. It might get Bonnet’s Bakery more customers, sure, but only due to the revelation that Blackbeard actually frequented a disgustingly cozy and revoltingly charming place called Bonnet’s Bakery.

Blackbeard would never live it down.

And yet, none of those reasons were why he was angry.

But, as they finally approached through the golden automatic revolving doors of Stede’s chosen store and the man paused before entering, if only to turn around and smile reassuringly at Ed, he finally decided why.

He was angry because none of those reasons made him angry. They should have. There should have been enough incentive in those reasons to have Blackbeard booking it back to his ugly truck that he only drove every now and then anyways and ditching Stede Bonnet where he stood, then follow through on his original threat and burn down his bakery just for the hell of it. It’s what Blackbeard would have done, and he likely would have done it without a second thought.

The idea of it now made Ed sick.

And that was the whole point, wasn’t it. Stede hadn’t invited Blackbeard. He had invited Ed.

Edward.

And Edward couldn’t seem to follow through on any of his reasons to be angry.

Edward was tired of the lens he was viewed through.

The public, usually the exclusive, wealthy public, treated him like a sideshow act. Freakish and exciting and exotic to witness. A real treat, if only because his rage was never actually directed towards them. To be an onlooker during a Blackbeard blow-up was ranked #1 on Bon Appetit’s List of Reasons to Visit Blackbeard’s.

It was expected of him, and thus, more and more restaurant guests were disappointed at the namesake’s increasing absence. For now at least, there was more than enough footage of his appearances as a judge on cooking competition shows to satiate their lurid desires. But it wouldn’t last. Izzy had told him as much. It never did.

Edward wanted to be the type of person that could wear a goddamn ascot if he wanted to, and not have a dozen think pieces made about the decision.

(Oh, he could see the titles now: The Reformation of Blackbeard.)

Edward wanted to attend a neighborhood party - a party he had yet to tell Izzy about - like a normal f*cking person, arm-in-arm with someone whose company he could actually stand.

Edward wanted to be the person reading about the latest arson in the newspaper and not the one flicking the lighter. He hadn’t picked up a newspaper that he wasn’t mentioned in in years. Although, to be fair to himself, he hadn’t committed arson in years either. That was a staple of his past, when his first restaurant was in a different part of the city, and things were always, everything was always, difficult.

Things were still difficult now, but Edward didn’t feel like dealing with it anymore. He felt like buying a f*cking ascot and sipping tea with one elevated pinkie and skiing in the alps, if only to see what it was like.The one time he had gone to Switzerland was for a cooking competition he had been the judge of and he had burned his hand so badly he couldn’t hold a knife, much less a pole.

Finally, most importantly, Edward wanted to spend time at Bonnet’s Bakery. He wanted to sip a coffee and demolish baked goods and spend more time with Stede, even if it meant time spent past those freaky golden doors that Ed was pretty sure would continue spinning, even in the apocalypse.

If he had to threaten every single employee to keep his anonymity then so be it. One way or another, Edward was walking out of those f*cking doors with a type of neckwear.

Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen: Buttons

Chapter Text

Buttons was a man of few words.

With him, words weren’t necessary. He needed only a single glance, a stern look, to let Stede know that what he was considering was not the outfit of the summer.

Stede had only seen the man dressed in what he assumed was the establishment’s uniform: crisp white button-down with a contrasting black vest and suit trousers. The simple dress code belied the true knowledge hidden in Button’s all-knowing gaze. Another of the store’s personnel, Karl, had once whispered to Stede that the man’s name was an earned moniker; an overlooked accessory instrumental for any good outfit. And truly, Stede didn’t think his wardrobe would be half as successful without the quiet help.

Stede could tell Edward was nervous. He hadn’t taken off his dark sunglasses upon entering, nor his hat. Despite that, Stede was able to still somehow tell that Edward was staring daggers at Buttons as he greeted them. Perhaps a personal shopping assistant was too intense for a first-timer, but Stede truly believed he couldn’t do this without Buttons.

After all, he couldn’t both hold the clothes and pour the champagne.

After a little while and with more than a little bubbly, Edward had begun to relax. At least, that was how it appeared. The ceilings were high and vaulted, there was no possibility of claustrophobia standing beneath them. Several chandeliers hung overtop of them, large and ornate and bright. Marble floors shone underneath. The mannequins sparsely placed around the room displaying the season’s latest trends were rather slimmer than Stede remembered, but he tried not to focus on it too much.

No, today was for Edward.

Why else had Stede ensured the absence of any other patrons in the store?

Not that such means was even necessary. They had been led deep into the building, to a spacious room completely secluded. A plush couch, an octagonal gem coffee table and an icy condensated champagne bucket was waiting for them. Initially, however, only Stede was allowed to sit down. Edward was far too busy in Button’s trained hands, being measured and examined.

He didn’t seem overly pleased at the prospect.

“What is this, Stede? What are they doing?”

Ed's entire body was tense. He had removed the sunglasses and the hat, after multiple repeated requests, and Stede felt as if he might be resisting the urge to slap Button’s hands away. That wouldn’t end well for anybody.

“Taking your measurements, Edward. It’s an integral part of the process, I assure you. Think about it like this: Imagine you are the captain of a ship. Buttons here is your first mate.”

Ed stared at him. “That’s a random f*cking metaphor.”

“Fair enough. Hmm…Imagine then this is your kitchen. Buttons is your sous chef. He’ll be instrumental in assisting you.”

Edward didn’t outwardly support the allegory, but he did not deny it either. That was how Stede knew he understood.

“Yeah, what about the champagne, is that an integral part?”

“Extremely.” Stede took another sip before gesturing to Button, who sagely nodded his agreement.

“Why aren’t they taking your measurements then?” Ed’s voice sounded tetchy, a pout overtaking his expression. Stede smiled into the bubbles floating to the top of the flute.

“They already have my measurements.”

“Last year’s as well.”

“I’m going to try and ignore that, my dear Buttons.”

When the measurement taking was finally finished, along with the first bottle of champagne, Edward joined him on the couch. Now the fun part was to begin.

Well, almost. First Edward had to silence his cell phone, which was being absolutely besieged with notifications, both calls and texts. While he was busy turning the volume down, Stede checked his own phone.

The weather app cautioned a slight scattering of showers.

Soon enough though, Buttons began bringing out pieces for the pair to consider. Blouses, sweaters, turtlenecks, v-necks (Per Stede’s request), nightwear and everything else in between. Pants soon followed: Trousers, jeans, khakis that Stede - based on his current fashion - was certain Edward would never willingly wear. Sea Island Cotton, Vicuña wool, Mulberry Silk and Silk Velvet.

With every presented piece, Stede couldn’t help but run his fingers along the expertly sewn seams, the skill present under his touch. He encouraged Edward to do the same.

A swath of dyed muga silk, a scarlet ascot, was placed in Edward’s laps. As he held it in his hand, the delicate fabric gripped between his thumb and forefinger, there was a new look on his face. Stede couldn’t place it; it was soft, almost surprised in a way. His lips were slightly open, his eyes wide.

He looked over at Stede with that same stunned look, and he smiled, and Stede was certain in that moment that he wore it finer than any clothing.

A surge of heat rushed to the baker’s face. Hurriedly, he cleared his throat and stood up.

“Be warned, Ed. It’s not as easy as champagne and sitting. There’s a big aspect to take into consideration when it comes to fashion”

As if following suit, Edward drained the rest of his glass and stood up, the silk still clutched in his hand. He looked around the room a bit wildly, as if expecting an ambush.

“What’s that?”

“Pageantry.”

The pair had gone through enough clothing options for two, three whole pageants, complete with the endless amount of accessories that such outfits required: shoes, belts, cufflinks, scarves, hats - Even a monocle, although that had been at Ed’s request and he was maniacally giggling the whole time he wore it.

A few champagne bottles had been consumed alongside of course, to aid in the judging process. Stede had consumed enough that the world around him felt overwhelmingly grand and appealing. He found himself smiling often and without much prompt.

In the end, it had mostly been Stede conducting the judging. Ed seemed almost overwhelmed by the whole ordeal. Stede had been able to distinguish the man’s tells, however. The glancing away, as if he couldn’t stand to look at what was before him, meant that Ed really didn’t care for whatever shirt had been presented. The stare, eyes only slightly wider than usual, the quick gentle brushing, almost tentative, as if it would crumble beneath his fingers, meant that the article was going to end up in the shopping cart. Of course, it wasn’t actually a shopping cart. All the pieces would be tailored to Edward’s specific measurements, wrapped up in a charming cream ribboned package and sent to his apartment.

They had a very filled hypothetical shopping cart.

Edward had modeled many of them, and with little prompting Stede had a few times as well, but towards the end as they both tired of the exercise, the activity had simplified. As a Roman emperor gazing upon a bested gladiator might, the fate of the clothing was decided by Edward’s and Stede’s outstretched hand - an upturned thumb, a downturned thumb.

Stede would have assumed that Edward was a man of neutrals when it came to clothes - Certainly, the repeated black outfits he wore were supporting evidence. In actuality, many of the pieces Ed approved were...colorful. It was a good start to rival Stede’s own wardrobe.

“Well, Edward, you’ll never have to wear that leather get-up again if you don’t want to!”

Buttons was off in the back, secretly charging Stede’s account, just as he had instructed. They were both sitting down on the couch; Ed was wearing a hot pink silken bathrobe. Stede had on a chartreuse piece of his own. Edward’s hair had somehow become unleashed from its shackles and Stede wanted to tell him to never wear it pulled back again.

He was completely mindful of just how much space between them remained untaken.

Ed grinned and there was a smug quality to it that Stede thought suited the man quite well.

“I was thinking about that myself.”

Stede considered it for a moment. The image of Ed dressed fully in leather beckoned once more, as insistent as it had been the first night he saw him.

“Well, let’s not be hasty. You need not swear the style off completely. There are few people in this world who can pull off a leather jumpsuit. It can be a talent to show off.”

Ed simply snorted in disdain.

“I’ve done enough showing off. Whole time I was probably being laughed at for wearing pleather.”

“I can’t imagine anyone laughing at you, Edward. You’re so...”

“Scary?”

“Impressive, I was going to say.” Stede felt no urge to hide his smile. “Anyone who calls you scary hasn’t seen the way you look at pastries.”

Edward’s expression was one of confliction, as if he didn’t know whether or not to contest the description.

“Plenty of people call me scary.”

“Then they’re severely misguided.”

“I’ve literally been called a terror countless times.”

“A terror to a plate of croissants, I’m sure.”

“Stede-“

He waved him away.

“Ed, I know you have this whole image people like to maintain of you. Maybe that image includes wearing leather every single day of your life. You go along with it because it’s what’s expected. That’s what I did for a very long time. But you can’t let other people’s expectations control your life. Otherwise, you’ll be left with nothing that’s your own. Except that jumpsuit, I suppose.”

Edward was quiet. It had been a rather weighted topic to bring up, but Stede - Along with the influence of the champagne - couldn’t seem to regret it.

Yes, abandoning his prior life to the hardships of an inexperienced baker in an unexperienced town had been a decision of impact. It had changed the entire trajectory of his life, and at times he doubted every move he had ever made, but at the very least, he could claim those moves as his own.

Even though Edward was so starkly different from him - Brash, mysterious, compelling, very very attractive and yes, most of all, impressive - Stede was reminded, if only a little bit, of the version of himself he had been five years before, trapped in a life that was not his own and miserable every second of it.

He wanted to help Edward, if he could - And he didn’t know if he could. The man might just tell him off and leave him stranded with Buttons, and he’d be well within his rights. But Stede’s gaze was brought down to Edward’s hands, catching the motion as he stroked that same swath of silk again and again.

Stede beckoned for the fabric as if asking a question, and Edward placed it in his hand as if providing the answer.

With practiced movements, Stede leaned forward and situated the accessory into place around Ed’s neck. He figured it was time to clear up the confusion.

“A cravat is any type of fabric decoration worn around the neck. What we have here specifically is an ascot. It can be worn casually or formally depending on the occasion. I’m a fan of the casual ascot myself.”

Their faces were little more than inches away from each other. Stede stared resolutely at the task before him, refusing to meet any waiting gaze. His voice was confident; he hoped it distracted from his trembling fingers.

“There. All done.”

Stede’s touch dropped away but he stayed where he was, unable or unwilling to distance himself; his mind was too cloudy to make the distinction.

“Look at that. Like it was made for you.” His tone came out softer than he intended it to. And truly, even despite Edward’s casual attire, effortlessly he made it work. The scarlet stood out like a blooming flower against the black of his shirt, enticingly following the curve of his neck. Stede suddenly became aware of the urge to see Edward fully outfitted in the regalia he deserved.

Rapidly, and rather loudly, he cleared his throat, before he did something foolish, like calling the man sitting across from him beautiful.

“Now you know the difference between an ascot and a cravat. I believe forks are next and you’ll be ready to go to bat with the best of them.”

Edward nodded his assent. There was no sign of the storm now.

With alarming timing, Buttons made his way back into the room, now accompanied by Karl at his side. The pair assured Stede his success with nothing more than a silent nod. Quite the first mate, that Buttons.

Stede rose from the couch, offering his hand for Ed to do the same.

“I do believe that we’re all done here, Edward. It’s not often that I’ll travel into the city, but now that we’re here, I know a delightful spot that I think you’ll really enjoy. It’s called La Concorde, have you ever been? I believe it’s French cuisine, but there’s some island influence that truly makes the dishes. It’s a bit of a drive, but quite worth it. I would love to show it to you.”

Ed had stood up at the mention of lunch faster than a man starved would, but there was no eagerness on his face. With the same rapid movements, he had undone the ascot around his neck, ruining Stede’s careful knotwork, and discarded the fabric with a careless flutter.

“No. I mean, I can’t. Get lunch there. I’m banned.”

Stede thought to question it, but in truth, he was distracted by the abandoned fabric. He hoped Buttons hadn’t seen the rejection. Treatment like that of muga silk would result in a banning of his own from this and any other clothing establishment Stede frequented.

“Oh-Um, that’s a story I’ll certainly have to hear later. Well, how about another place? Masa or, well, what about Blackbeard’s? You were so curious about it last time I went.”

“No. Banned from those places as well.”

Stede wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh. “Ed, that can’t be right-”

“I can’t get lunch today. In fact, I have a meeting to go to. In fifteen minutes.”

“A meeting...For your restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you mind if I accompany you? You’ve mentioned it enough times to have me completely curious. I can wait until your meeting is over-”

“Nah, mate, the whole restaurant’s closed down. Nobody allowed inside for the day.”

Stede smiled but there wasn’t much humor left.

“So everyone’s banned then?”

Ed wasn’t meeting his gaze.

“Yeah.”

With a gentle hand, Stede plucked the silk from the couch and tried his very best not to appear hurt. Going to lunch afterwards had always been a part of his plan; it was the zenith of any shopping day, afterall, but if Edward had a meeting it couldn’t be helped.

He forced more cheer into his smile and hoped that it did not look as garish as it felt.

“It’s best if you head out then. Almost rush-hour, you know. Fifteen minutes will come and go in this traffic.”

Within a minute, Ed had retrieved his sunglasses and hat and was out the door. Stede Bonnet was completely alone.

Aside from Buttons and Karl, of course.

“Lovely to see you, Karl. I apologize for his sudden departure.” Stede slumped back onto the couch with a huff.“I don’t know where it went wrong. I thought he was having fun.”

Buttons didn’t seem too concerned with the conversation. He had quite the litter to clean up.

“Well, sir, it’s always difficult dating a celebrity.”

Heat flushed upwards into Stede’s cheeks; he wished there was more champagne to hide behind. After all, he certainly wouldn’t be driving, what with no car and all.

“We’re not dating. He’s a patron of my bakery.”

“Do you treat all of your customers this way? Buying them a new wardrobe?” Karl practically chirped. “If so, I’m in the market for some baked goods myself.”

Stede resolutely ignored him. He might very well treat any of his other patrons the same way if he just so happened to find one half as mesmerizing…or half as appreciative of his baked goods.

“And I know I spend a lot here but, really, Buttons, ‘celebrity’ is pushing it. Although, I am quite well known in my homeowner’s association.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir. Would you like me to call a car for you?”

Stede’s agreement was on the tip of his tongue - He was more than ready to go back home to the bakery apartment and analyze the entire afternoon over again, tear it apart and himself with it, joined only by a bottle or two of wine.

He had to finish the job the champagne had started after all.

With luck, he could avoid any questions from his two employees, having hidden the fact he was being accompanied at all today. If anything, by leaving him stranded in the store, forcing him to take a hired car home, Ed had helped him circumvent any questioning.

How generous.

He wasn’t able to acquiesce in time, however, before Edward was storming back in. The hat was gone and the sunglasses were resting on top of his hair.

Stede had to actively resist the urge to compliment him on it.

With no sunglasses in the way, it was easy to see that Ed was staring at Stede as if it were difficult to look at him. At least there was eye contact.

“Ed! Did you forget something?”

“Yup. Forgot I drove you.”

“You need not worry. Buttons was just about to provide a ride for me. He’s quite good that way.”

“No, I’ll take you home.”

Stede rose from the couch, if only because it felt rather rude to continue sitting. Ed was breathing harder than normal and Stede wondered if it was possible that the man had actually run back inside after remembering that he had been Stede’s ride.

“But what about your meeting?”

“Canceled it.”

“Edward, you did not.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Stede was starting to think that there had never been any meeting to begin with, but then, why had Edward been acting so strange?

“Whyever would you do that?”

“Because I’m going to be the one to take you home. Come on, we can pick up food on the way.”

Edward began to take his leave for the second time that day, only this time, Stede was right behind him - After thanking Buttons and Karl, of course.

They walked to the valet stand and awaited their rusty chariot, with Ed discussing where they should order from, as if nothing unusual had transpired. The weather app had been correct; a light spattering of rain was falling on them, nearly fine enough to be mist.

Stede paid no attention to it. Once again, he had been whirled around, unable to know which way was up.

“-definitely not going to that Olive Garden again, though. f*cking judgey waiters.”

He could not remember the last time he had felt such exhilaration.

Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen: Path

Chapter Text

To say Stede was nervous would be an extreme, paramount, major understatement.

He had already sweated through two layers, meaning that yet another outfit change was necessary. It was a good thing he had spent the past week laying out a few different ensembles to wear. Only several, at the most. Well, actually a dozen at the most.

A baker’s dozen.

Times two.

There had simply been no room for it at the apartment. For the first time in two weeks, Stede had found himself back in his original house - And he was quite regretting canceling the cleaning service because his bedroom looked as if a whirlwind had torn through it.

It was as if he could already hear the jests.

Oh, Baby Bonnet in more ways than one it seems. Can you not even keep your room clean? In what other ways are you such a child?

It didn’t help that Stede was planning to abstain from any liquid courage the entire event. He had never had very high expectations for these sorts of gatherings, ever, but tonight would be different. For the first time in four years, Stede wouldn’t be attending alone. And he didn’t want to sully with alcohol the satisfaction he would receive upon seeing the shock on all their faces when he waltzed in with a partner in hand.

But Stede couldn't forget that it wasn’t just a big night for him. This would be Edward’s first debut, as it were, into the atmosphere of the upper crust. The man never looked as if he needed any protection, but tonight it would be up to Stede nonetheless to help shelter him from the worst of the blows.

Maybe, come the dawn, Stede would never feel the urge to attend one of their numerous parties of flaunt ever again. After all, tonight he would finally prove himself.

Which would be considerably harder to accomplish with sweat stains, so Stede hurriedly applied another layer of deodorant and talcum powder and changed into his, ideally, final outfit of the night.It was one of Stede’s favorites, tailored by Buttons himself weeks before.

He appraised himself in the mirror.

An ivory double-breasted suit with a toile de jouy pattern sweeping along its expanse. Blue velvet slacks perfectly matched the inner lining of the jacket. A cobalt checkered vest and an alabaster shirt beneath it all.

Stede never failed to check his outfit in the mirror before beginning the day, but it had been quite some time since he had possessed the nerve to take stock of himself.

His blonde hair had been coiffed into ringlets that curled along the base of his neck. Tonight, they looked more kept and polished, less rowdy than it’s usual formation post-shower. Darker ringlets under his eyes normally would have revealed the lost night’s sleep that had been spent worrying about what was still to come, but Stede believed he had actually covered them rather well with concealer. His stomach felt as noticeably paunchy as the first time it had been called to his attention by Chauncey, but he supposed he should be grateful it didn’t feel any more so.

He couldn’t make eye contact with the stranger in the mirror but he scoured every other aspect of himself.

He looked…adequate. It would work for tonight.

It would have to.

Any thoughts of adequacy were blasted straight out of the water when Stede saw Edward, however. They had decided to meet at the Badminton’s - Some part of Stede not quite ready to show Edward his mansion just yet.

Stede had taken a car, but the Badminton’s estate was close enough to walk. If the evening heat wasn’t still so warm and sticky, he might have considered it. As it was, Stede wasn’t ready to sweat through another suit. Besides, the plan was to stay as dry as sand when it came to alcohol consumption. If the first thing he heard from a partygoer’s mouth was commentary on his vehicle situation -

A divorced, alcoholic, destitute baker, no less.

There they were again. Stede had shut his eyes tightly, as if somehow that would fend them off.

- He would no doubt be driven straight to the tower of champagne flutes he already knew they would have.(Really, it was seen at every party they threw. Where was the creativity?)

Still, from a tower to a bungalow would be the outcome if Stede didn’t watch himself.

Then again, what could they possibly have to say when they caught sight of Edward at Stede’s side? They’d be stunned into silence. Just as Stede was when he bid the chauffeur a grateful thank you, stepped out of his car and was drawn immediately to the absolute vision that was Edward Teach, waiting for him.

In that moment, Stede sent up a prayer for drunk driving, and the effects it had of leading Ed into his life.

It was one of the pieces that they had discovered during the shopping trip - Simple, solid lines, a dark purple linen, light and breathable and a boon for the night’s humidity, yet still fitted perfectly to the contours of mass and muscle, shimmering gold embroidery - so maybe Stede should not have been as surprised as he was to see it. It was different, seeing it then. Stede didn’t know why.

Perhaps it had to do with the cobbled walkway that spiraled out behind Ed, glorious rose bushes bursting with overwhelmingly fragrant blooms lining either side and framing it all, a million tiny lights twinkling in and out.

The path before them was wide enough for two people but only just, causing Stede to have to lean closer. The wafting scent of the foliage compelled Edward’s cologne to be that much more distinctive, strong and heady and that might have been the true force behind Stede’s proximity. The lighting provided its soft glow, showcasing the various hues in the man’s jacket, his eyes, even his beard.

And Ed was smiling - Tightly and with a twinge of something unsure - but broad and aimed at Stede nonetheless.

Stede’s mouth was open, he was sure of it, but the ability to muster words refused to present itself, not until Edward inquired of him his opinion.

“What do you think?”

“Lovely. Ed, you look absolutely lovely. Like-” And Stede couldn’t believe he was going to finish this sentence. “-Like royalty.”

A bloom of red hiding valiantly beneath Edward’s complexion only complimented the burnished gold on his lapels.

“Come off it, mate.”

“No, I mean it. Correct colors and all.” He put on a silly affected voice. “It’s an honor to attend to you, your Majesty.”

Stede curtsied, and instantly felt idiotic for doing so, but Edward’s smile only widened, and he reasoned to himself that for such a reward, it was easy to play the fool.

“Ahem, anyway, um-Your hair, Ed, it’s perfect.”

“Whatever,” In just a few moments, the blush had strengthened. Stede considered it a success.

“You’re the one that showed me.”

It had been a suggestion on Stede’s part, to pull it back and pin it so with a flowered clasp that matched the outfit. Stede would have demonstrated on his own hair but it was obviously not the right length, and so, in his tiny apartment and with tentative fingers combing through it all, Stede had instructed Ed.

He hadn’t needed to provide anything for the luxurious curls, however. That was simply blessed genetics.

“You make a fine pupil. Honestly. They won’t know what’s hit them. You really do look magnificent.”

And he did. But he also looked nervous. His eyes were wide. And he must have been grateful that the suit was breathable, because Stede could notice a fine layer of sweat gracing his brow.

He had the solution to one of those issues, at least.

As if a magician, Stede produced a handkerchief from his own pocket with quick sleight of hand. It was a simple pocket square, white and with his own initials monogrammed at the top. With practiced movements, Stede folded the fabric in such a way that the identification was hidden and with bated breath, he took a step forward and positioned it in the front pocket of Ed’s suit. It was too late for outfit changes, after all.

“There. Now you have everything you need.”

With a sweeping hand and an inclined head, Stede beckoned him towards the path that awaited them, but after a few moments passed with no movement, he glanced up. There was conflict on the man’s expression. Stede could recognize it all too well.

“Stede, if tonight is different then what you think, if I’m different then what you think…” It was clear that Ed wasn’t sure how to continue.

He was touched. This dilemma of stage personalities and the struggle of expectations was a difficult topic, but one that Stede felt he understood more than most.

“That’s just it. We’re all different from how anyone else might think of us, even if just a little. That’s the best part, don’t you think? Learning it all.”

It was arm-in-arm that they walked down the path together. Stede was able to concur with his earlier comment.

He had everything he needed.

That positive, content, happy train of thought wasn’t able to travel very long. Stede knew he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

For starters, no one was stunned into silence.

Once Edward and Stede entered the outdoor pavilion where the epicenter of the event was currently being held - fashionably late, of course, against all of Stede’s baker instincts but perfectly in tune with his more genteel ones - the mingling individuals noticed them one by one. Stede however, failed to notice the attention.

At least at first.

He figured the best starting point was to find Mary, only partly to show off that he had been able to successfully bring someone along after all. Even if Edward’s appearance was as a favor to Stede more than anything else, he would take the opportunity for what it was.

Despite a more amicable divorce than most - Although in their circles, that wasn’t saying much - there was still the urge, however small, to show her that Stede was capable of doing what she thought he wasn’t.

He would show all of them tonight.

The confused, even excited whispers were mounting, but Stede, pulling Edward along, had shifted gears. Perhaps it would be better to find the Badmintons straight away. He could already hear the saccharine tone he would take when he graciously thanked the pair for the invitation.

“Stede.”

This would be the culminating moment. Childhood years spent cowering in fear and shame and self-doubt, years as an adult withstanding every veiled insult and snide comment. Stede would finally be able to prove that they had been wrong. He was practically dragging Ed now, his purple linen sleeve becoming bunched in Stede’s grip.

“Stede, wait up a second.”

They had been wrong during the beginning of his baking career. It was a successful business with eighty-four five star reviews and a commendation in the local city guide.

They had been wrong during his marriage. Perhaps it had been more convenience based and puppetered then he would have liked, but the startling lack of children after so many years wasn’t because his wife found him too repulsive to look at, as had been claimed.

They had been wrong during his childhood. It wouldn’t be impossible for Stede to find someone that could even halfway tolerate him. It wasn’t guaranteed that he would die alone. And, considering the man was now laying in a grave, they had definitely been wrong about Stede’s father inevitably killing his own son out of shame - So really, their predictions had always been rather skewed -

There was a sharp yank on his arm as Edward wrenched free from Stede’s hold. It pulled him up short, literally stopping him in his tracks.

Stede whipped around, a question already ready to be asked but the words sputtered out when he saw Ed’s expression. The man looked disappointed. And he was rubbing his arm, as if Stede had hurt him.

“You’re f*cking stronger than you look, mate.”

Something in his chest began to plummet.

“It’s all the mixing and-and the kneading. My right arm dwarfs my left, I have to get all my shirts tailored for it, it’s horrendous.” Stede was babbling and it was dreadful enough to hear the words as they left his mouth. It seemed by luck alone that Edward simply waved him off in response.

“I just wanted you to slow down for a second. We can stay as long as you want, I don’t care. Let’s just look around first.”

Stede felt a wave of guilt choke up his apology. Here he was, being a selfish companion and a worse date. Why was the advice he had so easily given to Ed the night of their dinner so difficult for Stede to employ himself?

“I’m sorry, Ed, I’ve been terribly rude.”

Edward had stopped rubbing his arm. Stede felt as if he were being studied, examined. He looked away, a child’s response to an issue - If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.

That sort of hiding tactic had never worked very well during childhood either.

“Were you looking for someone?” Edward asked.

“No, no. I wasn’t looking for anybody. I don’t know what I was doing. Why don’t I show you around? They have a lovely estate.”

Ed was still looking at him, Stede could tell out of the corner of his eye. He forced himself to meet the gaze and smiled, wide but strained. In a strange way, the movement almost relaxed him. He was used to wearing such an expression at events like these. He was used to pretending.

“Stede, man, you good?”

The smile widened. Stede felt the middle of his lips stretch and the muscles in his neck tense, the same way it did when he used to practice making such faces in the mirror.

“Yes, of course I am.” He offered his arm once more to Edward and tried not to wince at the man’s seeming reluctance to take it. “I promise I’ll be gentle this time.”

Ed rolled his eyes and slung his arm around. The pair started walking, slowly and in-step.

“I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. These aren’t usually the types of…”

“Soirees?”

“Yeah, sure, that. I don’t usually attend types like this.”

“What are the ones you attend like?”

He snorted.

“Dark. Loud. Lots of cocaine.”

“Oh, well. This isn’t so different. They just keep the cocaine regulated to the upstairs bedrooms.”

Edward laughed, loud and booming, and some of the tension in Stede’s shoulders dissipated, and the tautness at the edge of his lips lessened.

He didn’t feel like he had to pretend when it came to this.

Besides, Edward had been right. Stede had been going too fast. He had missed taking in any of the sights around him. The Badmintons never failed to show off their grand estate or beautiful home when it came to such large gatherings, but Stede supposed he couldn’t resent them that. Or rather, he shouldn’t resent them that. He still might.

The estate was grand, and the Spring Soirées they held annually always began in the sprawling backyard - massive gauzy tents, waiters with platters of crudités and hors d'oeuvre, long tables, bright lights - before ultimately moving into the Palladian mansion that held much of the same.

Grand and gorgeous. A fitting introduction for Edward.

It was not the Badminton’s biggest gathering by far, Stede estimated a few hundred, but with everyone parting around them upon approach, the crowd felt larger. Stede had walked Edward around the perimeter, showing him the expansive statue gardens. Like a school of fish dispersing in the presence of a larger predator, the crowd actively avoided approach.

Stede swallowed thickly as they neared the tower of champagne he had known would be present.

He wasn’t sure if he preferred this treatment to the condescending questions.

“It seems to have worsened since the last party I attended.” He mumbled under his breath.

“What’s that?” Ed had actively refused the floating appetizers thus far, leaving Stede to be the one to imbibe. The salmon bites were on the salty side; he was rather thirsty. How much of a rehabilitated alcoholic would he look like if he asked for water?

“My reputation. I know I already told you this but I am quite-”

“Well-known in your HOA, yeah, I remember, Stede.” Edward’s tone was difficult to decipher. “I don’t think that’s why they’re staring.”

Stede looked up at the man next to him earnestly.

“I can’t hold that against them in good conscience. It’s not every day that they run across-”

“Stede Bonnet? Don’t tell me you’re hiding in the champagne already.”

For a moment, he thought that he may have imagined the statement; automatically, he closed his eyes to block it out once more. Then he felt a tight clasp on his shoulder and Stede knew there would be no hiding from this.

The dread was already coiling its way along the lining of his stomach when he turned around, a taut grin automatically appearing.

“Nigel Badminton.”

Nigel looked good, all things considered. Stede wished that there could be some sort of incongruity present, a flaw that he could pick up on and exploit, but, aside from a receding hairline common in men their age, there seemed none to be found. The man was sharply dressed in relevant taste; last season’s bonfire reception had already taken place. What light blond hair he did have left was neatly combed back.

Stede felt certain that Nigel could look down upon him and find any number of flaws, was certain that they would be picked and publicly displayed before the night was over. Part of him felt compelled to begin apologizing prematurely, a feeling of desperate self-preservation bubbling up.

Perhaps it was serendipitous then that Nigel was not looking at him. He was looking at Edward. He was smiling at Edward. And it was not an expression of malicious glee, or wicked condescension or simple scorn. It appeared genuine and charming, and with a start Stede remembered that both Nigel and his twin were considered rather dashing to the neighborhood’s HOA.

“I would implore you to introduce us, Bonnet, but really, Blackbeard doesn’t need much of an introduction, does he?”

It was a question Stede would have loved to answer, if he wasn’t otherwise occupied with being violently pulled to the side by his ex-wife.

“What the bloody hell, Stede?”

At that point, he managed to blink and considered it a job well done.

“Mary? And Doug! Oh, lovely to see you both. I was looking for you earlier. I wanted to introduce you to my date for the evening.”

Mary looked beautiful. As a continued advertisem*nt stunt for her series of paintings, she was, of course, wearing black, but in the form of a satin co*cktail dress that was quite fetching against the pink complexion spreading against her cheeks.

“Your date? Stede, are you telling me that your date for the night is Edward Teach?”

In the back of his mind, Stede automatically noted Mary’s repeated emphasis, and off to the side, Nigel Badminton was shaking his date’s hand.

“Do you-You know of him?”

Somehow, Nigel’s previous words still had not registered. Not until Mary’s expression took on a look of exasperated incredulity that transported Stede back to their big, empty house and the many years spent inside it.

His big, empty house.

“Who doesn’t know of Blackbeard, Stede? He is literally famous.”

Doug was laughing behind her. He wore a complementary, if simple, black tuxedo. It was a kind laugh, it was genuine. Stede knew this Douglas was a good man that treated Mary well, better than he ever had.

But Stede also knew that Doug had appeared before the divorce had.

A divorced, alcoholic, destitute, cuckolded baker.

It was an easy fact to remember when the man opposite him supported his paramour’s statement.

(Was Nigel revealing the wretched truth of Stede’s life to Ed? For Stede swore he could hear the words behind him.)

“Michelin stars, James Beard award. You would have to be pretty out of touch to not know who Blackbeard is.”

A divorced, alcoholic, destitute, cuckolded, out-of-touch baker.

At that moment, the only thing Stede could think of was their dinner at the appropriately named restaurant but a few weeks ago.

“I thought you said the man at Blackbeard’s was Blackbeard?” Stede asked dumbly, immediately wincing upon hearing the words leave his mouth.

“Of course that wasn’t Blackbeard. He’s rarely seen at the restaurants anymore. It’s been the topic of discussion for weeks.”

Upon seeing his lost reaction, Mary paused, before quietly relenting.

“I thought it might have been Blackbeard at the time. I was wrong. I found out later. Stede,” Her voice was soft and in what Stede could only hope would be the most frustrating point of the night, just as worried as it had been during their dinner.

“Did you really not know who you walked in with?”

A new point had quickly been reached: Stede’s voice was just as quiet and pathetically unsure when he responded.

“I just knew him as Edward.”

Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen: Champagne

Chapter Text

Blackbeard seemed to be enjoying himself. All signs of his nervousness had appeared to float away on the gentle breeze enriching the night.

In fact, Stede had been lucky enough to notice the exact moment Edward’s demeanor shifted, as it had happened right when Nigel, still grasping the man’s hand, leaned in and whispered in his ear. Whatever he said must have been good. It caused a wide grin to appear on Edward’s, and standing alone as a witness Stede once again could not help but marvel at how it transformed him.

Then Nigel called off to the side and just as suddenly, there was Chauncey.

That was close to the exact moment that Stede began referring to Edward as Blackbeard inside his own head.

Afterall, was that not the moniker everyone else seemed to know him as? And truly, everyone else at the Badminton’s did seem to know him. It was only Stede who had been left out of the secret, a theme so consistent in his life, he wondered if he was really even surprised at the revelation.

No, what was most surprising was how absolutely charming Stede began to find the champagne tower.

A shimmering steeple of carbonation, a monument to foolish mistakes made in earnest that might rival the Tower of Babel. His affection for such a decoration did not appear after the initial visit, nor the second, but begrudging respect manifested during the third call. Around the fourth, fifth, sixth and so on, Stede felt a surge of blind devotion.

“What a fantastic idea!” Stede murmured to himself around the seventh glass. The other partygoers seemed to be occupied with one guest in particular, but that was foolish of them - It left the tower completely unattended. He should really look into getting one for the bakery.

Stede preferred it this way anyway, truly. What else was there to prefer? That Stede had been able to continue showing Ed around the grounds and even further, inside the mansion? That they would taste the lauded entree together and Stede could quietly whisper how preferable Edward’s cooking was? That when the atmosphere of stuffiness and extravagance became too grating, they might find a quiet room together? That, having found the conversation any Wellington or Badminton might provide tired and contrite, they would surely retire back to Stede’s place in this neighborhood, instead of the apartment in that small town, merely for convenience and a simple nightcap?

Ridiculous. He hadn’t even thought about that.

Stede’s own pitiful laughter at the concept helped drown out the burst of it that erupted from the gathered crowd.

In following reality, a congregation of disciples had amassed, standing around Blackbeard, a miasma of reverence and allegiance akin to what the disciples must have felt receiving communion from the Messiah.

Stede wasn’t jealous. And if he were jealous, he wouldn’t even have been able to tell who he was jealous of - Blackbeard, for being able to so effortlessly command the adoration and respect Stede had spent his entire life yearning for, or his fellow socialites, for stealing away the one thing - the one person - he had managed to find for himself.

Other than his bakery, of course. Oh, his godforsaken bakery. Stede was mentally drawing up the selling plans right where he stood, champagne in hand.

Afterall, better to get ahead of the curve. To relinquish it all in defeat, before Ed - Before Blackbeard - could reveal the humiliating details that was the life of Stede Bonnet. What would Chauncey comment on first? There was plenty of ammunition. For instance, the tiny apartment Stede had found himself living in. Perhaps he would mention the burnt lamb-chops. Or Stede’s half-baked attempt to obtain a business partner, shoddily disguised as a joke.

The shame of realizing the sheer amount they would have to choose from rushed through Stede, red and hot, a sharp contrast to the sweet, cool drink he once again found himself reaching for.

He had tried in the beginning, before the throng had amassed, he truly had. It had been, mercifully, only the two Badmintons at first, instead of their entire guest list. That was before Stede was reminded never to be grateful for their presence in any capacity.

You must enthrall me with the details of your initial meeting. I’m rather embarrassed that Bonnet of all people was able to make your acquaintance before me. My wife and I frequent your restaurants often enough.

Stede couldn’t have begun to find confidence in how to respond. Maybe that was why Edward had taken it upon himself to answer.

That’s where we met, actually. At La Concorde.

If Edward truly were this massive icon that everyone seemed intent on convincing Stede he was, then it made sense he felt compelled to lie about their true meeting place. The logic did nothing to lessen the sting of knowing Edward was too embarrassed to mention Bonnet’s Bakery.

Chauncey had not been, however.

Does that mean you’ve never been to Bonnet’s little venture? I’ve heard it’s so quaint and twee, isn’t that right, Bonnet?

Quite.

No, I’ve never been. I’m sure it’s excellent.

Edward had looked at him as if they were sharing a private inside joke.

You know, Bonnet, I was even considering hiring you out to provide some little desserts for this evening. It was a tempting thought, but in the end I decided ‘Best leave it to the professionals’. And here you brought a professional yourself!

They were all laughing. Edward was laughing. Stede was laughing and it felt like choking.

A divorced, alcoholic, destitute, cuckolded, out-of-touch, amateur baker.

He had never felt more like the punchline.

Stede had quietly excused himself soon afterwards. It was amazing how barely two hours had passed in this way, nearly three total since they had first arrived, despite him feeling as if it had been days spent in this agonizing cycling of thoughts.

But no. In fact, it had been only thirty minutes since he had last talked to his date for the night. Truly, only half an hour had passed from the moment that he was approached by the celebrity - And damn it all if he didn’t look just as handsome as before, if not moreso. Something had obviously excited the man. His cheeks were flush with color, as if conversation with these patricians was a boon, instead of the curse Stede had so often been afflicted with.

Their interaction had been quick. Blackbeard had walked up to the champagne tower and imbibed. Earlier, Stede had casually noticed - He hadn’t even been looking, really - that the chef now seemed content to sample the appetizers, much to the rapt delight of those around him.

Well, Stede had passed his own food commentary earlier. They were salty.

Obviously, his opinion had some merit as Blackbeard greedily downed a glass in thirst

He had looked over at Stede with such a wide smile it made something in Stede’s chest ache like a weary joint.

“These people are a f*cking class act, Stede.”

Stede couldn’t recall exactly what the conversation entailed after that, but he had - rather forcefully - encouraged Blackbeard to return to his eager apostles.

He didn’t see him again. Stede himself was far too busy becoming fast friends with a waiter - A charming young man, sweet personality, ironically an aspiring chef - And fine, maybe Stede was simply holding the waitstaff conversationally hostage, but he was not allowed to have even that. Nigel had called the server over with that same glint of sadism so familiar in childhood and Stede did not see his new friend for the rest of the night.

Of course, Stede was not a complete drunken mess. No matter what the circulating rumor was, he still had years of instilled etiquette on his side. And, perhaps, the night was not a complete failure. This revelation had prevented anyone from inquiring about his bakery or about Stede Bonnet in general.

It wasn’t as if anyone had cared before, but they certainly liked to pretend as if they did, if only to ridicule him more effectively.

Still, if this was a better end result, it was difficult to deem it so.

In the past, Stede stuck these sort of events out till the final bell, as any fine gentleman would. He was unable to even half-heartedly convince himself to do so tonight. There was a part of him content with the idea of slinking away, quietly and unnoticed - It would, afterall, follow suit of the theme of the evening.

It must have been either pride or champagne that had Stede haltingly approaching the multitude. The general Savior-Devotee nature had shifted. Instead, a queue had formed, a winding line of endless couples, all dressed too similarly for Stede to distinguish between them in his current state, and all eager to attain their own personal time with the one situated at the head of it all: Blackbeard. He wasn’t alone, joined by the esteemed hosts of the party, although Stede would fail at discerning between the twins as well at this point.

With what little conviction he had left, the baker attempted to rapidly sober up - or to at least to pretend like it - and approached the trio, who were currently engaged with the Wellington couple.

How lucky he continued to be tonight.

As Stede neared, he began to overhear the current topic of discussion, although initially it made as much sense as if they were speaking another language.

“-And any speculation of allegations is obviously a weak attempt to dampen profits for your new restaurant opening.” Wellington was commenting. “I mean, we all read the profile in the New Yorker and quite honestly-”

“I think we can all agree it was a rather pedestrian take.” A Badminton interrupted with an arrogant laugh. “I mean, really, ‘a sordid past’? It’s obvious to any intelligent observer that this is an act. Only a savage would behave like that in real life.”

Edward was laughing right along with them.

“Obviously. It was f*cking sententious.”

A round of laughter. It took Stede a moment to connect the pieces; when he did, he could recognize another lie, this one told on the night of Ed’s - Blackbeard’s - private dinner.

But then, Stede had told his own lie this very evening, had he not? An intended compliment, They won’t know what hit them.

Everyone at this party knew. Everyone but Stede, and now he was left floundering and struggling to recover.

“It's apparent to even the casual observer that the leather jumpsuit is meant to be tacky and simple-”

That was right around the moment Stede entered the circle.

“I apologize for interrupting.” And he meant it. This was something Blackbeard was obviously suited to. It was shocking that the measly company of an amateur baker had kept him even partially occupied in the past month.

“I simply wanted to let you know that I’m leaving, um, Blackbeard.”

It was a struggle for Stede to meet any of their gazes, but a struggle had characterized the entire night, and so Stede found himself meeting eyes with the celebrity himself. Widened eyes as he looked at Stede now, dark and brown and beautiful. A rush of resentment and - What else could it have been but sadness? - pierced through Stede.

For what right had Blackbeard to look so surprised?

“What? You’re leaving?”

“Yes, I have decided to retire for the night. We can, um, meet-”

“Really, Bonnet, do you have to leave right now?” Nigel or Chauncey’s or whoever’s grin was so wicked, Stede felt a chill run through him. “Dessert has yet to be served. I made sure plenty of extras were prepared, just for you.”

“If you’ve had a bit too much to drink, I can show you to one of our many guest rooms.” The other one was smirking.

If Stede had still been holding a champagne flute - Were they wrong? He did have too much to drink - it would have been crushed in his hand at that moment. His heartbeat had decided to pound so thunderously inside his chest it was difficult to hear his strained response, a labored resistance - No, thank you. Yes, apologies, I really must go.

Social etiquette be damned, in that moment he extracted himself so desperately, it must have completed their concrete image of Stede Bonnet perfectly as he struggled to find his way out of the expansive grounds, not bothering to give any of them the satisfaction of looking behind, not even when he heard a small clamor erupt from the group. They must have called gleeful attention to his retreating figure, and the realization only hastened his stumbling steps.

A divorced, alcoholic, destitute, cuckolded, out-of-touch, pathetic, amateur baker all alone.

Well, he was alone until Blackbeard joined him.

He found Stede with embarrassing ease, but then, Stede was wandering through the backyard in a rather maladroit way.

The man didn’t make his presence known, not until he was right behind Stede, and for the second time that night, Stede found himself being detained by his date, stopped in his tracks. The sound he made this time around was surely more dignified.

“Stede, where are you going?”

Stede turned around and it was by sheer force of will alone that he managed some sort of sapped smile.

“I told you, I’m retiring for the night. You didn’t have to leave on my behalf, I’ll be fine.”

It did not appear as if he was to be believed, but frankly, it was difficult to care. His thoughts were disjointed, as muddled and unclear as the path out of the estate, and his head was beginning to spin.

“I’m not letting you drive like this, Stede.”

He would be lying if he said the comment didn’t hurt, but then, a part of him was also proud. What reason had Edward to be worried? Blackbeard fit in so well with these people.But just because he felt he could not belong did not mean Stede was not fully knowledgeable of the environment he grew up in; he could feel sharper words than he usually dared to speak snaking their way up his throat. A light comment about Blackbeard’s own driving experience. At least there was nary a fire hydrant on his property.

“I have a house right up the street.” He said instead. “It’s a light walk and a beautiful evening. I said I’ll be fine alone.”

“You’re walking through their backyard.”

“It’s faster this way.”

“Alright.” Blackbeard released his grip. “Let’s go then. Lead the way.”

Stede stared at him rather rudely, but then, it was more polite than saying anything.

“What are you talking about?”

Edwar-Blackbeard, whomever, stared back just as rudely.

“I said, lead the way.”

“Aren’t you going back to the Bad-To the party?”

It was a blessing to hear how incredulous the other man sounded.

“Why the f*ck would I do that? I came here with you.”

Stede tried to swallow the something lodged in his throat.

“I don’t want to take you away from them.”

“Them who? The people in there? f*ck off.” Ed didn’t even glance behind him, as if those he had spent the entire night dazzling weren’t even worth the look. “I was basically clocked in. Seriously, let’s go, my shift is over.”

And Stede, despite how horrendous the night still felt, laughed.

A divorced, alcoholic, baker who was many, many things, but just for that one moment, was not alone.

The walk was light - A short stint uphill and then level the rest of the way - and the night was beautiful - warm, but no longer an oppressive air, with the dark sky stretching endlessly above them.

Them. That seemed to be the most important aspect. But how long could it last?

He was confused, however, at the question he had just been asked. They were not yet out of the backyard - It was massive after all - but the twinkling lights decorating the tent was far enough behind them to provide some comfort. If anyone had been looking, and Stede was certain that they had, it would simply seem as if the pair had disappeared into the darkness.

“Back there, why did you call me Blackbeard?”

If Stede hadn’t been so focused on placing one careful foot in front of the other, he would have turned around to look questioningly at the man behind him.

“Because you are Blackbeard. I found that out. Tonight.”

There was a heavy sigh released from the same direction.

“There was a reason I didn’t-”

“I have a question of my own, if you don’t mind.”

At that point, Stede could not help but turn and sneak a glance, if only to see if the interruption had upset his walking partner in any way. Not that he cared. Or perhaps he did. In truth, Stede had absolutely no idea how he was feeling about the events of the night, other than a slight pang of regret for how many glasses of champagne he had drunk. It obviously hadn’t been enough.

Stede had levels of drunkenness, just like anyone else. A few glasses of wine before bed guaranteed not only resolute sleepiness, but a lack of dreams to go with it. Of course, champagne and its bubbles were known to work quicker than wine, an endearing quality to be sure. The eight or so glasses consumed would have, in the past, sent Stede well down the path of revelry. But in recent years, his tolerance had been tutored and tested, and besides, a new level right between the two sides of the spectrum had emerged over the course of time as well: A heavy, consuming sense of despair. So weighted was it that Stede was sure this feeling encroaching on him was the culprit behind his stumbles.

A few more drinks and he would be as right as rain, and as blissfully, ignorantly happy as anyone else at that party. A few less and he would have had complete control over his next words.

But at that moment, all he had was a shaky defense against his darkening thoughts and an annoyingly nagging question.

The man behind him didn’t seem to be upset, or perhaps he was just very good at hiding it - Although so far that had never seemed to be the case. Stede was motioned on.

“Why did you call them class-acts? What could they have possibly done so quickly to endear themselves to you?”

Stede hated himself for asking the question, so cloyingly pathetic as it was. He hated the tone of voice he asked it in, whiny and weak. More than anything else, he hated what it reminded him of: A childhood memory - one snapshot amongst a thousand others comprising a picture that still hurt to look upon - of Stede, shoved somewhere dark and cramped, a place he was unable to fully conjure even in adulthood. Limbs aching, tears streaming, face contorted into a hideous expression of fear and pain; he had always been an ugly crier. Amidst all of that had risen the same base question he asked tonight.

Why?

There was silence for what seemed a long while, in Stede’s perception anyway, as if not to end the recollection. Stede had asked that many times to many people, especially during the first part of his life, before he wised-up, and realized the answer could hurt just as much.

He choked back the immediate urge to shoot down his own question.

But after a few moments, Blackbeard answered easily, his own tone as casual and light as the evening breeze.

“I thought they seemed alright.”

Perhaps it was a fact of life that always he would feel fourteen years old and the world would succeed in swallowing him whole.

He didn’t bother to answer. There was no answer he could muster that would not feel like a betrayal to himself or - Well, impolite.No, the answer to this would be found at the bottom of any of the world class bottles waiting for him in his wine cellar. Those bottles had never failed his fourteen year old self, after all.

They were nearing the edge of the massive backyard; dense forestry couldn’t fully conceal the front of Stede’s own illuminated estate ahead of them. In his hurried state, he had left all of his lights on. They welcomed him now.

“Quite.”

Stede wasn’t sure who had answered. It didn’t sound like himself.

“I was grateful, actually. That one guy - What was his name, Nigel? - He told me that they’re pretty tight on any, uh, photography at these kinds of things. I appreciated that. It meant that the night wasn’t going to be ruined by some f*cking paps finding out where I was.”

The clear relief was present in Blackbead’s tone. He cleared his throat.

“I didn’t want to ruin the night for you.”

No need to stage the Badminton’s up at their own party.

“That’s kind of you.”

“But the Badmittens haven’t been. Kind to you, that is. Right?”

Stede’s reluctant mirthful smile was interrupted by another stumble.

“It’s Bad-mintons - Like the game. They’re directly related to the British Officer that appropriated it from India.”

“You’re dodging the question, mate.”

There was no answer, if only because Stede truly had to focus on not falling. Blackbeard obviously saw more in the silence. His tone was almost fervent.

“You know, you just have to say the word and I’ll have this entire backyard torched to the ground. Look at how dry this grass is, all this kindling you’re tripping over. Like that-” Blackbeard snapped his fingers, and the sound carried. “I could do it. One call is all I would have to make.”

The ground steepened just a bit as it led to paved road, the beginning of the path to his house. Stede snorted, although it was difficult to distinguish it from a huff of exertion.

“You’re a celebrity chef encouraging felonies? That can’t be good for your brand. Should I call the presses?” Stede weakly teased, glancing behind him.

There was a sort of wonder in Blackbeard’s returned stare.

“You really know nothing about Blackbeard.”

It was spoken as an awed observation, not a question, but the words stung nonetheless. If Stede were sober he might have been able to realize they weren’t meant as a slight. As it was, he turned back around and stared at the dirt.

“I hadn’t realized I was spending time with Blackbeard.” He didn’t give the statement time to settle.

“We’re here.”

Chapter 19: Chapter Nineteen: Fist

Chapter Text

It’s not that Edward Teach gave a f*ck about anyone at that godforsaken party. Because really, truly, he didn’t.

But he wanted to try.

One way or another, Stede was bound to find out all Ed had been hiding. He had gotten lucky so far but Ed was not a lucky man. On principal he wasn’t a lucky man.

Everything he had achieved in his career, in his life, had been the direct result of him fighting. Grappling and ripping and clutching with bloodied fingernails onto the next step that would elevate him, and it had never mattered before what he was stepping over in the process - Bodies or burnt buildings alike. And luck never had anything to do with it. Avoiding jail-time for past crimes wasn’t a fluke, it was bribery and a f*cking expensive lawyer. And all of that was fine, because he had learned never to expect more than what he had put in the grueling, back-breaking and sometimes illegal work for.

But meeting someone who had never heard of the name Blackbeard? That was lucky.

Having that someone be Stede Bonnet? A goddamn miracle.

And Ed hadn’t even done anything special to warrant such a miracle. He had just done what he always did. Get drunk and be reckless.

Which meant that it was time to start putting the work in, lest the f*ckall powers that be realize they had made a mistake.

Ed had worked his ass off at that party; he hadn’t been lying when he had said it felt like a shift, especially at first.

The people who came to his restaurants for Blackbeard wanted a show. This crowd was much of the same, just a different type of show it seemed - Although one had called over a waiter for him to yell at.

(He didn’t even really yell at the guy. But if Ed had noticed that same waiter talking enthusiastically to Stede earlier than that was just a coincidence. It was nothing but loud theatrics.)

And yet this crowd, some of them anyway, were different from the other guests he entertained. They viewed Blackbeard as an act, yes, but they considered Ed the actor. And once they had let him know about the photo ban, he realized what it was they wanted. They wanted to know that he was one of them. So he tried really f*cking hard to be. And god, it felt like he was succeeding. It gave a bigger rush than any substance he usually tried at parties, the intoxication of being outside the circus act and inside the joke.

Besides, if he impressed the neighbors, that meant he would impress Stede, right?

Ed was so high on that co*cktail of gratification and keyed-up nerves and desperation that he didn’t pick up on the situation until it was too late and Stede Bonnet was leaving the party. Or trying to, anyway. He had really been wandering in zig-zags around the back gardens.

And Ed was always going to run after him, that was never up for question. But he had gotten delayed, distracted by the haughty sniffing of the man who had yet to leave his side, the host of the party himself.

“I do hope he makes it home safe.” Nigel had cooed.

Their previous conversation was forgotten in the wake of Stede’s interruption, but the smug satisfaction it had inspired was still cooling in Ed’s veins. Here was the validation he had been, despite himself, so violently craving ever since reading that reporter’s op-ed in the first place.

That’s why it took him a second to realize what was happening.

“I wish I could say that this was the first time we have had to witness Stede Bonnet floundering drunkenly around. Unfortunately, it seems to be a bit of a theme at our events.”

He was talking quietly, but his voice managed to project. Several straggling members standing around their circle leaned in closer.

“Well, you can hardly blame him. You have heard details about his marriage, have you not? Of course, I would never comment on this, but I did hear from a neighbor that his wife - she’s some obscure painter - was rather well-acquainted with her teacher, even before the engagement.”

“Nothing more than gossip to be sure.” Another one of the members in the circle commented, and Ed had huffed his assent before he witnessed the lop-sided smirk that had appeared.

“Without saying. Although you would think his behavior might indicate some level of candor. Regardless, Stede Bonnet succeeds at being an unfortunate spectacle, as always.”

Nigel had turned to him then and had looked Ed right in his eyes, as if they were exchanging common opinion, as if Ed’s consensus was presumed, expected even.

As if he were one of them.

It was around that time when Ed punched Nigel in the face. He hadn’t really been aiming, but he heard, rather than felt, the crunch of impacted bone, just as he heard, rather than saw, the crowd react. They shared their gasp, as if the whole party had been listening in on the conversation. He didn’t bother sticking around long enough to clock the recoil.

He was too busy chasing after Stede Bonnet.

Stede Bonnet, who had been traversing through the backyard as determinedly as if he had a treasure map in hand.

Who let out an honest-to-god yelp when Ed caught up to him and grabbed his arm.

Who glowed under the moonlight just as prettily as he had under the garden lights.

Who was closer to royalty than Ed would ever be.

Who wore a smile better than Blackbeard had ever worn his tacky leather jumpsuit, and was more generous in bestowing it than Ed had ever been with anything in his life, and who made Ed give his own out more freely than ever besides.

Who was currently frowning in such a way, even as he politely invited his unwanted guest inside his massive house, that made Edward Teach hate himself a little more than usual.

There had been so many ways that the night could have gone wrong, but when Ed had imagined them, each one focused on the revelation of his altar ego, the fact that he had lied - Even if it was a lie of omission.

He had realized, far too late, that there was more at play.

That in of itself was a revelation. For the longest while, there had never been anything more than Blackbeard. Not even cooking, anymore. And it had to be that way, Ed had learned that lesson again and again, and even if he wanted to forget that fact of his life, he couldn’t. Izzy had made it more than clear.

Blackbeard had always been survival and if the world had its way, he would die in leather.

Ed rather preferred the purple suit.

Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty: Performance

Chapter Text

Stede’s mansion wasn’t dissimilar to either of the Badminton’s, or the Wellington’s, or any of the conglomerate of massive houses in their massive neighborhood - All rectangular, brick, rigid symmetry, but perhaps the fact that it was the oldest of them all meant something.

A sprawling, looped driveway led them to the front of the house, the imposing columns and Georgian sensibility washing over Stede at once, a twisted copycat dimension of the estate they had just left.

Blackbeard let out a huff of his own, but Stede didn’t believe it was from the walk.

“Why the f*ck would you stay above the bakery if you have a place like this?”

Stede’s body tensed, even as he reached for the keys and swung open the paneled wooden door.

“This isn’t my home. I mean, it is. My childhood house. And - Well, adult house, technically. I lived here when I was married.”

Stede waited for a response as he beckoned the other man into the house, but none was to come. It appeared that he was too occupied, looking around in open-mouthed amazement.

“We had some different f*cking childhoods.” He eventually said.

Stede snorted, an involuntary response he normally would have possessed much more resistance upon remembering it was not polite, if only he wasn’t rather very drunk.

“We have different everythings.”

It was not a very eloquent statement, but Stede felt it still got the point across well - Something he was grateful for, as he wasn’t even sure what the point was supposed to be.

Off in the corner of his thoughts, a more sympathetic part of him managed to be understanding. The house could be intimidating; Stede had simply gotten used to that oppressive weight that settled onto his frame automatically upon entering the doorway. After forty-seven years, he hardly even felt the burden anymore.

Only when he was in the house, or alone anywhere, or drunk-but-not-nearly-drunk-enough.

That level of drunkenness had been rising recently, it seemed.

Damn that Oluwande.

Blackbeard recovered after a couple of seconds, bringing his attention all the way down from the high ceilings and pale green walls to the checkered floor before finally landing on Stede himself.

It was all Stede could do to look away.

“Well, I have made it home safely, as I knew I would. Thank you for accompanying me. You can return to the party now.”

Now it was Blackbeard’s time to snort, and he did so in a scoffing sort of manner that, in most circles, was also not very polite, but Stede couldn’t find it in himself to mind nearly half as much as he did his own.

“I already told you, Stede, I’m not going back there. Besides, I don’t think I’d be welcomed back, truth be told.”

Stede glanced up at him, searching for the joke.

“They adored you, which is no surprise. Like-Like flies to honey. You’re more likely to get an invite for next year’s than I am.”

There was no bitterness in Stede’s tone, if only because he hadn’t been fully surprised that everyone had adored Edward. He had expected it - Just for different reasons.

“And you warmed up to them just as quickly, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t go back.”

Well, there was the vinegar.

“Stede, I had my reasons for not telling you about me-About Blackbeard.”

Stede didn’t feel ready to hear them.

“Would you like some wine? Or perhaps something stronger. I think I’m in the mood for something stronger.”

Blackbeard stared and Stede wondered about the conversations that had been held without him. Had they told him the rumors about his alcoholism? Or had they focused more on the divorce? Or the weight he had gained since the divorce? There were so many detriments that seemed intrinsic to the character of Stede Bonnet, how could they possibly choose which one to cover?

Then Blackbeard had smirked - A grim sort of thing, but still.

“Got any whiskey?”

Stede had been rather preoccupied with the events of the night, so perhaps that was why he did not process the full strangeness of the situation until the celebrity chef was laying on his floral bedspread, whiskey bottle in hand.

Upon fetching a bottle of the first label that caught his eye amidst his extensive foyer liquor cabinet, Stede had been ready to suggest the drawing room for them to, well, withdraw to, before he remembered the stiffness of the couches, unused and heirlooms as they were. The last time he could consciously remember even entering the room was when Mary introduced one of her first ever paintings as an anniversary gift. Stede had, in typical blundering fashion, insinuated it had been the masterpiece of several first graders and, needless to say, he was sure a fine layer of dust had been collected by now.

The kitchen was rather stark as well, many of his tableware having already been transferred to the bakery or its upstairs room respectively. The dining room was obviously too formal, the study too dimly lit, and the library, with its impressive collection, altogether too distracting.

That really left only one room, up the stairs and at the end of the hall.

In retrospect, those didn’t seem like good enough reasons to be laying down on the bed, legs outstretched next to his, but then, the whiskey was quite adequate at clouding any feelings of retrospect.

He hadn’t started out so improper, of course.

Blackbeard had. He had shrugged off his lovely suit jacket in one easy motion and threw it lightly on Stede’s vanity chair before throwing himself down on the springy bed. Springy in the literal sense - It made a wheezing noise as the frame adjusted to the new weight.

“This is the bed of a grandmother.” He had remarked, and the man was lucky he had taken his shoes off before getting comfortable or Stede would have been really cross. As it was, he settled for tutting in disapproval and quickly rescuing the discarded jacket before it could sustain any damage.

“This material is prone to wrinkling, you cannot just throw it anywhere you please. It needs to be hung up, and with a wooden hanger at that. Honestly Ed-” And here, Stede faltered.

“I mean, Blackbeard, it is the bed of a grandmother. Great grandmother too, in fact.”

“Why do you keep on calling me that?”

It was all Stede could do not to ask a question in return, why do you sound like it pains you?

“I thought that - I mean, you are Blackbeard. Aren’t you? Everyone and their wife pointed out just how foolish I was tonight in not knowing that before.”

Stede was once again doing an excellent job of avoiding eye contact, this time by keeping busy with the act of retreating inside his walk-in closet to take care of the jacket. It felt safer inside the wardrobe. He could imagine it was just like any other night spent inside the mansion, and he was alone.

He rubbed the light material of the jacket between his fingers and dimly wondered where the handkerchief he had given to Ed had disappeared to. Perhaps the man had thrown it away.

The illusion shattered when he heard a voice respond, low enough he had to strain to make it out.

“I had reasons for not saying anything.” The voice repeated. The statement had a similar effect as the first time Stede had heard it: He needed a drink.

Stede finished hanging the suit jacket with a sudden forcefulness and marched back into the bedroom, ignoring the man now sitting upright on his bed and heading straight to the bottle he had left on the dresser.

In seconds, he had it open and even sooner, began draining it.

It was almost pleasing how the burning in his throat distracted him from the burning in his chest. It allowed him to finally turn around and face the bed, and wasn’t that a distraction in of itself. How long had it been since someone other than Stede had been in that bed?

And yet, this wouldn’t even be his first time in Stede’s bed.

Stede swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the natural path his thoughts had turned to.

“Yes, well, I hope they were bloody good reasons. Let’s hear them then.”

A heavy sigh was released.

“Can I have the bottle?”

Let it be known that Stede was nothing if not generous.

Blackbeard coughed, loudly and forced, but Stede didn’t believe it had anything to do with the drink.

“Right. Reasons. Good reasons.”

Stede looked off to the side, trying to mask the wounded expression he could feel taking over.

“You don’t need to make something up. It’s fine that you didn’t tell me. I just wish that - I would have appreciated a simple heads up before embarrassing myself.”

“You didn’t embarrass yourself.” Blackbeard sat up a little more. He looked conflicted, as if he didn’t know whether or not he should stand.

“I did nothing but.” Stede protested, his own forehead wrinkling in consternation at the lack of acknowledgement for something so obvious. A strangled laugh escaped him before he could finish his next statement. “I suppose that’s just par for the course.”

“You’re being hard on yourself.”

“No, I’m really not. That works out well then, no reason to blame you after all. God knows it would have been just as bad no matter who I showed up with.” He was babbling now, and regretting those extra swallows of whiskey all the while.

“Stede-”

“Do you know how humiliating it is to have your ex-wife constantly wearing black? Some sort of-of symbolism for the death of our marriage, how I killed it. I won’t even mention how the Spring Pastel Party went down. I just thought that for once I could give them something to talk about other than how miserably I keep on failing.”

The resulting silence seemed a final statement on Stede’s failures. Something inside of him deflated. Briefly, he considered hiding in the closet once more. It couldn’t possibly make the situation worse.

“That’s - I shouldn’t have put those expectations on you. I’m sorry. You had no obligation to tell me anything and-”

“I’ve never had an ex wear black before.” Blackbeard interrupted, slowly stroking his beard with the hand not gripping the whiskey, as if it was a topic worth deep thought.

Stede’s eyebrows furrowed downwards. His hands itched for the bottle back.

“Yes, well, rather specific situation, I would expect.”

“But I did have an ex sell private photos of me to the paps. I’d say that was f*cking embarrassing.”

Stede couldn’t help it, he stared at the man. He hardly looked bothered by it, resting back against the headboard, and his tone had been casual, as if relating a humorous childhood memory. But there was something sharp behind the eyes that Stede could recognize.

“Oh, Edward,” Stede’s own tone was soft, like he was afraid of startling the man away from his own revelation. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

A flicker of a smile appeared before settling down again.

“Eh, Izzy stopped it from going too far. There’s a reason I didn’t tell you about Blackbeard, Stede, but it was a selfish one. He’s all anyone ever cares about.”

Stede perceived a sudden shift. Perhaps it was the whiskey reaching his liver - He had drunk more tonight then he had in quite a while - but suddenly the air around them felt thicker. He couldn’t look away even if he tried. There would be no fleeing now. He fought the languishing of his own limbs and took a hesitant step forward. Edward didn’t seem to notice.

“He’s this sort of fearsome creature that everyone wants to watch explode. It’s not even about cooking anymore. They just want to be entertained. To use me for entertainment. Like I’m a f*cking circus animal.”

Another step.

“You feel as if it’s a performance?”

“It is a performance. I’ve been doing it for years.” Edward’s eyes were wide, open. The sharpness had faded, leaving something vulnerable and tense, like an exposed wire.

“I’ve never uh, felt like I had to do that in front of you. I didn’t want that to change. Don’t want that to change. Still, I should have told you before the party. Not planned out well on my part. Because now you know.”

It seemed to be Ed’s turn to babble now. Stede would only realize later how unbearably endearing he found it.

“I was going to tell you, I swear. I was gonna take you to the restaurant. That didn’t work out. But we can still go, if you want. Or not. Whatever.”

Stede’s leg brushed against the bed. With a lack of the hesitation that had been present the whole night, he sat down and rested a hand on Ed’s leg.

“You never have to pretend with me. I promise. And I’ll never pretend with you. I-Well, to be candid, I really don’t know anything at all about Blackbeard. But he can’t possibly be as interesting or as good or nearly even half as handsome as Edward Teach.”

For a moment, the man in question seemed to be shell-shocked, and the part of Stede’s brain not spurred on by liquid encouragement worried that he had gone too far. Then his eyes took on a shiny quality and suddenly Ed was patting the space next to him - as if he were the host and Stede the guest. An obvious distinction from the invitations Stede usually received; perhaps that was why he did not balk in the face of it.

That was how the pair ended up outstretched on the bed together, still clad in stiff shirts and pleated pants, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth.

Stede's face was becoming increasingly red at the idea of their lips sharing the same area of the bottle. It was thrilling; better than any variation of the night he had previously imagined.

When about one half of the bottle had been drained, Edward had seemingly regained enough composure to ask Stede a question.

"Why do you care what those..." He paused, seemingly searching for an appropriate word, "-motherf*ckers have to say about you?"

Stede snorted, loud and unbecomingly, too inebriated to even raise a hand up to his mouth in embarrassment, too inebriated for embarrassment itself.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"My motherf*ckers are the whole world. Literally. Their opinion dictates the fate of f*cking everything."

"Oh." Stede decided it was his turn for the bottle. "Really, I try not to. It's just..." Now he was searching for the right word. "Hard." He finished lamely, wincing at his own choice. It shouldn't be hard for an adult to hold their own in a conversation or show up to a party alone. Yet it felt unbearably difficult for Stede, an obstacle he could find no way around.

"Why'sit so hard?" Ed murmured around the bottle. Stede looked down at his empty hand with a blink. He hadn't even noticed Ed taking it. Obviously, the whiskey was doing its job and blurring the sharp edges of the night.

"I don't know." He replied simply, not even sure if that was the truth.

"When I'm in my bakery, when I'm away from them, it's easier. I don't feel like I have to prove something. Most of the time anyway," He added hastily. "But it's as if whenever I stand in front of them, I'm young all over again and terrified of what they'll do next. Lock me in a closet or something along those lines. You know, I’ve given you so much advice telling you to ignore the negativity, as if it’s easy on my part. It never is."

Edward's voice was low, molten, when he asked, "They used to lock you inside closets?"

Stede breezily waved away the question.

"All the time. Believe me, that was hardly the worst of it."

"For how long, Stede?"

"Well, I suppose it just depended on the day. A few hours at the least. Sometimes they would forget about me and it would turn into an impromptu sleepover."

Stede tried to laugh, but found he couldn't quite get the sound right. It sounded hollow.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it all over again; rough hands grabbing his arms, tearing his school uniform, pushing him somewhere dark and cramped and smelling strongly of cleaning chemicals.

"I could hear the lunch and dinner bells when they rang, that would help me keep track of time. Chauncey used to tell me they were helping me lose weight and he'd make me thank him. That was-" Stede cleared his throat, trying not to get too lost in the memory rising up, swells crashing against the side of a ship.

"Well, boarding school boys will be boarding school boys, I suppose.”

Stede was distracted for a moment by Edward's hand, outstretched one second then tightly clenched into a fist the next, as if experiencing his own phantom sensation.

"I'm glad I punched that one f*cker then."

Stede hummed appreciatively, now preoccupied with the sight of Edward's fingers. Long and calloused, like a musician's, but covered in burns. The urge to trace over them was ripping through him once more. Hands like those should be illegal.

"Yes, quite."

A beat passed. Two. Stede glanced over at the man next to him.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I'm just saying I don't regret punching that Nigel bastard. Sounds like he's had it coming for a while."

Stede felt as if he were having a stroke. Did he smell toast burning? Had he put toast in?

"Edward, what are you-Did you-" For the first time in a while, Stede wished he were sober. He didn't believe he had any hope of making sense of this interaction otherwise.

Ed was now looking over at him as if he thought Stede was having a stroke.

"You alright, mate?"

"Fine! Yes, fine. Just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you..."

"I punched that Nigel dude, yeah. Should I not have done that?"

Stede's grin was wide and uncompromising. He suddenly felt as if he could grin for the rest of his life.

"Probably not, no."

"But you're...glad?" Ed guessed, obviously trying to gauge the rapid changing of expressions he had just witnessed.

"I am not one to condone violence. Things can always be talked through."

"Sure. But you're smiling. Like a lunatic."

"So it would seem."

Slowly, Edward's grin was beginning to match his own.

"Bit of a lunatic inside you then?"

"Just a bit, I would wager."

They were laughing together and something warm and brilliant was blooming in Stede's chest. His gratitude was blocking any true expression of thanks from making itself known. In an attempt to convey it, Stede caught Ed's hand and squeezed it, letting it fall back on his lap still intertwined.

"Thank you for doing that, Edward." He was finally able to manage.

Ed wasn't looking at him, instead staring pointedly at his lap.

"Don't mention it. Should have been there to punch him thirty years ago." He muttered.

Stede's grip tightened.

"I think you've more than made up for it.”

If there was something ridiculous about two grown men sitting fully clothed in bed, holding hands like love-sick teenagers, Stede refused to acknowledge it out loud. Despite his heart beating out the rhythm of a particularly intricate waltz, he could feel the inevitable exhaustion slipping over him like a well worn blanket.

The night had taken on a dream-like quality. Stede was more comfortable than he had been in years. His antique bed had never felt like this in all the time he had shared it with Mary. This room, he suddenly comprehended, was safe, and the revelation felt profound. It helped Stede realize that he was all at once too tired to change into his nightclothes, too tired to let go of the comforting heat of Ed’s hand. Certainly too tired to dance around an insufferably frustrating pretense any longer.

“Do you remember, Edward, when I told you that I didn’t quite know what made me happy?” His words were slurred, though with sleep or inebriation, it was difficult to tell.

Edward nodded his assent. The man still seemed focused on their intertwined hands, bolstering Stede’s relief that he hadn’t yet pulled away. It was even more reassuring to have the barrier of intoxication. Stede knew without it he would be feeling the panic of his next actions in full-force. Instead, the haziness surrounding his current perception was an additional comforting companion.

All that to say, it was with an ease usually a mere stranger to Stede that he rested his head against Ed’s shoulder and finished his thought.

“I think I’m starting to figure it out.”

The resulting silence didn’t send Stede into a frenzied back-track of an apology, as it usually would. In truth, it almost lulled him to sleep. He was only able to fight it off when Edward finally responded, years later - Or so it felt like.

“You’re drunk, Stede. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I quite know exactly what I’m talking about.” Stede had never been very authoritative, not even with his own employees. He certainly had no hope of coming across as such to Ed, and frankly, the obvious battle he was fighting against succumbing to sleep did not strengthen his case.

Nevertheless, he persisted.

“I’m talking about you. And me. Us.” Drowsily, he lifted up their connected hands, as if showcasing evidence. “I’m talking about skipping the pretending and moving straight to happy.”

It was a slow movement, Stede Bonnet turning his gaze upwards through heavily-lidded eyes to try and catch the reaction of the man next to him. There seemed nothing he could pick up on, aside from the fact that Edward was now gripping his hand very, very tightly.

“In the morning.” He responded quietly, with a voice stilted and stalled as if he were in pain.

“We’ll talk in the morning.”

Stede mumbled his assent, the dark edges of sleep settling on his vision. As he succumbed, finally, to his exhaustion, his last thought was a mutinous one, slipping through the defense of inebriation and fatigue alike to produce a singular reminder: the image of what had awaited Stede Bonnet come morning the last time Edward Teach had slept in his bed.

Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty-One: Morning

Chapter Text

Stede woke up with a headache so harsh it eclipsed the immediate formation of any coherent thoughts. He would have considered that a blessing later on. Initially, however, it was all he could do to open his eyes amidst the pounding in his head.

He raised a hand automatically, as if to shield his vision from the light that so often woke him in the apartment, a movement of memory. Two separate realizations washed over him in the subsequent moment.

Firstly, it was dark in the room; the curtains were still drawn tightly from the night prior, as if something scandalous had occurred.

Secondly, he was in bed alone.

It was not an unknown experience, and it allowed him to wallow in the familiarity until the worst of the immediate hangover pain subsided. The passing time unfortunately did nothing to erase the uncomfortable crawling sensation of sleeping in his suit from the day before, nor the scratching thirst burning its presence in his throat.

When he finally convinced himself to rise from the bed, ignoring the squeaks of springs joining his body in groaning protest, it failed to even slightly diminish the resounding wave of disappointment that rushed over him.He tried to steady himself on shaking legs, but the following rush of embarrassment nearly keeled him over again.

He had made a complete and utter fool of himself last night, starting from the moment they set foot down that pathway and continuing far beyond him stumbling through the Badminton’s backyard. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open against the onslaught of recollections, from his pathetic whining over his childhood to the unforgivable boldness that had compelled him to imprison Ed in a handshake.

No wonder the man had deserted him in the early morning when Stede had been too drunkenly passed out to notice.

Not even his amateur baking skills would be able to fix this situation, he was certain. It would be a miracle if Ed stepped foot in his bakery ever again. He could feel his breath beginning to shorten at the thought.And Stede - Edward might see it fit to get Stede banned from any fine dining establishment in the entire metropolitan area and Stede would consider it a fitting punishment.

And with all the trouble Edward had gone through for him last night - Leaving the party early, punching Nigel Badminton, punching Nigel Badminton!

The flashback of Edward revealing that to Stede pulled him up short, quelled his panicked huffs, if only for a moment.

Ed had uttered the words as if it had been a simple decision, and not technically assault against a very high-ranking member of Stede’s Homeowner’s Association.

I’m glad I punched that one f*cker then.

No one had ever stood up for Stede before, not even himself. If there ever had been someone to do it, they certainly wouldn’t have done it willingly, wouldn’t have derived satisfaction from the act. And that, surprisingly, was what lessened the sting of Edward’s absence, if only slightly.

Stede had gone too far last night, crossed a line he really hadn’t been meaning to cross, a line he hadn’t even been fully aware of until he was gleefully hopping over it. But they were still friends, weren’t they? You wouldn’t punch someone to defend the honor of a mere acquaintance, surely.

Stede would see Edward again. He would find a way to make sure of it. And when he did, he would apologize, profusely if he must, for his presumptuousness. Or perhaps the man would prefer that the situation be ignored altogether - Stede was more than proficient at that particular way of handling a problem.

That was what this was, that was what he was: A problem that needed to be fixed.

If Stede could leave himself in the early morning hours as well, he would.

He needed a shower, badly, the remnant of the night prior still abundantly clear in his wrinkled, perspired clothes, but he was distracted from that by a movement out of the corner of his eye. A tremor in his hand. There was something he needed more, it seemed. A drink, to calm the shaking and the raging thoughts alike. Just a few sips, to settle his nerves.

He didn’t bother to check his phone before leaving the bedroom. Knowing what time it was would surely only make him feel worse, in much the same way he avoided his reflection as he passed his vanity. If he looked anywhere close to how he felt, it would not a pretty sight.

The shuffling walk down the hallway, down the stairs, into the kitchen, was oppressive. Oppressive and familiar, as if the shadow of his lonely marital years was still following behind at every turn.

Stede realized that there had still been a spot of hope - Perhaps Edward had simply woken up early and was helping himself to the fridge - because he felt it’s hasty departure as he entered the vacant kitchen. Just as well. He didn’t need to open the fridge or check the pantry to know that it was gapingly empty.

Last night had not made enough of an impact on the liquor cabinet, however. It waited for him in the foyer as dutifully as a soldier, of options to peruse - Save the disappearance of a single shared, bottle of whiskey. Its absence was as much a reminder as its presence would have been.

He reached for the handle and caught a glimpse of his own warped reflection in the glass, recoiling as if it had burned him. Red lines of sleep streaked across his cheek and his hair looked wrangled to one side. Even despite just waking up, he looked tired. But it was the hatred in the eyes of the person looking back at him that truly shocked him.

A sudden bone-deep exhaustion found himself resting his forehead against the even wood grain of the cabinet. It felt useless to move, held in place by his own miserable inadequacy.

Get a divorce. Buy a bakery. Take up residence in another town. It didn’t matter. Nothing Stede could do would ever allow him to escape himself. Not in the way everyone else was so eager to escape him.

It seemed more than a glass would be necessary.

Stede didn’t even have time to reach for a tribute before Edward was bursting through his front door.

There was no way to describe Stede’s reaction other than a scream - A yelp, if he were allowed to be generous. High-pitched and startled nonetheless and the impetus for a resurgence of his headache.

He had winced, almost immediately shutting his eyes in protest against the sudden scourge of pain in his temple, but he had known it was Ed all the same. There was no mistaking it. There was never any mistaking him.

“Oh, sh*t! Sorry, Stede, mate, are you okay?”

Stede forced himself to open his eyes.

“Fine! Quite fine. Just - I wasn’t expecting-What are you-” The words stalled. The scene before him seemed self-explanatory, on the surface. Anybody with eyes would be able to piece together some semblance of an idea of what was happening.

Edward was, after all, holding two large paper bags of groceries in his hands. Bright - morning? Afternoon? - sunlight streamed out from behind him, framing his silhouette. He was, noticeably, also wearing his clothes from the night prior, minus the jacket, of course, with the shirt itself being just as wrinkled as Stede’s - An indication he had slept the same long hours in them, in bed, in the same bed Stede had found himself alone in come morning. That seemingly had not deterred him from going out in public. Stede didn’t even know where the closest grocery store was to the affluent neighborhood, yet still, there Ed stood, providing manna in the desert.

“Hello.” Stede said, suddenly and really, rather dumbly, wincing as soon as the words left his mouth, now due to the pain of mortification.

“Hey.” Ed responded, grinning bright enough to eclipse the sunlight.

“I thought that you had…left.” The statement came out partially as a question.

Ed seemed confident in the answer, closing the front door behind him with his foot.

“I did leave. To get groceries. Didn’t you get my text?” He hoisted the bags up, displaying the evidence, before beginning to find his own way to the kitchen. Stede followed behind mutely.“I was going to make breakfast, but you didn’t have anything in your fridge.” Ed would glance behind him every few seconds as they walked, beckoning Stede ever forward.

“Like nothing.” He repeated, reaching the kitchen and setting the bags on the counter. With his hands free, Ed turned towards one of the cabinets, retrieving a glass somehow without needing to ask for its location and filling it with water from the sink before handing it to Stede. A moment later, he was rifling through the groceries and tossing him a bottle of aspirin.

It was only the emphasis of the previous statement that distracted Stede from his own shock. In a few moments, he had downed both the water and several pills.

“It’s not completely empty.” He finally replied with a quiet sort of defensiveness before realizing Ed hadn’t been judgmental - Simply factual.

Ed’s laugh was easy and carefree and Stede felt a responding ache in his chest at the sight. It was a temporary distraction from having to focus on the fact that Ed had stayed the night. Stayed the night and wanted to cook breakfast in the morning. Even despite his answer to Stede’s…proposal.

“Open the fridge, Stede.”

Stede listened dutifully and was greeted with the sight of a nearly empty fridge. To his defense, there was a bottle of mustard and a package of wilted lettuce that wouldn’t expire for nearly another week.

“I’m a good chef, great chef actually, but I’m not that great.”

Stede let the door close with a little huff, embarrassed at its contents, before turning back around to face Ed.

“I’m certain Bobby Flay would have been able to do something with it.” Stedesniffed.

The comment did nothing to dampen Edward’s, decidedly high, spirits. He began to empty out the contents of the bags.

“Is Bobby Flay the only celebrity chef you know?”

An honest answer would have condemned him, so Stede settled with shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

“Maybe.” If last night was surreal, the morning was proving to be a Salvador Dali painting. Stede had been rejected - As good as rejected - and that was after the night’s mortifying events. What was Edward still doing here?

“How many Michelin Stars does Bobby Flay have?”

Other than holding an inane conversation with a very bewildered Stede.

“I’m sure I don’t know-”

“Zero, that’s how many. I have twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?” Stede’s train of thought was momentarily derailed, his tone incredulous. Twenty-five was just boasting, at that point.

“Give or take.”

“I’ve heard that’s what they do.” He quipped, mentally scrolling through the brief catalog of commendations Bonnet’s Bakery had been bestowed with and wondering if any of them were worth mentioning. There had been one review that was particularly lovely - It almost rivaled the one Lucius had posted about the bakery from Stede’s own Yelp (Elite!) account. Overall, however, the list fell short in comparison.

Trying to compare the bakery with his restaurants would be like trying to compare the baker and the cook himself. Stede had been falling short since childhood. It seemed rather cruel, even for his life, to land at the feet of Edward Teach.

The man in question wasn’t done unloading the bags yet. An arsenal of foodstuffs was steadily growing on his counter. The basics had appeared first, eggs, milk, butter, sugar, before being followed by the more substantial items. Just their presence caused an itch in Stede’s fingers, muscle memory alone prompting the urge to bake something - Danishes, croissants, a strudel if he had to.

The bakery was always closed on weekends, but even if that weren’t the case, Stede wouldn’t have gone in. He had been expecting a hangover to follow the event ever since first receiving the invitation in the mail. His prediction had been right.

While his headache had, mercifully, lessened again, Stede still felt rather…gross. It caused him to idle near the fridge, keeping his distance from Edward, at least until he figured out the state of his breath.

“That was very kind of you to buy ingredients. I can make something, if you’d like. Crêpes, perhaps?”

Edward unloaded the last of the produce and loudly crumpled up the bags he had carried in. His eyes narrowed in response to Stede’s proposal, but there was a sly smirk playing on his lips all the while that was very successful at utterly confusing Stede.

“I don’t know, mate. Crepes seem a little too close to cooking to be safe.”

If Stede hadn’t maintained such distance between them, he would have smacked the man in the arm for that. Or, he would have considered it, before thinking back on the shambles of lamb he had once attempted to pass as edible.

“Croissants then?”

Stede thought it might have been the normalcy he was searching for, more than anything else. Surely, this situation would make a little more sense if he were allowed to distract himself with some dough.

Edward was having none of it, seeing as how he had started to search through Stede’s cabinets for various cookware and utensils. Those he would find well-stocked. When Stede did have a personal chef in his married years, he had made sure she had every possible tool and gadget that was desired, a too late thank-you to the previous cook who had inspired his first love of baking.

“I already told you I’m making breakfast. It won’t take too long but there’s enough time for you to shower if you’d like.” He was flipping a frying pan in his hands by the handle, humming as he ransacked the kitchen, and Stede marveled at the comfortability the man possessed. It was astonishing how easily he could meld into spaces, as if he had always belonged there. The only time Stede had seen Ed really uncomfortable was at Button’s, and even then, he had warmed up soon enough. It was a power Stede could never possess, but the jealousy was latent, not overwhelming or possessing. There was too much adoration choking it out.

“Edward, I couldn’t possibly have you do that.” Stede insisted, despite the fact he desperately wanted a shower. “You’re my guest. I should be the one cooking for you.” And Edward still was his guest, against all odds. Yes, the man had said they would talk about it in the morning. Stede had been too drunk at the time to take the words for what they really meant - An embarrassingly polite refusal to an embarrassing offer.

Stede knew that if they wanted to stay abreast of the hospital, his cooking really wasn’t the viable option he presented it as. Edward obviously knew that as well, and communicated as much with the look he sent Stede’s way.

“I’m the cook in this relationship. Literally. That’s my literal job. Why wouldn’t I make breakfast?” Ed said the words so easily, so confidently, and with that same wide grin he walked through the front door with.

It was with a strangled, twisted-sounding sort of gasp, almost a scoff but not quite, that Stede asked his next question, just a single word.

“Relationship?”

Edward froze in place, which meant he froze with the frying pan in his hand. He turned around from the cabinet, which meant he turned to face Stede. He did not look at him. Conversely, Stede could do nothing but stare, eyes widened and mouth - morning breath be damned - dropped open.

They stood there in silence. Stede began to notice Edward’s grip on the pan become more akin to a clench.

“I thought - You said that we would talk about it in the morning.” Stede finally ventured, still sounding as if all the breath had been compressed from his lungs. It certainly felt that way. If he didn’t get a hold of himself, he would start gasping.

Edward’s grasp had officially evolved into a death hold.

The movement - setting the pan onto the countertop - was very, very slow.

“Yes. I said that.”

“It’s the morning.” Stede’s voice was much, much higher than normal. His vocal chords were obviously next on the list of compression.

“Sorry. I should have -” After the case study Stede had built in his own head about Edward’s seamless adaptability, the sudden transformation was startling. His limbs were tense, completely rigid, and when he finally, finally looked up at Stede, his expression was stricken.

“I can go.”

“Why would you go?” The question was immediate, desperate to leave Stede’s mouth before he could help it. There was a sudden pressure, like those moments in childhood when his pursuers would finally catch up to him and pin him to the ground. It certainly felt as if someone was kneeling on his chest.

“Thought you might change your mind. Guess I got a little too-” Ed looked as if he choked something down and what came out next wasn’t what he meant to say.

“Confident. Should have-” He moved a hand into the air, beckoning between them as if that would fill in the gap. “-First. Makes sense. I work long hours. Izzy’s a right pain. Sordid past and all that. Plenty of reasons not to-”

Ed seemed to be unable to finish his sentences, choosing instead to supplement another wave of his hand.

“Right. Goodbye.”

Stede was still gaping in an aquatic sort of way, but Edward’s attempt at a hasty departure was enough to prompt him to respond, if inadequately.

“Ed, wait! Please, stop!” And he did, hunched in the doorway of the kitchen as if it were painful for him to do so.

“Yes?”

“You-” It was impossible not to sound like a heartbroken teenager - Dimly, Stede was thinking if he had just been faster in getting to the liquor cabinet and a little less melodramatic, this all would have been easier - So he just came out and said it.

“You rejected me.”

Ed chose to respond by laughing, but the warmth from mere moments earlier was absent, chased away by Stede himself it felt like. It really was not a laugh, more akin to an irritated huff of disbelief.

“Weird joke, mate.”

“It’s not a joke, Ed. You told me that we would-” It was Stede’s turn to flounder.

“Talk about it in the morning, yeah.” Ed turned to face him but stayed looking off to the side, as if he couldn't bear the sight.

Stede raised his eyebrows, fruitlessly trying to indicate with his expression alone the obvious implication of Edward’s words.

“Which means-”

“We’ll talk about this when you’re sober and certain you’re not making a huge f*cking mistake.”

The agitation was present in Edward’s voice the same way confusion was clear in Stede’s when he replied, “No. It means, this is an undeservedly polite way of letting you know that I’m not at all interested in you, please let go of my hand.”

It was silent again, but this was not the type of silence Stede Bonnet was used to. This silence was filled, so charged that Stede felt as if it was its own conversation.

The agitation was all but gone, something much more - Vulnerable? Reverent? - bashful replacing it as Edward responded.

“I didn’t want you to let go of my hand.”

“You didn’t?” Stede asked, taken aback at once by both the revelation and the fact he asked the question without the encouragement of spirits.

“No.” And the answer let Stede know that Ed’s confidence was slowly returning. It eased some, but not all, of the panic that had settled onto Stede’s chest.

“Are you sure you-“ Stede couldn’t believe he was questioning it already, trying to dismantle it all before it could even begin, but it was only fair to Edward. He had to be warned, and if the Badminton’s couldn’t do it, then he would have to.

“I’m not-“ It was traitorous, the way his body refused to let him finish the statement. The list of things Stede Bonnet is was hardly exhausted the night prior, but there were just as many things Stede Bonnet was not.

“I’m not anything special compared to-Really, I’m not…anything. Plenty of reasons not to.” He finished softly, as if there was anyway for Ed not to hear him.

Ed stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Stede, I’ve met celebrities. Actors and star athletes and presidents. I’ve cooked for the goddamn president.”

“Well, proves my point a bit, doesn’t it?.”

“It doesn’t, if you let me finish.” He leaned against the counter and, despite it all, Stede felt relieved when he noticed the tension was gone from the man’s limbs.

“You’re easily the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Ed had lied about Blackbeard. It was no easy stretch of the imagination to assume that he might be lying about this too. But that made no sense. What reason would he have to lie for the benefit of Stede Bonnet?

Ed said it so nonchalantly, it made Stede want to believe him.

Of course, Stede would have wanted to believe him if he had said it through gritted teeth, but there was no sign of the tells Stede had slowly learned to pick up on. Instead, that maddeningly soft smile had returned to play at Edward’s lips. His eyes were earnest in their attempt to communicate something.

“That’s very kind of you-”

“I’m not being kind, Stede. I’m just telling you the truth. You blow them out of the water. You’re so f*cking fascinating.” His hands were moving again, trying to emphasize his words.

“I’m really-”

“You live above your bakery, even though you have a whole ass mansion. You force your employees to take paid vacations. And you make the best goddamn desserts I’ve ever tasted, which shouldn’t be possible at this point.” He was talking loudly, enthusiastically, stirring up the usual stagnant air of the mansion, but here his volume lowered.

“And you’re a good person. Genuinely. I haven’t - I don’t meet many of those. And you keep on being good.”

There was a feverish warmth that had started pooling somewhere in his gut and had since been steadily making its way upwards. Stede could feel it now in the flushing of his face.

“Oh.”

“So, yes. I would still like to hold your hand. And uh - Everything in between that.”

“Oh.”

“If you still want-”

“Yes.” And Stede would curse himself for being so obviously eager if it didn’t cause Ed to widen his grin and laugh softly. Stede hadn’t chased the warmth away after all, it was there in full force once more.

“I’m glad.” Edward smiled, and it was so open and beckoning that Stede practically didn’t know what to do with it. It took him a moment to realize that he was smiling too, an automatic response, or perhaps Edward had been responding to him.

“I’ll keep cooking breakfast for us then.” He pointed to himself. “Professional chef and all.”

Stede nodded, unsure what to do with all the fluttering in his chest.

“I will, um-” He tried to remember what he had been doing before Ed came back. Those few sips no longer felt like such a necessity.

“-Take a shower. Yes.”

Ed had gotten his hands on the frying pan and was twirling it once more.

“Breakfast will be done in twenty minutes.”

Before he could leave the room, something hit Stede over the head all over again and he blurted out, without thinking about it, “You punched Nigel.”

“f*ck yeah I did.” The pride in Edward’s voice sounded almost as warm as the renewed rush of gratitude that surged in Stede’s chest. He bit his lip to prevent the same smile as last night from reappearing as well.

“There was no need to do that on my behalf. They’re a formidable enemy to have, you know.”

Ed had already begun cracking open the carton of eggs, pulling out a few and examining them for blemishes. This new grin he wore was crooked and teasing and there was a very strong urge inside of Stede to kiss it right off.

“What are they gonna do, write another piece about me?”

Professional chef, indeed. There was no need for Stede to make croissants, after all. Edward had prepared a feast.

At least, it was a feast compared to Stede’s usual breakfast, which would vary day to day from a glass of Chardonnay to a single pain au chocolat.

The counter was now filled with plates all heaped with various breakfast foods, but Stede hardly had time to glance at them before he was being ushered into a seat at the large kitchen island and a plate of his own was being set down in front of him.

The scalding shower had been miraculous, particularly in the endeavor of convincing him that he wasn’t still asleep, and despite choosing what to wear almost certainly taking longer than twenty minutes, he felt much closer to a normal person by the time it was all finished. His hair was still drying, slowly curling up against his neck as he made his way downstairs.

Edward was in the process of drying the dishes he had used, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up past his forearms, beginning the display of the man’s many tattoos. It caused any protests Stede had at the dishwashing to die on his lips and made him think he needed another shower - Frigid this time around.

There was no time. All at once Ed was drying his hands on a dish towel Stede hadn’t even known he owned and urging him to sit and handing him a plate and then just looking at him, waiting in expectation.

It took a second for Stede’s mind to catch up. Ed was waiting for him to try the food he had made for him and - Oh, it was almost too pretty to eat.

Obviously the man’s status as a high-profile chef was earned. An American-style omelette, fluffy and filled, garnished with spring onions and a dollop of sour cream, took up the most space. It was joined by a smaller bowl of fruit; cubed melon, berries and orange wedges.

Finally, Ed placed down a mug of steaming coffee. Stede only had to glance at the roasted caramel color to know he had gotten it right.

He refused to keep the man in suspense, and just as when he had tried the burger, the response was involuntary. He let out a little gasp of pleasure, head whipping up to look at Ed with wide eyes. Ed was grinning again, and it was a look he wore well.

“Edward, this is marvelous. You have to try some.” And before Stede could second-guess himself, before he could stall his actions with the logic that Ed made the food so surely he had tasted it, he held up a forkful of egg. And Ed moved from his watchful position behind the counter to stand right next to Stede and accept the offering. He looked at Stede the moment his lips closed around the fork and maintained eye contact when he drew back.

“How do you like it?” He asked Stede, despite the fact Stede had just provided his, very positive, opinion. It was no trouble to reiterate the fact.

“It’s amazing, Edward, delicious.” His lips quirked around another bite. The omelette was nearly halfway gone. “You should really think about opening a restaurant.”

“Not a bad idea. But I don’t know, I already have an offer from a bakery. Seems like something I should look into.”

Stede had to cover his mouth with his hand to shield Ed from a particularly intimate view of his food, his smile was so large.

“I hope you think the offer they made you is worth it. I can only imagine your services are in high demand.”

“Yeah,” Ed responded automatically. There was something in his expression that Stede couldn’t quite place but that looked familiar all the same. If he had to put a word to it, and if he wasn’t just projecting himself onto Edward Teach once more, he might say that it looked…hopeful.

“Yeah,” He repeated. “It’s worth it.”

Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Text

Edward hadn’t been lying when he mentioned his long working hours.

It made sense, of course, considering his occupation, even if he hadn’t been famous. Oluwande had informed Stede after he inquired, very casually he might add, about his past schedule in the restaurant industry.

“It was horrible.” His employee had told him unceremoniously. “Most days I wouldn’t get home before twelve at the earliest. Jim was ready to kill me.”

On the spectrum of emotion, Stede wasn’t very close to murder concerning Ed’s schedule, but he wasn’t far away from disheartenment either.

Stede’s mornings were always occupied and often the busiest parts of his day, early hours and onwards spent in the kitchen baking the daily stocks. The crowds thinned considerably during the afternoon, but that was essentially broad daylight. It wouldn’t be good for either of them, he was sure, if Ed were spotted at Bonnet’s Bakery, no matter how tempting the thought.

The emergence of evening hours, when the bakery was closed and quiet and his employees were sent home, that was Stede’s favorite time to spend with Edward - Few and far in-between as it was, as the ending of Stede’s workday signaled the beginning of Ed’s.

And what did it matter that Stede had weekends off, when those were the most active days for Ed’s restaurants?

It felt as if he were seeing Ed less than he had before the party - Which was fine, of course. Lonely, but fine. Subconsciously reaffirming his worst fears, but fine. Really, Stede could hardly expect a celebrity - He had to keep reminding himself, objectively, that’s what Edward was - to acquiesce to the schedule of a baker.

Which meant late dinners held up even further by Ed’s absence, urgent phone calls interrupting what time was spent together, and apologies that Stede wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

A few weeks into this and Stede couldn’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to remain friends after all. He resented the thought but the fact remained that when he was able to steal some of Ed’s time, he always seemed, well, tired. His eyes looked dull and his expression often remained drawn, like it had been stretched too far and was having trouble finding its original shape.

If they went back to being friends, it would relieve some of the pressure Ed must be feeling to spend time with Stede. They could simply see each other when his schedule allowed, he wouldn’t have to go out of his way.

Ed had been rather horrified when Stede suggested it.

The look of dogged exhaustion had disappeared, but Stede missed it immediately when a twisted sort of aghast took its place. The plate of palmiers he had first greeted Ed with remained untouched in front of them.

“You want to-”

“No! No, of course not!” Stede had practically jumped out from his chair. They were sitting in the bakery and it was late. Stede was already dreading how his body would feel in the morning on the few hours of sleep he would be limited to, although he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it at the moment if it meant a few more hours with Ed.

Stede reached a hand out across the table and held onto Ed’s wrist, partially for reassurance but also as a precaution. The man looked ready to jump out of his chair himself. Stede’s thumb slowly began to stroke the underside of Ed’s wrist, as if of its own accord.

“Ed, of course I don’t want to. I just thought it might make things easier for you. You obviously have a lot on your plate and I don’t want to add to that.”

Stede’s limbs couldn’t release any of their own tension until he felt Ed relax, moderately, under his grip.

“I’m used to having a lot on my plate, Stede, I’m a chef.”

Stede suppressed the snort that wanted to make itself known at the quip, but there was a gleam in Ed’s eye that told Stede he probably noticed it anyway.

Resolutely, he cleared his throat and drew back his hand.

“I’m worried about you, Ed. And-” He attempted to steel his resolve, “I’m not keen on being in a relationship that feels like a burden. Tried that already. Didn’t quite work out.”

Really, if Ed was allowed a wisecrack, then it was only fair.

Ed didn’t look as if he found it humorous.

“You’re right, I’ve been - Occupied, lately. Busy. Organizing. Preparing stuff.”

Stede nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral. He must not have been fully successful, because Ed’s expression grew a little frantic.

“But I’m done now. I finished. Things are gonna be different now so don’t-”

Ed was the one to bridge the gap this time around, reaching out to grasp Stede’s hand like a lifeline, trying to convey what he seemingly couldn’t with his words.

Stede was reminded of two contrasting images: First came the memory of the initial night he had met Ed, the resulting empty bed that next morning and the aching disappointment that came with it. Then he thought of Ed standing in his kitchen, humming to himself as he cooked Stede breakfast.

It was only too easy to know which one he wanted his future to hold.

Ed started to visit the bakery more frequently after that, still occupying those calm hours after the business closed, but at a time that was more reasonable to Stede’s sleep schedule. Just his increased presence alone was enough to allay those early barbed doubts that had appeared.

Still, Ed’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

On one such visit, after the sixth - seventh? - phone call that rang out without Ed bothering to even look at it, Stede had seen fit to bring it up. They were conversing over dinner - Ordered in, despite Ed’s protests, Stede wasn’t trying to add to his workload - above the bakery. Stede had been telling him a story about the time his father had caught him baking cupcakes and - Really, it had sounded funnier in his head. But it wasn’t anything important. It didn’t explain why Ed wouldn’t answer the phone.

“Edward, you can…” Stede didn’t know how to give permission for the act. “Answer the phone. Don’t ignore it on my behalf. I promise I don’t mind.”

Ed made a face that consisted of him pursing his lips and scrunching his eyebrows.

“Didn’t even hear it ringing, honestly.” Which couldn’t possibly be true, but there Ed was, patting the pockets of his dark jeans, searching for the sound culprit that was, very obviously, in his hoodie. When he did find it, he silenced it without bothering to look at the screen. And then he turned back to Stede and the plate of macaroons that was serving as their dessert.

Coincidentally, it had also been the night of their first kiss, although in retrospect, Stede wasn’t sure how much of a coincidence it really was. What he could remember with clarity was feeling so pleased, so grateful for Ed’s full attention, he had essentially launched himself at the man. Like some sort of wild animal, it had been that fierce. All at once Stede was biting Ed’s lower lip and there was a growl in Ed’s throat Stede was trying to reach with his tongue, and -

Needless to say, Stede noticed that Ed never again looked tired during their visits.

That night constituted a marked change in their relationship.

Since then, Stede hadn’t heard Ed’s phone go off once in his presence. He knew it was worth questioning. Edward was more than just a restaurant manager, he was a restaurant personality, even if Stede felt as if he hadn’t yet grasped just how large of one. And he certainly didn’t want to get him in trouble with “ Izzy”, just for Stede’s sake.

More than that though. Ed’s nights should have been filled with interviews or celebrities or, well, shifts even. Nights of excitement. Not nights of quiet, spent in an empty bakery with leftover pastries - Or freshly baked ones, depending on how willing Stede was to teach Ed a new recipe.

(The answer was always willing. Ed, on the other hand, was less inclined to instruct Stede on the skills needed for edible cooking.

"Can’t teach you that. What else would you keep me around for? Besides, I’ve started to value my life and I’ve seen what you do to fine pieces of meat.")

Stede was just a tad too selfish to question it.

In the past, he had always found such nights boring and unfulfilling. They felt different when his companion wasn’t a bottle of sauvignon blanc. Now they were thrilling. Every easy, casual touch exchanged between the two - A hand resting on his thigh, arms snaked around his middle when the initiator really should have been paying attention to Stede’s stirring technique - set fire to Stede’s skin, and usually deterred any stirring besides. Every conversation forced to stall with laughter so intense they couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, was another fond memory to distract him from his work tasks during the slow afternoon hours. He was realizing, slowly but all the same, that such a life - Quiet but filled - such a life could be just as worthy, just as exciting as the alternative - Albeit, in a more mundane way.

Nothing about Edward felt mundane.

As the days passed, the days became weeks. Then those passed too, all spent in a similar manner. They did other things, of course. They ate dinners at restaurants far outside the city limits or attended the late-night showings of terrible movies at the cinema, and then promptly got kicked out for attempting to fool around at the late-night showings of terrible movies at the cinema. It was a wonder Edward hadn’t been recognised. (He didn’t think so. He was confident in the power of his cap and sunglasses.)

Oftentimes the night was spent in Stede’s tiny apartment in his tiny bed. He was starting to harbor the theory that Ed preferred the tight space for sleeping, their limbs having no choice but to sprawl over each other. Every so often they went to Stede’s other house, although with less frequency once Ed had deemed the bed “too squeaky” for their intended activities. Sometimes he would spend the night at Ed’s place.

To Stede, the end destination hardly mattered, as long as Ed was there with him.

The thought of being able to flaunt such security in public still beckoned, but ultimately it was better for both of them, he was sure, that Ed kept his identity a secret. It was difficult enough trying to throw Lucius off the trail of why Stede had lately been so “suspiciously pleased”. Besides, there was no telling how the image of Stede Bonnet might tarnish the reputation of the fearsome Blackbeard.

(Ed often liked to claim he was fearsome, emphasis on fear.Stede couldn’t see it, personally, but the fact remained that Stede Bonnet was decidedly not fearsome, despite how Ed would argue to the contrary.

“Don’t know about that.” He’d say, leaning his whole body against Stede in such a way that practically compelled the baker to gently run his fingers through Ed’s long hair, the same easy rhythm of kneading dough.

“I’d say you’re pretty fearsome when you want to be. Remember when you yelled at me that one time?”

“You compared my bakery to a Panera Bread. It was deserved.”

“Terrifying. I was scared for my life.”

Stede would snort. His hand wouldn’t stall. And he would say the next words already knowing what the response would be. The knowledge never made it taste less sweet.

“It’s a wonder you kept coming back.”

“Nah. Couldn’t keep me away if you tried.”

Stede didn’t think he’d ever try.)

Of course, there was a part of him, there might always be a part of him, questioning the sustainability of the relationship, wondering if they had an expiration date Stede just wasn’t aware of. It should have been surreal to have Blackbeard himself standing in an establishment such as Bonnet’s Bakerymore days of the week than not. But then, Ed wasn’t Blackbeard to Stede. The revelation of his career didn’t change the man Stede had first met. There was no sudden urge to stalk his Wikipedia page or search for headlines using the moniker as a clickbait title - And just as well. He had never been a fan of gossip, not after having been a subject of it for so long.

Blackbeard might as well have been an off-screen character. Passing mentions might be exchanged about him, but Stede meant his words: He was nothing compared to Edward Teach.

Needless to say, when the lazy late afternoon hours brought a nearly empty bakery, a bored Lucius and a Stede Bonnet with plenty of time on his hands, it wasn’t Blackbeard’s co-ownership he would daydream about. It was Ed’s.

It was a guilty pleasure of a daydream, imagining what life might be like if Edward didn’t have his restaurants to look after, if they could spend daylight hours together without needing to worry about being recognized or swarmed, if Stede had finally found the perfect partner to experience the world with.

A pleasant way to pass the time, but guilty was an apt word to describe the act. Just as there was a part of Stede that wanted to revel publicly in the relationship, just as pressing was the side that urged him to keep it a secret.

Bonnet’s Bakery was not a large store. It would be a death sentence trying to handle the masses Ed had so easily navigated at the Badminton’s, masses that were only too eager to congregate around Blackbeard.

More than that, Bonnet’s Bakery was, well, Stede’s. There was an insistence, no matter how small or selfish, to keep it that way. He had built it from the ground up, invested his own savings, fought for its very existence. It was proof to those in his life that he was not who they portrayed him to be, that there was something of his own their words could not taint.

Stede didn’t want that to disappear in the wake of the tidal wave that was Blackbeard, for his life’s work to be lost in the context of someone else’s appearance.

He suddenly understood his ex-wife just a little bit better, and the realization spurred a new wave of conflict.

There was one more reason not to reveal their relationship to the public. One more reason to keep hidden this bond building between them, as fast and brilliant as a spark turned blaze. One more reason not to tell the world just how much Edward Teach meant to Stede Bonnet.

It was a dreary, wet afternoon when Stede found out what that one more reason was.

The bakery was nearly empty, just a few customers content to escape the rain in the coziness provided, the warmth emanating from the kitchen enough to make Stede sweat a little under his sweater - Merino, of course. If everything else about his life changed, his rule about wool never would.

When the phone rang, Stede didn’t even bother to glance in its direction, knowing that Lucius would be looking for the distraction from monotony.

As the phone continued ringing, Stede looked around, drawn out of his own thoughts. He had been brainstorming the upcoming month’s newest dessert - Could he come up with something Ed had never tried before? He’d need Oluwande’s input for certain. - and was rather irritated at being interrupted. As it was, Lucius was nowhere near the phone, instead standing by the library talking to one of the few patrons present, a bald-headed man whose daily stops, Stede was beginning to suspect, had nothing to do with the baked goods.

Stede waited, just to see if Lucius would react in any way. He might as well have been a paying customer for all the attention he paid to the phone.

With a huff, Stede rose from his seat behind the counter. Just as his hand was about to grasp the receiver, the ringing stopped.

Oh well, he thought to himself, If it were truly important, they could call back-

The ringing resumed, somehow sounding more intent this time around. For a moment, he hesitated to pick it up, before quickly chiding his own overactive imagination,

Stede answered it the same way he always did, brightly.

“ Thank you for calling Bonnet’s Bakery, how may I help you?”

A static silence was his response.

“Hello?”

Before any words there was an exhale of breath.

Then a rasp of a voice, “Let me talk to Stede Bonnet.”

Stede maintained his chipper tone.

“Speaking!”

“I have a business deal for your consideration.”

Stede stood up a little straighter. Was this a potential investor? The bakery’s many five star reviews were finally bestowing their rewards. That being said, Stede wasn’t sure they needed an investor. If the bakery ever had need of something, chances were Stede had already pre-ordered next year’s model. It came out of his own pockets but then, his pockets were rather deep.

It was an exciting prospect nonetheless.

“I am ready to consider.”

“You have a lucrative opportunity available due to your…current proximity to a person of interest.”

That didn’t sound like it had anything to do with their five star reviews.

“I apologize, I’m not sure I understand what you’re offering.”

“I’m offering- “ The voice snarled the word, as if he were suddenly furious at Stede, “for you to make more money than your bakery could ever imagine. All you need to do is provide photos.”

Stede wasn’t following. “Photos…of the bakery?”

“No, you idiot. Photos of Blackbeard.”

All at once, the bakery no longer felt warm. Something freezing was flooding Stede’s veins. Whoever was on the other line didn’t seem to notice.

“-Tell you where to send them. Just listen to the instructions and it will be worth more than your while. Got it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you deaf?”

“Are you insane?” Stede truly didn’t mean to, but his volume was, simply put, loud. At the corner of his eye he saw Lucius jump, startled out of his conversation. He turned around to stare at his boss, but Stede paid him no heed.

“Who is this?” He tried to demand of the voice. “Tell me who you are.”

“That’s not how this works, Bonnet-”

“I’ll tell you how this works,” There was something hotter than anger churning in Stede’s gut. He heard the plastic casing of the phone crack beneath his grip and switched it to his right hand.

“If you ever call my bakery again I will have you tracked down and found.”

Suddenly Lucius was hanging off of Stede’s shoulder, trying to listen in on the phone call.

“Who are you talking to?” He stage-whispered, eyes wide. Stede ignored him, too focused on the situation at hand. The light ringing of the entrance bell that sounded out in the background might as well have been miles away.

“And once I find you,” He continued, “I’ll have my lawyers sue you for every asset you think you have.”

Lucius waved his hand in front of Stede’s eye, attempting to grab his attention.

“Hey, hey, tell them they won’t be able to sit down because you’re going to own his ass.”

Stede continued to igno-Well, actually, that wasn’t a bad line.

“You won’t be able to sit down because I’m going to own your ass.” Stede snarled into the phone, completely overcome with righteous fury that hardly abated when he slammed the handset down. He was pretty sure the mongrel on the other end had hung up at the first mention of lawyers anyways.

For a few seconds after hanging up, there was no sound in the bakery save Stede’s heavy, heated exhales that refused to slow.

How could anyone - Who would ever - The mangled surge of thoughts continued to seethe in Stede’s head, but it didn’t take long for Lucius to break the silence.

“So just who in the world was that?”

Stede was not expecting Ed to chime in behind him.

“Yeah, who was that? Seemed kinda mad at them.”

Ed was looking at Stede in muted surprise, but he could make out the amusem*nt dancing in the corner of those brown eyes, his gaze as warm as baked bread fresh from the oven. He was dressed casually enough but, Stede realized with a pang that did nothing to help with his heart’s still wild beating, in an outfit they had picked out together during their shopping trip. A gray Henley shirt that Stede knew, from experience and knowledge alike, was soft to the touch, and tapered dark jeans. His hair, as curly as ever, was thrown up haphazardly. The smile he wore - Stede was convinced it was the only accessory he would ever need - was relaxed.

The first reaction belonged to his employee, whose hands flew up to his mouth but ultimately did nothing to muffle the shocked, “Oh my god, it’s Blackbeard.”

The second reaction wasn’t Stede’s either. The customer Lucius had been talking to had remained standing by the bookshelf and he too was staring agape at the newest entrance.

“Holy f*cking sh*t. Lucius. That’s Blackbeard.”

“I’ve got that, Pete, thank you.”

Stede wasn’t even sure he was hearing them properly over the roaring in his ears. He certainly didn’t hear anything they might have said as with hurried steps he walked out from behind the counter and engulfed Ed in his arms.

If Ed really had just walked in, he couldn’t have possibly known what was happening, but there was no hesitation in his response. His arms wrapped around Stede’s shoulders, nearly as tight as Stede was squeezing his torso with his freakish baker strength.

“He’s hugging Blackbeard. My boss is hugging Blackbeard.”

Stede still wasn’t listening.

“Ed,” He breathed the name out with a heavy relief, as if the man had been in immediate danger. Maybe he had. Stede could still taste the frenzied panic rising up in his throat.

“Everything okay, Stede?” The confusion was apparent in his tone, but his question didn’t stall the soothing circular movements Stede felt on his back. It wasn’t enough.

“Who was on the phone?” He asked again. “You seem pretty-“

Stede released his hold on Ed’s torso to ensure his hands were free to cup the side of his face as he smashed their lips together. It was a desperate bid for a reassurance Stede suddenly needed just to remain upright. Edward didn’t let him down, his own grip tightening at the same time Stede’s hand found anchor in the mass of curls.

It was, overall, a rather inappropriate display for a bakery - Some distant part of Stede that was listening realized this when Lucius squeaked out another astounded, “Oh my god.”

Still, Stede only released his hold on Ed when he could no longer attribute his shortness of breath and stuttering heartbeat to that terrible phone call. He kept a hand on Ed’s arm all the same, whether to reassure himself of Ed’s presence or ground his own, Stede wasn’t sure.

“-Upset.” Ed’s tone was breathless when he finished the statement. “Or not. Can’t really tell at this point.”

“We need to talk.” Stede said, his grip on the man tightening. Ed’s arm remained pliant; he allowed himself to be pulled out of the center of the bakery and up the stairs tucked away in the corner.

“We need to talk.” Lucius called out from behind them, still staring at the pair with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “OLUWANDE! WE NEED TO TALK.”

“Watch the counter, Lucius.” Stede called back.

The last thing Stede heard was his meddlesome employee still yelling into the kitchen, letting Oluwande know just exactly what he had missed.

Even as they sat across from each other at Stede’s ridiculously tiny apartment table, he couldn’t stop touching Edward. The connection was as simple as Stede caressing Ed’s hand, running his fingers along the raised calluses on his palm that years of holding a chef knife had formed. He was rumpling the man’s sleeves in a nervous sort of fashion, but for once he couldn’t find it in himself to care about the clothes.

Ed, for his part, seemed relaxed - Even more so underneath Stede’s touch, and his composure didn’t change when he was told about the phone call. In fact, he smiled at Stede’s aggrieved recount, all broad and proud. He was much too casual for Stede’s liking, and the baker expressed as much.

“It’s not the first time this has happened, Stede. I don’t expect it to be the last offer you get either.”

“But Ed-”

Ed cleared his throat, not yet finished.

“It is the uh-the first time someone’s declined to go through with it. That means a lot.”

The admission did nothing to soothe Stede’s fretting. The fact that Ed had gone through this before, that such betrayal had become an expectation, caused a sharp twisting in his stomach. The realization that there wasn’t much Stede could do about it all only worsened the sensation.

One thing, perhaps the only thing, he could do in the moment was further reinforce just where anyone offering such a proposition could put it.

“No amount of money in the world could ever have me - Not even a donut from René Frank himself could convince me and-and if I ever find out who that was, god help them, I’ll-”

Ed’s smile didn’t wane.

“Sue them for every asset they think they have?”

Coloration flooded Stede’s cheeks. So Edward had been there for that part of the conversation. Just as well. He didn’t regret his words, but suddenly, they didn’t seem strong enough. He thought of a Blackbeard level insult.

“Actually, I was going to say I would burn their house down.” Stede sniffed.

Ed burst out laughing, a heavy, delighted sound that erupted from him. Really, Stede didn’t think it had been that funny, but he must have found a personal humor in the statement, cackling to himself until a mirthful tear formed at the corner of his eye. It proved to be the most effective balm in soothing Stede’s perturbation; he was mollified enough to release his grip on Ed’s hands.

“So f*cking glad I stopped by.”

Stede was reminded of Lucius’ shell-shock and felt himself pale.

“Why did you come so early, by the way?”

Ed let his laughter settle.

“Had some free time. Craving a croissant.” He grinned. “And you. Reason enough to stop by, wouldn’t you say?”

When Stede didn’t immediately answer, Ed’s expression froze in place.

“Should I…Not have?”

Stede wasn’t sure how to answer the question, still distracted by the fact that both of his employees now knew about Ed, or as they would see it, Blackbeard - Not to mention the few patrons who had still been in the bakery. It would be inane to believe he could rely on them for their discretion, unless Stede was open to bribery or threats. Despite teasing arson, Stede didn’t think he had it in him.

He felt a new surge of panic rise. He had already spent hours oscillating between the pros and cons of a public relationship with the man sitting across from him. At that moment, he couldn’t even choose which one to voice first.

“Ed,” He began, his tone careful despite a renewed bout of hysteria trying to take the helm, “I think it’s more advantageous for the both of us if we kept our association undisclosed for the time being.”

It was a minute action, but Stede still noticed the way his hands drew back just the slightest bit. He resisted the urge to reach out and grab them again.

“You’re sounding like my HR rep, Stede.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ed, I’m just-” Stede searched frantically for words that would ease him into what he was trying to say and stumbled upon those he had used in the beginning of the relationship.

“-Worried about you. If people find out that we’re-” He hesitated to use the word dating. It sounded so juvenile. They were adults, after all, even if sometimes he hardly felt like one.

“-Together, then what lengths will they go to? You said it yourself, that phone call won’t be the last. If they know where you spend your time they could wait outside and ambush you or-or harass my employees. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to them or the bakery.”

The honesty that appeared at the end of his - demand? Plea? - request softened the impact. He could tell by the way Ed tilted his head a little to the side, how his lips pursed together in a sort of protective expression.

“I’ll talk to Izzy, see if he can’t find out something about the call. He’s handled all the rest. And I’ll-Uh, I’ll stick to closing hours until you’re more… comfortable.” The word was said as if he wasn’t sure it was the right one, but Stede nodded with what he hoped looked like encouragement and not enthusiasm.

“Thank you, Edward.”

“Don’t mention it. I should have-” Ed was fiddling with his own sleeves now. “-Prepared you, talked to you a little about what it can be like. Being with someone like me. We can talk about it.” All of a sudden, he jumped up from the table, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste.

“Later though! Later. I’ll let you get back to the bakery right now and your uh-sh*t, employees, sorry about that. Do you need me to-”

Edward made a motion that Stede couldn’t quite understand. Ed’s hand in fist form smacking into his flat palm. He waved it away nonetheless.

“I’ll talk to them. I’m sure I can encourage them to ixnay- on-the-lackbeardbay , as it were.”

When they walked down the stairs, the bakery was empty. Stede couldn’t be certain, but he felt that it was somehow related to the way his two employees were standing behind the counter. Oluwande’s gaze was bouncing around the room even as they stood on the bottom step. Lucius, on the other hand, had no issue with where to aim his massive - Stede believed the correct phrase was sh*t-eating - grin.

Whatever it was his employees had been expecting, they didn’t get it. Ed walked out without a single glance in their direction, nor Stede’s, with his head ducked and a rapidity in his step that hadn’t been there before.

The perdendo ringing of the bell as the door closed on his retreating figure sounded remorseful to Stede, as if it was trying to call Edward back.