Chapter Text
“You do realize that me writing any of this down could be incredibly incriminating for all of us, right?” Lucius asks from where he’s perched on the settee, notebook balanced on his lap.
“That’s why you’re putting it in a notebook, not typing it anywhere.” Stede says, shaking his head like it’s obvious. “That way you can just burn it if you need to.”
“As opposed to deleting a document in one click?” Lucius asks, nose wrinkled.
“That reminds me, actually, we could use a tech guy. You know, one who’s good at gadget-y things. Codes and encryptions and all that.” Stede waves a hand like he knows what he’s talking about.
“...Right. And what were the others for, again?”
“Well, Wee John and Black Pete have both been behind bars. So they’ve got experience with all sorts of misadventure and malfeasance. They’re street-tough! Buttons knows all sorts of things—he can do something called Reiki, he can do tarot readings, he knows how to place a curse… and the Swede can speak four different languages, which could come in handy at some point! She’s also enthusiastic, which we could use more of around here.” He gives Lucius a pointed look.
“Wow, we’re doing nicknames already.” Lucius says, pressing his lips into a thin line and nodding like he’s questioning how and why he ended up here. He takes a breath. “—and all of these skills come in handy for stealing a boat how, exactly?”
“Well, because…” Stede knits his brows and stares at the peach-colored wallpaper, pushing down the familiar tide of self-doubt. “Because…you never know, okay? You’re supposed to have a whole menagerie in a crew, and one never knows when an odd talent will suddenly become incredibly useful if the plot—or real life circumstances—demand it. Besides, once we have the rest of the crew sorted and I'm able to assign roles, I wager we’ll have enough expertise on our side to steal the Hope Diamond, if we wanted to!"
“Right, you’ve been hinting at that all morning. Do you actually have anyone in mind, or…?”
“As it so happens, I do.” Stede says, unable to help the smile that spreads over his face. “I’ve had my eye on someone for a while, now.” He sits on the chaise with a flourish only to immediately stand up again, launching into a monologue. “When you think of successful thieves in recent cultural memory, who comes to mind?” Lucius tries to answer but Stede carries on over him, pacing about the room with his arms crossed behind his back. “Nobody, right? They all get caught eventually. But maybe that doesn’t matter so much as their track record before getting caught does; it only takes one mistake to be caught, after all, but should that sully an otherwise stellar track-record?” He leans against the curved white doorway. “—And when you think of your average heist crew, what comes to mind? A group of barely-acquainted colleagues who can’t trust each other, always waiting to double-cross or be double-crossed. That’s why I want to do something different, to build trust. I’d like to encourage a feelings-first communication style and I’ll even be giving everyone a deposit up-front in case everything falls through in the end, not that it will, of course! And when you think of your average heist itself, what comes to mind? I’m reminded of a Hemingway quote—”
Lucius interrupts him with a cough. He’s scribbling away in his little notebook, which Stede hadn’t technically told him to do but thinks shows good initiative. “And will that deposit be cash or a check, or…?”
“Cash.” Stede says, sitting back down and crossing one leg over the other. “Oh, I can’t wait any longer. Would you like to know who I have in mind?”
“Uh, yeah, yes. Who?”
“Blackbeard.”
Lucius blinks blankly at him. “Like, from that pirate movie with Kiera Knightley?”
“No! From the MOMA Heist of ‘07? The Louvre heist of ‘09? Surely you’ve heard of him!"
“I was sixteen in ‘09.” Lucius says matter-of-factly, looking up from his notebook. “Should I have heard of him?”
“He was infamous.” Stede insists. “He would steal jewels, paintings, even Māori artifacts that he would return to their tribes, but nobody could ever prove it was him. He inspired all kinds of copy-cat-crimes. He literally commandeered the HMS Belfast to get away, once! I mean, that's also when he was caught, but...”
“Maybe I did hear something about that when it happened.” Lucius says, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Was he kind of hot in, like, a biker kind of way? Long black hair?”
Stede clears his throat. “Some would say that, maybe.” He says vaguely, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs. “Anyway, he ended up in prison for a while, but he’s been out for a few years, now. He runs an eatery in town.”
“An eatery, huh? How many Michelin stars?”
“I think it’s more of a bar.” Stede says, choosing to ignore Lucius’s sarcasm. “—But what are the odds of that? I suspect the hands of fate are on our side, here! That’s what Buttons said during my card reading, at least.”
“So, what, you’re just going to show up at his bar and bother him about his past?”
Stede frowns at him, resolutely ignoring the way the tide of self-doubt rises in his stomach, lapping against his ribcage like it’s just waiting to come pouring out of him. He’s the leader, here, and he can’t let himself falter, even if it’s just in front of Lucius. “I’m not going to bother him. I’m going to order some food, extend a polite inquiry about his occupational opportunities, then make him an offer he can’t refuse! It’ll be eas—”
“Stede! Your weird friends are here!” Mary calls from the other room.
"Thank you!" Stede calls back.
“That the ex-wife, is it?” Lucius says as the others trail in. “What’s the story there?”
“It was an amicable split.” Stede says, standing back up to let them through. “She’s allowing me to base our operations from home as long as I don’t actually tell her anything incriminating.”
"Sounds like an extremely normal dynamic." Lucius says.
“You didn’t say you live in a mansion, Stede!” Wee John enthuses, spinning in a slow circle.
“Yes, this is very nice!” The Swede settles in next to Lucius and gives him a polite hand-shake. “Are you sure you even need to steal anything? Seems like you could just buy whatever you want, place like this.”
“It’s alright.” Black Pete says, attempting to lean casually against a bookshelf and knocking over a candle.
“The energy is suitable for my needs.” Buttons says simply, foregoing the furniture to sit on the floor.
Stede stares. "Buttons, wanna, um, introduce us to your friend?"
"This is Karl." He says simply. The bird on his shoulder caws, ruffling its wings in an impatient gesture. Or maybe it's a greeting?
Stede gives Karl a wave, feeling like it might be rude not to. "Is he... house-trained?"
"Mostly."
“Well!" Stede says, clapping his hands together. "Now that we’re all here, I guess we can get into it!” He turns on his heel and starts to pace again. “So, When you think of successful thieves in recent cultural memory, who comes to mind? Nobody, right? They all get caught eventually—”
Lucius sighs.
𓊝
“Have a nice time with your friends?” Mary asks later, slowly stirring her tea from her spot facing him.
“Oh, I’d say so. Working out the kinks, you know.”
“I don’t know.” She says, arching an eyebrow. “Which is how it'll stay.”
“Right, right.” Stede sighs. He's had to hold himself back from trying to get more specific advice from her for months. He really could use her organizational skills. And her painting skills. And her contact-building skills—he'd love to include some of the women from her book club, particularly the one who wears an eye-patch, which feels very on-theme, but Mary has expressly forbid it.
“This isn’t, you know…a nervous breakdown? A mid-life crisis? I know after everything with your father and with us, well, you got kind of…”
“It’s not like that.” Stede says, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than her. “This is the last step in moving past that, in leaving all of that behind. I'm trying to do something myself, for once.”
Mary winces. “I don’t want you to try to live up to what he said. It was cruel.”
Stede’s mug shakes slightly in his hand. He wraps the other around it, trying to steady himself. He weathers the barrage of memory that Mary’s comment had stirred; the vitriol in his father’s eyes as he’d lain near-paralyzed in bed, the air heavy with the smell of decay and antiseptic, the disgust in his voice. Somehow he’d still commanded the room, his presence so formidable that Stede had felt seven years old again. “Maybe this’ll even be good for you, Stede. You could do with doing something yourself, for once. If you go on being a soft-handed, spoiled little pouf who's never worked a day in his life forever your family will suffer. You’d do well to teach those unfortunate children of yours not to follow in their father’s footsteps.”
“He was right, though. I mean, not about the homophobic bit, obviously, but about my…lack of agency, as it were. I want to do more, be more.”
“And you can’t do that within the bounds of the law?” Mary asks, eyebrows knit.
“I thought you wanted plausible deniability.”
“I do.” She says, pulling her feet up. “And I fucking loathe the Badmintons, you know that. But is this the thing to do?”
“I think it might be.” Stede says, gathering his resolve back up and letting it settle onto his shoulders like dust on a bookshelf. It’s a familiar weight, a comforting one as opposed to the weight of his father’s words, of his family’s expectation.
She sighs. “Then I’m not going to stop you. But I’d rather you don’t have them around when the kids are home, deal? Alma was asking who the 'bird man' was earlier. What am I supposed to say to that?"
"The bird was actually a surprisingly lovely house-guest, honestly, didn't even shed a feather! But yes, of course. Deal."
𓊝
Edward Teach had opened Blackbeard's Bar & Grill & Other Delicacies & Delights & Fishing Equipment a few years after getting out of prison. He'd initially capitalized off of his notoriety with the name and theme, filling it with sea-faring themed decor and replicas of some of the things he'd stolen, mostly intended as a joke. It had worked, at first, gaining national attention and bringing in plenty of customers, but all of the articles Stede could find about him were years old, far more focused on Ed the criminal than Ed the chef or Ed the person, so Stede isn't sure how things are going for him now. The yelp reviews seem mixed at best.
The restaurant is a long building next to a chiropractor, round glass walls wrapped around the corner of the block. The sign with the name is in three different styles, each hung below the other as though Ed can't help but keep extending the name. The inside glows in red and orange lights, the walls covered in sea-themed decor, some of it tacky and some of it more tasteful. There's a karaoke stage in the corner decorated to look like the inside of a ship, but it's all but abandoned. The tables have some scattered customers here and there, but the bar seems much busier, populated mostly by rowdy men who stare at Stede as he walks in.
"Hello, welcome to Blackbeard's Bar and Grill and Other Delicacies and Delights and Fishing Equipment." The host says in a practiced rush, looking at Stede with the smallest head-tilt, the flicker of his eyes over his clothes. Stede is used to it.
"Hello,”—Stede consults his name-tag, giving his friendliest smile—”Oluwande! I don't suppose I could speak to the owner?"
Oluwande blinks at him, his polite smile faltering. "Oh, um, he's not in right now, I'm afraid—"
Stede disregards this rejection entirely, resolutely plowing forwards. "Can you tell him I'm looking for"—he drops his voice to a whisper—"Blackbeard?"
Oluwande tilts his head. "Blackbeard is just the name he uses for the restaurant, he actually really doesn't like being called that, and like I said, he's not actually in—"
"Isn’t that him just there?” Stede says, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of long dark hair and tattooed arms over Oluwande's shoulder every time the kitchen door swings open.
Oluwande immediately steps to the left, blocking his line of vision. “Um, nope, probably just Roach or one of the other cooks! We’ve got a lot of similar looking guys working around here, I can barely keep them straight!” He gives an unconvincing laugh.
Stede sighs, pulling out his wallet and sliding him the biggest bill he can find. "Can you just tell him that someone called Stede Bonnet is here? I can wait until he’s off.”
Oluwande takes it immediately, eyes going wide. “Alright, mate, I’ll tell him, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll speak to you.”
He gives Stede a table close enough to the kitchen that he gets a five second window to see Ed every time the door swings open. He's busy cooking something in leaping flickers of flame that Stede is surprised don't burn his eyebrows off. He has the same long hair, the same tattoos, the same warm brown skin as every single picture Stede has seen of him in every single article, but he looks far more in his element than he had in any of those pictures, alternating expertly between dishes with a singular kind of focus. During a lull in orders Stede watches Oluwande go in and whisper to Ed, pointing at him through the door. Stede lifts his hand in a wave but Ed just looks confused, whispering something back then rolling his eyes after Oluwande says something else. Stede keeps his smile glued to his face, doing his level best to look trustworthy, like someone who's definitely worth speaking to.
Oluwande walks over, smiling slightly awkwardly. "Um, he says he'll talk to you if you buy food."
Stede was going to anyway, but he doesn't voice this, ordering Toroi and an orange cocktail. "He said he has a break around ten." Oluwande says, scribbling his order on a little piece of paper.
Stede glances at his watch, frowning. "But it's seven now—"
"Yup." Oluwande says, popping the 'p'. "I'll leave your tab open."
Stede finishes his meal in record time, finding it genuinely delicious, but is left with nothing else to do as he waits, ordering a greasy side of fries and another cocktail just to have something to do. He picks at his fries and alternates between watching Ed through the door and watching the performer for the night, a lanky man onstage with a small guitar who introduces himself as Frenchie and plays a set of acoustic songs, a mix of covers and originals. Stede gets up halfway through to leave some money in his tip jar, wondering idly if there's room in his crew for an entertainer-y sort. Maybe at some point they'll need a distraction, or maybe a fake performer to sneak into the museum for them…or maybe even just someone for morale. He looks at Frenchie thoughtfully. Maybe he could be the comic relief. Crews always have someone for that, don't they?
When Frenchie's set ends Stede waves him over and he bounds over on long legs, tilting his head curiously. "Hey, thanks for the tip, man, is there something I can do for you?"
"Well… I was interested in potentially discussing an employment opportunity with you."
"Oh, man, a gig? Are you in the industry?"
"Um, not technically, no. To either question."
Frenchie sags. "Well that's the only job I do, really, so I'm not sure what else… Oh." Understanding dawns on his face. "I'm flattered, mate, really, but I don't, um…" He lowers his voice. "... sell myself."
Stede balks. "Oh, heavens, that's not the opportunity! I'm—" He leans in closer, looking around conspiratorially. "I'm putting together a crew, of sorts."
"A crew?"
Before he can continue, Oluwande comes with another cocktail. He sets it on the table. "Hey, Frenchie. You guys…chatting?"
"Yeah, uh, he was telling me something about a…what was it? A crew?"
Stede nods, looking at Oluwande appraisingly. "You can join, too, if you like. You don't happen to know how to hack or use, um"—he waves a hand—"gadgets, or any similar such apparatus, do you?"
Oluwande snorts a laugh. "Um, not really? I mean, I know, like, basic HTML?"
"Oh, brilliant, I'm sure we could use that somewhere!"
"Can I ask what this crew is for?" Frenchie asks.
"Well, have you seen Ocean's Eleven?"
Oluwande bites his lower lip, looking like he's making a valiant effort not to laugh. "Uh, yeah. Good film."
"Well, let's just say it's in that vein.” Stede says seriously. "...I mean, I think. I've not actually seen it."
Oluwande makes a choking sound.
"Come on, mate, that sounds epic." Frenchie says, grabbing Oluwande’s arm and shaking it. "You can have an excuse to call Jim! I'm sure this guy'll want a knifey-type-person, yeah?"
"Oh, I would love a knifey-type person!" Stede says, beaming.
Oluwande sighs. "Alright, we can hear you out, I guess…"
"Oh, great, I can practice my pitch for Blackbeard!" Stede says, already pulling out the folded up picture of The Revenge from his wallet. Frenchie and Oluwande exchange a look.
Thirty minutes later, as Stede's spiel is nearing its half-way point, he feels someone standing over his shoulder, the low light casting a dark shadow across the table. A familiar looking shadow. Stede slowly turns, suddenly far more nervous than he thought he'd be. "Blackbeard!"
Ed grunts, arms crossed.
"Uh, he doesn't really like being called th—" Frenchie starts.
"It's alright." Ed interrupts, looking like it's actually not alright at all. "If you're done trying to pilfer my staff I can talk to you now."
"Oh, 'pilfer' is a strong word, I'm not sure…" Stede trails off at the look on Ed's face. He's just as intense as all of the pictures, eyes dark and fixed on Stede with a strange kind of solemnity. His dark hair is pulled back, a few escaped strands loosely framing his face. He's quite striking in person, Stede thinks. His sleeveless shirt shows off swirls of ink that stretch over his arms and chest, mermaids and tentacles and complex interlocking tā moko designs. He looks every bit the spitting image of the Blackbeard Stede had read about, the one with the darkened brow and arresting eyes who had sat placidly in every single courtroom photo as if he really couldn't care less about having been caught.
"We'll leave you two." Oluwande says, knocking once on the table and standing, grabbing Stede’s empty glasses.
“Wait!” Stede pulls out some money and a card with his contact information on it, sliding it over to Oluwande. “Think about it!”
Oluwande lifts the money and squints at it. “Did you mean to give me this much?”
“There’s more where that came from.” Stede says, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully. Ed continues to stare silently, and once they’re alone Stede clears his throat, suddenly much less sure of himself under Ed’s unmoving gaze. "Yes, well, um, have a seat!" He flourishes a hand as he says it, the lacy cuff of his shirt dragging through a puddle of ketchup. “Oh, bother…” He mutters, wetting his napkin and dabbing the stain with a frown. “Do you happen to have a Tide Stick on you?”
Ed sits with a wince, lifting his leg and resting it on an empty chair nearby, fiddling with a leather brace around his knee and regarding Stede with barely-concealed amusement. “Nah, man, sorry, but some baking soda’ll get that out no problem, that’s an Ed Teach guarantee.” He reaches over to take one of Stede's remaining fries, not seeming to mind that they've gone cold. "What are you, anyway? Some kind of historical reenactor?" He looks Stede up and down, taking in his clothing with a curiosity that Stede can’t tell is meant to be rude or not.
Stede feels his cheeks go pink and smooths his hands over his waistcoat, the pressed flower pattern soothing against his fingertips. He can't tell if Ed is joking or not. "Well, no, this is unrelated, I just like to dress—actually, I guess it's not completely unrelated, when you think about it, because of the eighteenth century influence on the ship, but…"
Ed's eyebrows raise. "The ship?"
“That’s what I need the crew for.”
Ed stares blankly at him. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No! I have this whole speech planned, actually, it’ll really help explain what I mean—”
“Listen, mate, I’ve heard about a million ‘Blackbeard’ jokes in my life, so…” He moves to stand up but Stede panics and clamps a hand around his wrist. Ed looks from Stede’s hand to his face and back again, completely silent.
Stede can feel Ed’s pulse in his wrist, a strangely intimate feeling with someone he’s just met. Stede pulls his hand back and drops his hand. “Sorry. But stay, please. I’m not wasting your time.”
Ed sighs, crunching on more fries. “Fine.” He waves a hand. “The short version, please.”
Stede sips his cocktail and clasps his hands together in a practiced motion, forcing himself to be still despite the instinct to fiddle with his ring or the napkin or the now-damp cuff of his sleeve. “This crew…it’s not for the ship itself; it’s because I’m trying to get it back. I've read about your…exploits, and everything, and I really think you'd be perfect."
"Wow, you think I'd be perfect?" Ed says it without a trace of emotion, widening his eyes in what Stede thinks is meant to be sarcasm.
"I mean it." Stede insists.
“So when you say ‘get it back’, what you mean is ‘steal it back’, yeah?”
Stede leans in closer, glancing around furtively even though none of the surrounding tables are occupied. “That’s essentially what I mean, yes, but it's more about stealing the money to buy it back. It’s currently in the possession of these men.” He pulls out the folded up picture from his wallet, sliding it over to Ed.
Ed unfolds it, glancing at the picture. “Am I supposed to recognize these dudes?”
“They’re the Badminton brothers. They’ve been awful since we were young. They bought it from me last year, back when I was, um, a bit low on money.” He says the last bit in a quiet rush, hoping that Ed can tell he doesn’t want him to pry any deeper into that particular detail, but Ed narrows his eyes, looking Stede up and down again.
“You needed the money? Didn’t you give Oluwande a tip big enough to pay his rent for three months?"
Stede sighs. “Yes. I needed it for my family.”
Ed’s eyes zero in on his naked ring finger. “Family as in…?”
“My ex-wife and my children.” Stede says somewhat impatiently, feeling the familiar urge to go on the defensive at the mention of them despite the lack of malice in Ed’s eyes. He’s avoided talking about them as much as possible around the crew, so far, most of them blessedly uncurious about Stede’s motivations as long as they get paid in the end. Something about Ed makes him want to tell the truth, though. Maybe’s it’s his directness, his lack of interest in messing about with niceties. Maybe it’s his normalness compared to all of the stories, his guarded curiosity neither rude nor glib. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at Stede with an almost-smile on his lips, eating his fries and giving him tips about stain removal. ‘Alright,” Stede starts, shifting where he sits. “The short version of a long story is that my father disinherited me on his deathbed. He tried to take our estate back, too, so I needed money to buy the rest of it back. Hence the ship-selling.”
Stede steels himself for the question he knows is coming, the Why were you disinherited, but Ed just tilts his head at him, nods knowingly. “Fathers are bastards.”
Stede blinks at him, surprised, before letting himself laugh, a quiet, tentative huff of air. “I’ll toast to that.”
“Unfortunately I’ve no drink.” Ed says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks a bit like he’s settling in, getting comfortable, and Stede dares to let himself begin to hope that this means Ed is genuinely interested.
Stede offers his wordlessly, lifting it in Ed’s direction with another hesitant smile.
Ed grins. “A generous soul you are, Stede Bonnet.” He rolls Stede’s name over his tongue like he’s tasting it, taking the drink with a lifted pinky finger in an exaggeratedly posh motion. Stede is too busy staring at Ed's smile to worry about if he’s being made fun of, his grin breaking his face open like the sun breaking through the clouds, warm and soft like it had been there all along. This smile is nothing like the oddly calm, barely-there one from the pictures—this one feels genuine, crooked and quietly amused like he can’t help it. He holds it up in a toast. “To bastard fathers.”
“Or rather to their timely departures.” Stede finishes, watching Ed laugh and tilt the cocktail back and down it in one.
“So, what makes this ship so special?”
Stede unfolds the other picture on the table with pride, pushing it over. “This is The Revenge. Fully commissioned, built in the style of eighteenth century ship design, like I mentioned earlier.”
“With modern controls, though, yeah?” Ed says, peering down at the picture with interest.
Stede nods. “Took two years to build in full and I only had her for three months before I had to give her up. My heart and soul’s in that ship. The Badmintons don't even use her, she just sits in the harbour with all of their other ones, but they won’t sell her back unless I give them twice what they gave me."
“Which is how much, exactly?”
“Twenty million.” Stede says, rolling his eyes. “—Which is seven million more than it cost to make in the first place!”
Ed’s eyes are wide. “This cost thirteen million to make? What’s the deck made out of, diamonds?”
“Teak, actually. Brazilian cherrywood for the masts."
Ed sighs. “And what? You want me to help rob somewhere so you can pay them back? Do you even have a plan? A mark? Anything?"
“Well, mostly.” Stede says, which he knows isn’t really an answer. “You’re just an expert in the field, like I said, so I thought I might defer to you on the finer details…”
Ed takes him apart with a leveled look, any traces of the smile that had graced his face earlier gone. “Yeah, and look where that ‘expertise’ led me. Almost seven years in a penitentiary. Blackbeard is just a myth, mate. I named the restaurant that because more people come that way, not because I’m still holding onto who I was, you know?”
“I read all about you.” Stede presses. “They could only prove it was you for three out of eleven heists! That’s unheard of!”
“Nobody really uses the word ‘heist’ outside of films.” Ed says, face unreadable. “And if I get caught doing anything like that again I’ll go right back down.”
“That’s why we wouldn’t get caught!” Stede says, his own excitement overtaking him for a moment. He can’t help it, too caught up in the imaginary version of this meeting, the one he’s been thinking about for months. The version where Ed immediately says yes and the rest is just a colorful montage, the pieces falling into place without him even having to try.
“Listen, Stede Bonnet.” Ed says, the same emphasis on Stede’s full name as before. “I like your enthusiasm, I like your style. I like that you’re a fucking lunatic but, like, in a good way.”
Stede beams. “So you’re in?”
Ed’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, well. No. I’m sorry, mate, but I’ve worked hard to get here.” He gestures around them, smiling softly as his eyes trace over the thinning evening crowd, the loud drunks at the bar, the nautical decor everywhere. “I’m not giving it up for anything.”
“My ship is your restaurant!” Stede blurts, hating how desperate he suddenly sounds.
Ed blinks at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s the one thing I’ve made for myself in my entire life. The thing I dreamt of for years until I made it for myself.”
Ed’s eyes go soft, his hand reaching out to rest on Stede’s arm. “I get it, I do. But you don’t even have any kind of real plan. Even if I was still active I’d have to turn you down.”
Stede sighs, dropping his gaze, that familiar feeling curdling in his gut, the one that makes his father’s final assessment echo through his head the way it has every day since he’d said it. Stede feels stupid, naive. Like everybody can smell it on him the second he walks into a room; his inexperience, his uncertainty, his isolation. His complete and total inability to do anything for himself. His soft hands, his silly outfits, his lack of any real-world experience. Someone who’s seen too many films and read too many books, someone who dreams up half-baked schemes and bothers people who are clearly trying to move on with their lives, people who haven’t even stolen anything in almost a decade.
"Christ, you’re looking at me like I killed your puppy.” Ed says, shifting where he sits. His hand is still on Stede’s arm.
Stede clears his throat. “No, it’s—it’s fine. Sorry to have wasted your time. The food was delicious."
Ed gives a small smile. “Thank you. You didn’t waste my time. In fact—” He holds up a finger and leaps to his feet, navigating the drunken crowd expertly and disappearing into the kitchen. Stede blinks, wondering if he’d missed something, but Ed is back a moment later, a bright orange box in hand. He scrawls something on the side of the box in pen, handing it to Stede. Stede looks down at it. It’s a box of baking soda, a phone number scribbled across the side. “If you’re interested in non-heist related conversation, then…I’ll be around. Oh, also, there's a gift shop out the back, if you're into that sort of thing.”
"Oh, I'm into gifts!" Stede says distractedly, staring down at the phone number. "I'll go and have a look!"
"I had a feeling you would be." Ed says, cracking a smile and standing back up. With that he’s gone.
Stede sits dumbly, still staring at the phone number. He feels lighter, the roiling shame from moments ago replaced with something fluttery. He’s still disappointed, still embarrassed at having bothered this man who’s clearly left his past well behind him, still panicked at the feeling of his plans falling apart, but there’s something else there, too, something that makes him feel a bit lightheaded. He thinks of Ed’s genuine interest in him despite the way he must’ve known he would be saying no from the moment they started speaking, his hand on his arm, his eyes warm. Stede's cheeks feel a bit pink. “Well,” he says to himself, tracing over the sharpie on the box. “I suppose I’ll just have to change his mind.”