Chapter Text
Edward closes his eyes before gently dabbing the warm, damp paper towel over his face. He presses it over each eyelid for a moment or two, letting the heat soothe his pounding head. Taking a deep breath, he slowly lowers it back down, feeling a slight tinge of relief as he checks the time on his watch.
Shit. Still ninety minutes left to go.
He hates events like this; all the disillusioned, pretentious, bigwig pricks sliding one greasy palm against the next. He could never bring himself to stay for more than a few hours at most, instead making a beeline away from the crowd to preserve whatever shred of dignity remained. Except, even after all of these years, it still left him physically nauseous.
He swallows against the warning of warm saliva with a disgusted groan. “Fuuuck, man,” he moans to no one, crumpling and tossing the paper towel into the waste bin. Then—
The muffled music from the Frank Sinatra cover band blasting in the ballroom becomes loud and clear as someone opens the bathroom door. He turns to leave, immediately colliding with the impeccably be-tuxed figure that had just entered.
“Oh- sorry!” the man exclaims, placing a hand on either side of Ed’s arms to keep him from falling. “You alright?”
Ed steps back, straightening his own tux jacket—and when he looks up, he sees a pair of wide hazel eyes searching desperately for reassurance. The man’s brows are upturned with what appears to be genuine concern, his mouth hanging slightly agape—an inefficient dam for the impending flood of apologies bubbling to the tip of his tongue. His neatly styled hair is wavy and blonde, portraying an effortless bounce that undoubtedly took a lot of it—
Edward exhales sharply, stunned stupid for a moment at the sight of him. “S’all good, Blondie,” he says before he can stop himself.
"Blondie?" The man’s expression softens, the right corner of his lips tentatively curling into a charming, close-lipped smile. "I rather like that..."
Ed's heart skips a beat, a warm flush rouging his visage. Static buzzes wildly between them, and Ed finds himself in danger of flirting…
He quickly averts his gaze and clears his throat, his composure returning. ‘Uh, no,’ he thinks; At these extravagantly grotesque who’s-who pageants of the political world, it was best, he had learned (the hard way), not to go for the blonde, rich, white ones.
“Enjoy the rest of your night,” he says politely, clapping the man once on his shoulder and heading back out to swim with the sharks.
“You fucking left me alone out here for twenty minutes to put on perfume?” an aggravated Izzy Hands asks once he finally returns to their table.
“What’s that, mate?” Ed tries to ask over the music. Izzy leans closer as Ed makes himself comfortable in his seat.
“You smell like a greenhouse shit a cinnamon stick.”
Ed's brows knit together in confusion as he turns towards his jacket collar to pull it closer. He inhales; Lavender, and vanilla. Izzy needs to get his fuckin nose checked.
It must have rubbed off on him from Blondie…
His eyes dance around the ballroom, trying to spot the handsome stranger—but all he can see are old men with their cigars and young wives amongst a sea of servers bustling about with trays of drinks expertly balanced like the penguins from Mary Poppins.
The silence does not go unnoticed by Izzy. “Nervous about your speech or something?” He asks.
“What?" Ed scoffs. "No, man. Think I’m just ready to get it over with. Get out of here.” Izzy's eyes narrow fractionally with guarded curiosity. “What… you know I hate these things,” he grumbles.
Izzy turns his lips toward his cheek, waving a server over. A young man with light brown skin and curly dark brown hair approaches them—lowering the tray of pristine crystal lowballs, herbs garnishing the foggy surface.
“Thank you mate," Ed says, gently taking the last two drinks for Izzy and himself. "What's your name?”
“Oh–uh, my name is Frenchie, sir,” he replies, tucking his empty tray under his arm.
“No need for sir with me. Nice to meet you, Frenchie.” He extends his hand, and Frenchie shakes it with fond incredulity. “I’m Edward Teach. This here is my colleague Israel Hands.” Izzy raises two fingers to say hello.
Frenchie blinks rapidly for a beat, his thoughts moving faster than his mouth. “Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Teach! I keep telling my friends that if you were to ever run for office, you’d win like that ,” he says with an enthusiastic snap.
Ed chuckles and thanks him. “Maybe I will. One day. Gotta admit though— I’m having a blast washing these fuckers in court,” he smirks, taking a sip of the fancy cocktail.
Frenchie snickers and nods approvingly. “If you need anything at all tonight, sir…uh…I mean, Mr. Teach—”
“Edward works for me if it does for you."
“Edward,” Frenchie echoes with a smile. “Well..if you need anything tonight—anything at all— I’ll be keeping an eye out on your table for you. Ask for me if you can’t spot me.”
“Thank you, man,” Ed says before Frenchie disappears into the crowd.
Ed always makes it a point to speak to all the staff he can at deep-pocket affairs like this where the guests tend to be vicious for a laugh and an ego boost—events like the Christmas Bonnet Ball where there was this much money in one room. As an exceptionally badass lawyer, he's no stranger to telling these assholes how the real world worked—in court. However, this whole up-and-coming political celebrity angle is still new—so he's still finding his footing.
He knows he’s the first guest speaker at the gala tonight, and his plan is to just rinse and repeat the speech from a different Christmas whatever the fuck—but…he feels off his game tonight (and the headache behind his eyes isn’t helping) . Thank fuck he has Israel Hands (the head of Bonny and Teach Law Firm’s PR department) here as his plus one to keep him focused.
~~~
The boisterous music fades to an end as the flat screens behind the stage change from a slideshow of performative, stock image charity work to a live feed of the stage. The chatter ceases as the lights dim.
“Good evening to all of our distinguished guests, and welcome to the Bonnet Industries and Partners Christmas Charity Gala of 2020!” the host says eagerly into the mic to a round of applause.
“Surprised they were able to fit all that on the invitation,” Izzy says into his drink.
"Fuckers," Ed chuckles softly into his cocktail. "M'still shocked they invited us in the first place." A shiver runs down his spine at how grimy and slick he feels even being here;
Bonnet Industries is a powerful, globally recognized company helmed by the most egregious and candidly corrupt big-money family in the country—the very bane of his existence as a human rights lawyer.
The host starts rambling about all the statistics behind Bonnet Industries’ extensive charity endeavors , and Ed feels safe to mentally check out for a bit.
“Think I’m gonna step out for a smoke,” he says, dropping one of the embroidered cloth napkins onto his plate of half-eaten Caprese salad.
Izzy jerks his head around to face him. “Don't be stupid. They could call you up any minute,” he scowls. “Smoke after your speech.”
“I’ll be quick,” Ed says as he stands. He gives the room one last glance before turning on his heel, walking out of the door and into the gentle wintery evening.
~~~
The snow-glittered winter air tussles his hair as he walks about a block away from the venue to avoid any potential small talk bullshit. He leans against the trunk of a random black BMW, and frees a Turkish Royal from the pack— tries to light his cigarette, his free hand blocking the wind.
“Shit,” he says around the unlit cigarette between his lips. His lighter is out. He flicks it a few more times, resisting the urge to throw it across the fucking street.
“Need a light?”
It's Blondie—a lit cigarette in his leather-gloved hand as he approaches. “Please. It’s the least I can do after tackling you in the facilities.”
He was even cuter in the wild.
“Sure…”
Then,
“May I?” Blondie asks, his free hand extended toward Ed’s cigarette.
Curious… Why not just hand him a lighter?
He hands him the cigarette, and the man gently slides it into his grip, flips it between his fingers…then, he puts Ed’s cigarette between his lips and presses the lit end of his own to the tip, then, quick sharp sucks until it catches flame.
What the fuck.
Blondie hands it back to him, his gentle eyes looking at him with a softness Ed has never encountered before as smoke pirouettes around his face, framing him as a picture-perfect memory just for him...
Ed doesn’t break eye contact as he takes the cigarette and puts it between his lips—melting under his gaze like sherbet in the summer sun.
"Thanks.."
They stand in silence for a moment, both gently puffing away.
“So…how are you faring at this…on this lovely evening?” Blondie asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the gala.
He has dimples.
Ed rolls his eyes as he takes another drag. “I’ve actually gotta rush through this and get back. M'supposed to give a speech on behalf of Bonny and Teach Law Firm.”
The man’s eyes grow wide, recognition slowly kicking in. “ Oh. You must be Edward Teach?”
His stomach dips. Ah. So this prick is going to judge him—look down on him. After all, his rags to semi-riches story did little for the old money fuckers seated at the Bonnet gala.
Blondie takes Ed’s silence as a yes, and his eyes light up adoringly. “Wow…I…I’m a huge fan,”
Ed drops his gaze, feels his cheeks rush with heat.
“Wish I had half your courage.” Blondie continues, taking another deep drag.
“Huh,” Ed bites back on a smile, raising a brow. This was a new one. He usually had these events down pat vibe-wise…didn’t expect to meet two whole fans in one night at the Bonnet gala of all fuckin places. “I reckon you’ve got balls for days, Blondie. Just need to use them for good.”
Use his balls for good. Smooth. You’re killing it, Edward. No really. You're killing it.
“Blondie, huh?” the handsome stranger muses. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”
“Mm,” smoke billows from his nostrils. “I like Blondie.”
“What?! What if I was someone important?” Ed starts to giggle at how animated the man’s expressions are. “What's so funny?” Blondie's brows furrow in faux incredulity. “I’m in fucking… name purgatory over here—and you’re laughing?” he exclaims his voice rising and falling like the British Empire. Ed’s giggle grows into full on laughter—the trunk behind him supporting his full weight. “I could be a really big donor to your charity tonight,” Blondie chuckles around his cigarette.
“Couldn’t care less, man," Ed snickers, trying to stifle the ‘he’s cute and he’s funny’ jitters. "You either give or you don’t,”
“True..” Blondie says, flicking the spent ashes to the side, a reserved smile tugging at the corners of his beautiful mouth. “Still…”
Fuck.
“Alright,” Ed coyly relents. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“Hmm..go on,” Blondie replies with a quick quirk of his brow, smothering his cigarette on the rim of a metal wire trash.
“You donate to the charity of my choice, even if it’s not listed at the gala, and I…” Ed lowers his voice conspiratorially, “...will ask for your name.”
“So…you want me to make a donation when literally nothing can stop me from just…telling you my name right now?”
“Mm,” Ed nods, putting his cigarette out, and blowing smoke from the side of his mouth.
Blondie pretends to think for a moment, playfully tapping his finger against his chin. “Deal,” he says, reaching out to shake Ed’s hand. Ed takes it, smiling smugly, then suddenly withdrawing it, remembering a stipulation.
“Ah! Minimum ten grand—just looking at your coat, I know you’re good for it,” Ed says, eyeing the cherry red wool YSL peacoat with a cashmere Burberry scarf over his tux.
“Of course,” he says softly as they walk back towards the gala. “You’ve got quite an eye.
Oh. He’s impressed? Is that… good or bad?
Ed shoves his hands in his pants pockets, the December chill finally starting to bite. “Know a little something something.” he shrugs. “Just cause I’m not a bloody millionaire doesn’t mean I only wear tweed, y’know.”
The man withdraws into his own mind, a minute passing before he speaks again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Ed sucks his teeth, his mouth twisting into a pout. Then,
“No, it’s not you,” he confesses into the empty space between them. And honestly, it wasn’t; he’d been in a sour mood regarding this event since Izzy sent him the press schedule two weeks ago…
It stirred up memories of his late mum and what she had to go through as a single mother of two waiting on dickfucks like the ones he’s supposed to address tonight.
“I just want to do something good with all this…attention, you know? Make a real difference. Not just for show like those Bonnet fucks with this tax break charity bullshit.” He doesn't know why he’s being so transparent with the nice-smelling rando who lights strangers cigarettes like a fuckin lunatic, but the words keep tumbling from his mouth. “This just…isn’t the reality for most people in the world, and it fuckin pisses me off.”
Blondie nods, listening.
“Fuckin tired of coming to these things and never seeing anything real come of them, so…I feel it’s all up to me to make a difference….”
The well of words runs dry as they approach the entrance, and Ed wishes he had more time for another smoke...more time to talk…
“That must be a lot of mental pressure,” Blondie says as they stop for the valet to open the door.
Ed's breath hitches and a fresh cloud of frost brumes from his lips, a warm rush washing over him...
Maybe it’s the welcomed heat from inside the building, but maybe it's not having his concerns met with the ‘Things are different now’ s and the‘You made it out. Why do you care?’ s he had come to expect during small talk at these events.
Granted, none of the small talk he had previously engaged in had been with someone who lit his cigarette in a way that felt so intimate…like even he wasn’t supposed to see it.
“Yeah, man. It is…” He trails, noticing the static again—and from the look in Blondie’s eyes, he can feel it too. They're standing so close, their shoulders nearly touching as the oxygen seems to dissipate from the air, leaving him breathless and lightheaded— the fluffy light snow waltzing around their heads.
“…to the stage, our first special guest speaker of the evening, Edward Teach!”
The crowd's applause snaps them back to their surroundings, and they both take a step away from each other.
“So, uh, gotta go. Don’t forget, Blondie. 10K for a name,” Ed says with a wink, walking as casually as possible towards the stage.
~~~
After his speech (which had a little extra oomph than he’d initially intended), Edward went back to his seat. Izzy was clapping along with the rest of the audience, sure, but he gave him the fuck eye until he was seated.
“What now, man? Told you I’d be quick.” he says with a dramatic flip of his hair, buzzing with the adrenaline of public speaking and private agreements…
Izzy is not amused in the slightest. “Said you’d be quick. Didn’t know you meant quickie.”
“Ha!” It just came out. Edward waved apologetically to the host and to people seated nearby. “Fuck do you mean a ‘quickie’?” he whispers, leaning into Izzy’s space.
“The fuck were you doing out there, Ed?” he asks without breaking eye contact, his pointer finger firm on a napkin. “You trying to ruin your career before it even starts?”
The taxi ride back to the hotel is dead silent.
Ed can tell that Izzy’s pissed. Nothing new there—but for the first time in a long time, he isn’t sure why .
Ed usually knew before Izzy even said anything that he was maybe being a little mischievous. Tonight, he honestly felt he had played all of his cards right;
He made it on stage in time for his speech (which went off without a fucking hitch).
He didn’t say anything too controversial to the press.
So he got some cute blonde’s number. So what? After talking to him, he seemed to be a decent enough guy…
Ed rolls his eyes with a suck of his teeth. “Look, man, I’m a lawyer. Not a psychic,” he says as the elevator dings, letting a mother and her toddler on.
Izzy continues to stare straight ahead, his stone-faced countenance enduring. “Not now, Edward.” he pinches the bridge of his nose as the doors close. “Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a flight to catch at 10.”
Ed’s face drops into a neutral expression. “Izzy. It’s only 9:00. Let’s go to a bar or something.” he tries.
“We can do that in LA,” Izzy says through an exhale, pulling out his phone to check his emails.
Ed doesn’t respond, silently admitting defeat. Once Iz had locked you out, there was no getting back in until he wanted you to.
His eyes catch the little girl’s, clinging tight behind her mom’s legs. He sticks his tongue out and scrunches his nose, wiggling his fingers around his chin. The girl and her mother giggle, warming up to his mood again.
Ding.
Edward flops face down onto the bed. He’s exhausted, but his mind is racing, thoughts bouncing off the walls of his skull like some restless rendition of nocturnal pinball.
After a minute, he rolls over onto his side to search his jacket pocket for his phone. When he pulls it out, the folded napkin falls onto the bed, slowly unfurling from its loosely constricted state.
“Exclamation mark’s a bit much.” Ed huffs through a smile, unfolding and flattening the napkin against the bed with his palm.
It was sweet. Then, it hits him.
< Ed is listening to>
Ed turns over onto his back, lightly drumming his fingers against the mattress along with the song.
'Need a light?'
Shit—
And Blondie actually made him laugh tonight. And really laugh …might have him snickering apart piece by piece for days after this...
He repositions one hand behind his head and stares at the ceiling, flashing back to the little bits of the night when he thought Blondie looked exceptionally handsome..
When he smiled…that's when he looked the most handsome.. the way his eyes crinkled at the edges and the corners of his lips turned upwards…He didn’t try to come off cool and cocky. He actually seemed to be himself .
Then, naturally upon reflecting on anything involving the first time he meets someone he’s attracted to, he replays everything awkward thing he (definitely) might have said or done.
He cringes to himself, wishing he would’ve just let himself flirt— especially when it was just the two of them. The setting was perfect. Blondie looked dashing in that red coat, and he made him feel like shit about it. He had emotionally vomited all over the poor guy on their walk back—the stupid name game. Ed groans aloud from bashful humiliation, runs his palm down his chin, then pauses the song after it looped for the third time.
Then…
There it is, the tingle of impulsivity rushing through him—the one that came right before he did something either really brave or really, really stupid.
He’d been punished for his rash decision-making as a boy, but as a man — he’d learned to harness it to get the things he wanted.
“I’m fucking Edward motherfucking Teach, fuck,” he murmurs to himself, lifting the napkin in one hand and grabbing his phone with the other. A little pep talk never hurt. “I’m not nervous. You’re the one who’s fucking nervous.”
He mouths the last four digits silently as he dials. There’s a click, a pause, and then it trills.
Once.
Twice.
Ed sits up, elbow locked, his palm against the mattress.
Thrice.
His heart pangs in his chest and he thinks he should just hang up and pretend it was a butt dial-
“Hello?”
“Hey, Blondie.”
“Oh,” he breathed. “Edward. How’s the rest of your night going?”
“Cut the shit. Where’s the receipt?”
Blondie huffs a laugh. “A straight shooter. I appreciate that,” he says, and Ed can hear the cheeky grin in his voice. “I didn’t see you after everyone let out. So…” he exhales, a cautious edge holding his tongue. “Left to my own devices…well, I chose one inspired by our talk.”
“S’that right?” Ed asks, a crooked smile spreading across his lips.
“Well, you said whether or not it was on the list tonight, so I found one from an organization you worked with a few years ago…uh….” Ed hears the sound of crumpling paper. “There we are—Cradles to Crayons.”
Ed exhales sharply; Cradles to Crayons was the first organization he worked with after becoming a partner at his firm. They accepted gently used and new fashionable clothing for poor and disenfranchised children. Coats, swimsuits, shoes. The whole gamut. He was no stranger to his family relying on charities like that when he was young, and it's stuck with him ever since.
“They work with families to make sure they have new clothes. I hope that’s okay,” Blondie says after a beat of silence.
“Better than okay. Thank you.”
“Ah. No, thank you . I go to a lot of these things and…it just feels good to connect with something.”
“You’re a good man.” Ed hums.
“Cut the shit. A deal’s a deal,” Blondie echoes. Ed leans into the feeling of sentimentality turned to playful teasing.
“Oh yeah…” he pretends not to remember. “Hm.. I vaguely recall something of the sort. You should really get signatures on these deals, mate. Verbal contracts don’t hold up for shit in court.”
“Ah, come on ,” Blondie complains. “You and your deals. I should’ve known. You just love making deals, don’t you, Edward? Is that your hobby?”
“It is, actually. Second to knitting. Comes in handy with the whole lawyer thing. The knitting bit, I mean.”
“Oh, so that’s what you lawyer people do when you go back to the judge’s chambers, then?”
“I know you’re being facetious, and kind of a dick, but yes. My last big case—made the judge a gavel warmer.”
“How very kind.” he says wryly.
“That’s why I got into the business. I’m a sweet son of a bitch.”
“Bit of a stereotype, don’t you think? All knitting lawyers being little angels?”
“That’s ‘cause we are, mate. I would know. I went to Harvard.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that you’re a sweet son of a bitch for a single second. But surely there’s a rude one mixed about there somewhere.”
“Ooooh. You haven’t heard then? " Ed tuts. "Yeah, the rudies died in the war.”
“The war?! What were they fighting for? Mitten patterns?”
They both burst out laughing—laughing so hard his cheeks feel cracked, and his stomach muscles ache—then laughing again because they can't seem to stop.
“Fucking stupid,” Blondie says, starting to settle.
God. He sounds so fucking hot when he curses.
“Good one, Blondie.” Ed wipes a tear with the side of his hand, beginning to calm as well.
“It’s Stede, actually.”
“Stede,” he tries the name in his mouth, realizing that he’s said it before.
Oh. Oh shit.
He’s heard this name before—read it in articles...
News had just hit that morning that Charles Bonnet— the brainchild behind the monster that is Bonnet Industries, was sick—dying actually.
“You don’t mean…” His heart is racing, trying to vault free from his chest. “Stede Bonnet?”
Fucking Fuck.
No fucking way. The Bonnet heir? The reason he’s going to LA? His mind flashes to Izzy’s shit attitude in the elevator, and suddenly, it clicks...
Fuck. How did he not recognize him?
“Uh…look. Before you get the wrong idea-”
“You’re Stede Bonnet?” It was more of an accusation than a question. There is a beat of silence before he hears a defeated ‘yes.’
“I know what you’re probably thinking-”
His hotel phone rings. Saved by the fucking bell.
“Uh, thanks again for donating, enjoy the rest of your night,” he says, abruptly hanging up.