Chapter Text
“Pardon me, but has anyone ever told you that you look like Edward Teach?”
Not for a few years.
That was the honest response, if Ed had to come up with one. But when a stranger sidled up to you at a bar and started asking questions, you didn’t necessarily have to give them an honest response, and Ed had hung around in enough bars and been asked enough questions to be well aware of that by now. Not that he’d been asked this particular question in a while. A long while. So much so that it felt less likely that this was a fan and more likely that it was someone trying to serve him papers, although for what, he had no fucking idea. He hadn’t done anything dubious lately, to his knowledge. But he hadn’t been recognised for his music lately, either. All this to say, you could get into a fair bit of trouble, answering questions, even if that trouble was an unnecessary conversation with some guy who used to listen to your records back in the 70s. And so, faced with the options of honesty or ignorance, Ed opted for ignorance.
“Doesn’t he have a beard?”
“Well, he did back in the day,” the man went on, undeterred by Ed’s monotone, never mind the fact that he was staring straight ahead at the bar, not even paying him the courtesy of eye contact. “But who knows what he looks like now?”
“Who knows indeed,” Ed responded, grazing a hand over his stubbled cheeks as he held back a sigh. Clearly this guy knew, or at least had a good enough idea of what the upper half of Ed’s face looked like in order to make an educated guess. Usually the loss of the beard, on top of eight years away from the public eye, was enough for him to maintain anonymity. Maybe he should get a haircut too, just to really sell it. Nah, that’d be a step too far. Just because this stranger hovering in his peripheral had almost-recognised him didn’t mean he had to change his entire appearance.
“…I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the man was saying now, clearly sensing that Ed was not eager to continue this conversation.
“S’alright,” Ed murmured, because even if he didn’t want to get into it all right now, he didn’t really begrudge the guy. If anything, it was kind of funny in its own way: he’d have to tell Izzy that someone had recognised him after all these years, even without the beard. Then again, maybe not – Izzy would only use this as an opportunity to insist that they get the band back together, and Ed was way too old for that shit. He had told him so enough times, but nobody ever believed him when he said that he enjoyed retirement, probably because they didn’t understand why somebody would want to give up that kind of life. Especially somebody like him.
“Here, I’ll buy you a drink as penance, then I’ll be out of your hair,” the man announced cheerily, because apparently, he still hadn’t left yet. “What are you having?”
It was this that got Ed to finally turn and look properly at this stranger standing beside him. Until now, he’d been a vague, fuzzy shape out of the corner of Ed’s eye, all blue and yellow. The yellow, it turned out, was his hair, bright blonde and curled to perfection. The blue, meanwhile, made up about 50% of his clothes: blue blazer, white trousers, blue and white striped t-shirt, all combining to make it look like he was about to set sail somewhere. The boat shoes didn’t help. All in all, the guy looked completely out of place in a bar like this. Weirdly, though, it was working for him. He looked like he’d intended to stand out, and he was definitely succeeding. Busy taking all of that in, it took Ed a moment to remember the question, and then another moment to remember what he was drinking.
“Uh, whisky,” he finally answered. “On the rocks.”
“Another whisky on the rocks for this gentleman, please!” the guy called out, as if the barman wasn’t standing two feet away.
Geraldo, the barman in question, looked at the stranger and then looked at Ed, like he had no idea what the two were doing associating with each other, which was fair enough. Geraldo actually did know who Ed was, since he came in here all the fucking time, and he was hardly a novelty by this point. This guy standing next to him, though, was a fucking novelty.
“Oh, and make that your finest whisky, please,” the man emphasised, rummaging in his pocket for his wallet.
And the next thing Ed knew, he had a fresh drink sitting in front of him, and this mysterious bestower of whisky was bidding him goodbye. Damn, he really was going to get out of Ed’s hair, and Ed admittedly felt kind of rude for accepting his drink but not his company, especially now that he’d seen him and had about a million questions. And if it all went downhill, it wasn’t like it’d take him long to finish this glass – the whole conversation could be over and done with soon enough, no bother. Besides, despite appearances, Ed didn’t really enjoy drinking alone.
“Wanna sit?” he offered before the man could get away, gesturing to the empty stool behind him.
Immediately, the man’s face broke into a smile. “That would be lovely,” he replied, setting himself down before turning back to Ed. “I’m Stede, by the way.”
Ed realised that this was the point in the conversation where he ought to volunteer his name. Unfortunately, right now, he was busy pretending not to be himself. A bunch of possible names filtered through his mind (Izzy, Ivan) each more incriminating than the last (Fang – fucking Fang, why did his former bandmates need to have such distinctive names, and why was he unable to think of any names other than theirs right now, maybe he should go back further, Ben, Jack, those were generic enough, right?) before he finally managed to pluck a name out of thin air instead. “I’m… Jeff.”
“Jeff,” Stede nodded, and smiled. “Sorry about the whole Edward Teach thing. It must have been the hair. Or maybe all the leather.”
Ed took a moment to really study the man now sitting next to him, with his cherub-like hair and rich-guy clothes. To judge by appearances for a moment, he was the last person Ed would have expected to recognise him. Except maybe a kid or something, but even kids break out their parents’ records from time to time. Stede did not look like the type of person to have ever willingly listened to a Blackbeard album, but he was obviously a big enough fan to know Ed’s actual full name, which he reckoned a fair number of listeners didn’t – enough of them thought that he was Blackbeard, like that was the name of a bloke and not a band. Fucking idiots. He and Debbie Harry should get together sometime and commiserate.
“Gotta say, I wouldn’t have pinned you as a heavy metal guy,” he said, because he might as well dig a little deeper on this man while he had the chance.
“Well, appearances can be deceiving,” Stede said idly, before turning to face Ed with a fresh glint in his eye. “What do I look like I listen to?”
Ed looked him up and down again as he tried to think of the least offensive way to say that he looked like he exclusively basked in easy listening music while sailing on his private yacht. That striped shirt was really throwing him off. “…Billy Joel,” he concluded at last.
“Okay, so maybe not that deceiving,” Stede acknowledged, with a self-conscious grin.
“Hey, nothing wrong with that,” Ed insisted, not wanting to come across as some kind of heavy metal snob. That was Izzy’s job. “I’m partial to Summer, Highland Falls myself,” he added in solidarity, deciding that was a more respectable admission than the number of times he had listened to Uptown Girl back in the day.
Stede smiled and relaxed into his seat, his mild embarrassment seemingly vanished now it was clear that Ed was not trying to mock him. “I always wanted to learn piano,” he admitted. “Or any kind of instrument, really. But it didn’t come naturally to me.” Here, the self-conscious smile returned. “I clearly wasn’t destined for rock stardom,” he said, and his tone may have been light, but there was a hint of wistfulness that Ed picked up on right away. He was so used to people talking his ear off about how lucky he’d been and how they wished they could have lived a day in his shoes.
“Not all it’s cracked up to be, mate,” he replied automatically. Shit. Talk about giving the game away. “I mean, probably. You think all those famous musicians are happy? They spend half their time singing about how depressed they are.”
“That’s true,” Stede acknowledged. “But the rest of us just have to be depressed in relative obscurity.”
Ed tried and failed to hold back a smirk, and Stede looked very pleased to have amused him. It was kind of cute, honestly. The two of them sipped at their drinks for a moment: Ed was still finishing off his first glass of whisky, while Stede had a glass of red wine, which was probably the classiest thing you could get in this joint. Bringing Ed back to his initial curiosity regarding what the fuck Stede was doing here, in his fancy little blazer (which had a goddamn pocket square, by the way, fucking hell) and ridiculously white trousers. He took another sip to ready himself, before getting down to business.
“So, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” he asked, twirling his finger to gesture to the wider room.
“Oh, I’m scouting locations for one of my bands.”
Ed wondered if he’d somehow missed part of the conversation, because the last thing he remembered, Stede had been talking about his complete lack of musical aptitude. “…One of your bands?” he checked.
“Well, not my bands, I’m not in the bands,” Stede clarified. “I just have a lot of musician friends, and I’m helping support their projects. I like to think of myself as their manager. My way of getting involved in the scene, I suppose.”
Ed found himself smiling at that – Stede really did seem passionate about it all. Ed had been in the business long enough to know when guys like that were only in it for the money, but clearly Stede was here for the music, whether he could play it or not. And maybe he could even learn to do that, if he had the right teacher…
“Yes,” Stede was saying, as he looked around the room, “this place is quite dark, grungy, you know, perfect for Jim’s band. They’re desperate to play here, but I know it’s very exclusive, so I just hope they’ll allow it.” He looked down at the other end of the bar, where Geraldo was out of earshot. “That barman doesn’t seem too keen on me.”
Ed’s next words left his mouth before he could stop them. “I know the owner.”
Stede’s eyes widened. “You do?”
“Yeah, she’s an old… friend,” Ed said, not sure whether Jackie would call him that, but the point was, they went back a while. “I could hook you up.”
“Oh really, would you?” Stede asked eagerly. “It’s so hard to get a foot in the door with these things, you know?”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Ed nodded, valiantly acting like he hadn’t been through it all himself back in the early 70s. That’s why he was doing this, he told himself. Paying it forward to the next generation of musicians looking for a shot. He definitely wasn’t doing it because Stede’s smile was lighting up this dingy fucking pub. “I’ll give her a ring, see what I can do.”
“That would be amazing!” Stede beamed. “Thank you, Jeff!”
“It’s no trouble, mate,” Ed insisted. “Happy to help.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been ‘happy to help’ anyone, but he was feeling more and more generous the longer he sat here.
“I’m so glad I ran into you,” Stede continued, smile still plastered to his face. “Clearly I should go around accusing more innocent men of being rock stars.”
“Don’t think anyone’s accused me of being innocent before,” Ed retorted with a low chuckle, and huh, that was interesting. His voice had somehow slipped into something a little more comfortable, very much without his permission. Not that he was opposed to a little harmless flirting, but he wasn’t sure how Stede was going to take it.
As it happened, Stede took it by opening his mouth, closing it again, and taking a quick sip of his wine, avoiding Ed’s eyes. That was fine. Ed could handle rejection. He’d just better go ahead and change the subject before things got any more awkward.
“So, your mates are in grunge bands, then?” he asked, and thankfully, Stede turned to look at him again.
“Well, that’s just one of them, La Vida es Dolor – that’s Spanish for Life is Pain!” he explained, far too cheerily for the words he was saying. “Then there’s Frenchie and his band, which is more folk rock, I suppose. And then, well, not a band, but another friend of mine performs opera. Obviously that sort of thing operates quite differently to the local music scene, but I happen to know the opera fairly well, so I help him out where I can, too.”
“Your taste’s all over the place, mate,” Ed said, because he did well with grunge and even folk rock, but his knowledge of opera stopped at Tommy.
"Oh, I’ll listen to pretty much anything,” Stede laughed off. “As long as the emotion’s there, I can get something from it, even if it’s in another language – or no language at all, when it comes to instrumental. Though I do admit I have a preference for songs with lyrics, especially ones I can actually understand.”
“Yeah,” Ed grinned, “that always helps.”
“All music has its merits, of course,” Stede emphasised, like he was worried the classical music police would be after him. “But good lyrics are like poetry, and when you combine poetry with music, well, it’s the best of both worlds, isn’t it?”
Ed was beginning to wonder where Stede had been all his life. Which might have been a bit dramatic, but shit, listening to him talk like this was so… refreshing. Ed had listened to plenty of people talk about music over the years, from old bandmates to record company executives, and he hadn’t realised he’d been dying for a new perspective until right this moment. Not that Stede was saying anything revolutionary, but from the way he was saying it, Ed could tell how much music really, properly meant to him, and fuck, after all these years, that was nice to hear. He may be out of the scene by now, but it was good to know people still cared as much as he once had.
And then Stede hammered home the final nail in the coffin.
“I’ve actually written some lyrics of my own.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ed asked, sitting up in his seat, interest well and truly piqued now, because this was his area. He’d written every song for Blackbeard, mostly because he wouldn’t let the others do it – if he was gonna sing, he’d better have written every word coming out of his mouth.
“Though since I can’t accompany them with music, I suppose they’re stuck just being poetry,” Stede added with a frown, looking a little disappointed at this downgrade.
“Nah, still counts,” Ed insisted. “You don’t call Bernie Taupin a poet, do you?”
Stede seemed to think on this for a second, and then brightened. “No, I suppose not!”
“There you go, then,” Ed smiled easily. But now it was time for the real question, and he found himself leaning in slightly as he asked it. “Can I read some of ‘em?”
“Well, I don’t carry them around with me,” Stede said, his own smile dipping back into a frown, like he was annoyed at himself. “But I suppose I could… excuse me, do you have a napkin?”
He was calling out to Geraldo, who tossed him one with thinly veiled distain, but if Stede picked up on his attitude, he didn’t care, pulling a pen out of his inside pocket and immediately getting to it. “This is the first one I wrote,” he was saying as he began neatly jotting the words down. “It’s years old, but I have it memorised.”
“Must be good, then,” Ed said, because at this point, he didn’t see how it couldn’t be.
“I like to think so!” Stede said, not taking his eyes off his work. “Of course, I’d love to get another opinion.”
Not wanting to distract him any further, Ed sat there in silence as Stede wrote, watching his pen glide over the flimsy fabric threatening to rip under the pressure at any moment. He couldn’t believe he’d tried ignoring this guy. Thank fuck Stede hadn’t known when to shut up, otherwise Ed would’ve just let him walk away, and he wouldn’t be sitting here right now, about to be on the receiving end of a lyric-covered napkin written by an eccentric stranger, which must've been the most interesting thing to happen to him in ages.
“Here you go,” Stede said at last, sliding the napkin across the bar almost covertly, like they were kids passing notes in class.
Ed felt a weird yearning for a childhood he’d never had as he lifted the note close enough to his face to make Stede’s tiny writing legible. “Treading Water,” he read aloud.
“Yes, it’s a… working title,” Stede said, looking away like he was suddenly embarrassed again. “I just find that kind of imagery evocative, you know. Water, oceans, all that.”
Explains the outfit, Ed thought to himself. What he said, however, was, “you must’ve really liked Blackbeard’s fifth album,” which may not have been the best thing to say when trying to disguise his identity, but fuck, he’d said it now. And how was he supposed to avoid it, when he knew Stede was a fan, and the band had an entire fucking album based around that exact sort of thing? He’d walked right into it, really.
Fortunately, Stede just seemed happy to get to talk about it. “Oh, it’s my absolute favourite,” he gushed. “I know it’s a bit contentious among fans, but it just speaks to me – especially Albatross. I always felt their lyricism was sorely underrated in favour of their showmanship.”
“Mmm,” Ed nodded, aiming to look unbothered while feeling surprisingly touched by this sentiment. Stede was right: the showmanship, the outfits, the pyrotechnics, that was what Blackbeard was known for – but Ed had always liked to think that, at some point down the line, he’d retrospectively be looked on as a lyrical genius above everything else. That time may have been yet to come, but clearly Stede was already ahead of the curve.
Speaking of which, it was time to check out his lyrics, and hope they weren’t dogshit, because that’d be an awkward end to the conversation. Looking down at the napkin, Ed wasn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t what he wound up reading. Stede was so upbeat and personable, but these lyrics were… not that. Dark, dreary, miserable – the existential horror of being stuck in place, so close to death, having to fight for survival but growing wearier by the second. Wishing you could escape. Ed had felt like that more times than he could count, honestly. Aged 14, trapped in a home that’d fuck up any kid. Aged 37, trapped in a band that didn’t represent him anymore. Aged 46, trapped in an image he’d shed long ago, unrecognisable now to the people who thought they knew him, who kept him in their minds as the wild 25-year-old ready to take on the world, who wouldn’t accept that maybe he’d changed. Except Stede. Stede had seen him, even when Ed hadn’t wanted him to. He’d seen him at 46 and known exactly who he was, despite the years, despite the changes. Who knows what he looks like now, he’d said, only he had known. He’d seen him, and he’d known him. Ed wondered if that meant he was finally done treading water. Maybe he was drowning, now. Or maybe, without even trying, he’d finally reached the shore.
He set down the napkin before his hands started trembling.
“What, uh… what do you think?” Stede asked, voice pitched with nervousness – probably because Ed had just read his lyrics and turned a whiter shade of fucking pale.
“Good,” Ed finally managed to respond, throat strangely dry in spite of the whisky. “Really good.”
“You’re the first person I’ve ever shown those lyrics to,” Stede admitted, looking less nervous now but still a little bashful.
“Shit,” Ed breathed out shakily. “Honoured, mate.”
“Or any of my lyrics, actually,” Stede continued.
“How come?”
Stede gave a small shrug. “People don’t usually ask to see them.”
“Their loss,” Ed said, shifting the napkin back towards Stede.
Stede looked down at it, and then apparently caught sight of his watch, because his eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh my God, is that the time?” he exclaimed. “Shit, I have to go!”
“Wait, what, now?” Ed asked, feeling like the ground had fallen out from under him as he watched Stede leap up from his seat like it was on fire.
“Yes, I have somewhere to be – it was lovely to meet you, Jeff!” he was saying, somehow already right by the door, like he'd fucking teleported across the room and Ed had blinked and missed it. “Thank you for being so kind.”
“Any time, mate…” Ed just about managed, at a loss for what else he could possibly say as Stede darted out of the pub without another word.
And then he was left there, sitting in the aftermath, wondering what the fuck had just happened. His brain was still catching up with the last couple of minutes: reading those lyrics, sensing his world change right in front of him, and then it all being snatched away in the blink of an eye. All because of one man… a man he had no idea if he would ever see again. It was already too late to go chasing after him, and it wasn’t like Stede had taken the time to leave his number before making his quick getaway – and it really had been quick. What the fuck was so important that it had him running off like that?
Not that it really mattered. The point was, he was gone, and Ed was left with no indication he’d ever been there other than an empty wine glass. Unless… Ed looked down at the bar again and felt his heart leap. Stede had left the napkin behind. That wouldn’t make it any easier to find him, it wasn’t a glass fucking slipper, but at least part of him hadn’t gotten away. Ed picked it up, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his pocket. And then he downed the rest of his whisky and stood up, avoiding Geraldo’s eyes as he made his way out of the bar, not in the mood for any kind of parting words right now.
He took a look around once he was outside, just in case, but of course Stede was nowhere to be seen. Ed was beginning to wish he had left a glass slipper, because he had no idea how else he was supposed to find him again. They really should’ve exchanged details when Ed offered to speak to Jackie for him. How the fuck was he supposed to do that now? Hey, Jackie, this band wants to play at your bar. Don’t know their name, never heard their music, no way of getting in touch with them. What do you say? Maybe Stede should have thought about that before rushing out. He’d shot himself in the foot with that one, hadn’t he? Served him right.
Fuck, no, that wasn’t fair.
It must’ve been something important, for him to leave so suddenly. He could probably do better with his time management, mind you, but who was Ed to lecture him? He’d been the one who’d sat there for long enough to let him get away, too weighed down by the lyrics he’d just read to move his fucking legs. It’d been a long time since a song had gotten to him like that. It had been a long time since a person had gotten to him like that, if he was being honest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation that wasn’t just going around in circles with Izzy, or… no, yeah, pretty much just going around in circles with Izzy. That was his entire social life these days, and he wasn’t sure he’d realised how miserable that made him until right now.
He tried not to think about that too much as he trudged home, but it turned out that was easier said than done. He thought about Stede for the whole walk, his enthusiasm and his laugh and his goddamn fucking lyrics. He thought about Stede as he poured himself another glass of whisky as soon as he entered his house, half-wishing he’d just drank alone at home today, because then he never would have met someone who made him realise how fucking lonely he was. (Was it possible to miss someone you’d only just met? Fuck, he was getting more maudlin by the second. Maybe that was enough whisky for one day.)
Even as he lay awake in bed that night, he thought about Stede. He could not get him out of his head no matter how hard he tried. It was ridiculous – he barely knew the guy, and here he was, losing sleep over him. It was the lyrics that had done it. Mostly. If Albatross had touched Stede, Treading Water had fucking clawed its way inside of Ed. He didn’t even have to look at the napkin any more, he’d memorised the words already. He’d even set the thing to music in his mind. Nothing as heavy as Blackbeard’s stuff – he heard it with piano. That was how his own songs started, before he added everything else: just him and a piano. And that was how this song ought to sound, too.
Eventually, when just staring up at the ceiling got too boring, he dragged himself out of bed and downstairs, where his piano sat waiting. It’s not like he would’ve been sleeping tonight anyway, might as well do something with his time. He didn’t play Stede’s song, though, it didn’t feel right. He played Albatross, like it had been written. Like it was intended to be heard, maybe. Not that Ed minded the heavy shit, but sometimes the words got lost in the noise – and that song had a fuck-ton of words. It had to, with the source material – Ed’s tribute to Rime of the Ancient Mariner, of course, which he’d read as a younger man and been as drawn in by as he had today by Stede’s lyrics. For years, he’d wanted to adapt it into a song, but it wasn’t ‘til 1983 that he’d finally put pen to paper. And then a whole album came flowing out of it: songs about shipwrecks and monsters rising from the deep, songs about sailors lost and never found. Songs about drowning.
But Stede was right, Albatross was the best of the lot. Probably because it was personal, which Blackbeard’s songs almost never were – not that anybody out there knew it was personal, they probably all thought Ed was just really into 18th century literature (or maybe just birds, if they weren’t paying attention). But it’d been a catharsis for Ed at a time when he was struggling. Plus, it was easier to write about your own guilt when you were hiding it behind someone else’s metaphor. Cheers, Sam. Where things got interesting, though, was that it seemed like it was personal for Stede as well. And Ed had to wonder: what did a guy like that have to feel guilty about? What was hanging around his neck, weighing him down? Why was he treading water?
And how the fuck was Ed ever supposed to find out?