Work Text:
Stede Bonnet Tops Charts With Cover of “Red Silk”
Scalawags Up to Usual Tour Antics - Destroy Pittsburgh Hotel Room
“I mean can you fucking believe this bullshit??” Calico Jack gesticulated wildly with his second bottle of Gentleman Jack and a quarter of it sloshed out over the floor of their tour bus. “Just goes right ahead - doesn’t even ask if we’d be okay with him covering our best song -”
“It never even charted.” Ed sat in the corner, tuning a battered guitar. Jack had been going on and on about this for the last twenty minutes, and Ed had about reached his limit.
“What??”
“The song. Our song. It never even charted.” Jack gave him a stunned look, or maybe that was just the whiskey.
“I agree with Jack,” Izzy said from the bunks, finally realizing that feigning sleep when Jack was in one of his lathers was utterly futile. “It’s bad enough the man dresses like some kind of fop from the 1800s-”
“1700s,” Ed corrected him absently, trying to figure out why the fuck he can’t get the high E in tune.
“What?” Izzy couldn’t sound more aghast if Ed had gone off and slapped his mother. (Not that Ed ever would. Slapping mothers and getting into fights over it was more Jack’s thing.)
“He dresses like a fop from the 1700s. Frills and lace went the way of the dodo in the 1800s.” Ed looked up into the lava lamp that’s bolted to the table beside him. “At least I think they went the way of the dodo. Or did the dodo go the way of frills and laces? Siri, when did the dodo go extinct?”
“This isn’t about the fucking dodo, man!” Calico Jack nearly shouted, just as Siri gave a prim and properly robotic answer of “The dodo went extinct in 1681.”
“Ah, I was right the first time. Frills and lace went the way of the dodo.”
“Well I’m glad we’ve cleared all that fashion history up,” Izzy was now sitting on the edge of the bunk, his feet dangling, his voice dangerous. “But we still have the problem of Stede fucking Bonnet covering one of our old songs and turning it completely inside out.”
“He also turned it into a hit,” Ed remarked.
“Man what the fuck is up with you tonight?” Calico Jack asked, spilling more whiskey all over the floor. It would seep into the carpet and make the whole place smell like a frat house for trust fund babies who can’t hold their expensive liquor until they got it steamed cleaned. (Until Ed asked their manager to get it steam cleaned. Jack couldn’t be assed to clean anything, and Izzy would say it added to the bus’ character.)
“Nothing,” Ed said. “Ah, finally.” The high E slides into tune for precisely five seconds, after which the structural deficiency which made it so hard to work with in the first place finally gives up completely and snaps, whipping Ed right across his left wrist, where his hand was paused over the fretboard.
The rest of the band should relax, okay? He was not unconcerned about the fact that Stede Bonnet - the “poor man’s Elton John,” as one particularly nasty critic called him - covered some B-side The Scalawags wrote more than a decade ago. (He was very, very concerned, actually. He was very concerned because the first time he heard it was two weeks ago and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since.)
He blamed the circumstances under which he experienced the song. It was late, their bus driver wanted a break and Ed couldn’t sleep anyway. He liked driving at night, liked the peace of fewer cars on the road, even liked the weird creatures on the side of the road that turned out to just be shadows when you got a bit closer. Ed had been driving down the New Jersey Turnpike when it first came over the driver’s Spotify radio. A peaceful tinkling of piano keys he would later realize were an interpretation of his own guitar introduction, a swell from the orchestra (the man had thought of adding an orchestra!), and then Stede was singing words Ed had written twenty years ago.
Ed was glad no one else was around. He didn’t have to blame the shininess in his eyes on allergies, or eye strain, or anything. He didn’t have to justify playing the song seven times on repeat and for sure destroying their driver’s algorithm. It was only him, the road, and one of his songs being sung by a man he barely knew.
“Change of plans!” Ed awoke to his leather jacket being thrown into his face and Calico Jack’s smiling face. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Change of what plans? We’re supposed to be in Cleveland by tomorrow night.”
“Fuck Cleveland!” Izzy muttered into his morning coffee. “Yeah! Fuck Cleveland!” Jack was well beyond coffee, or perhaps he had never sobered up from the night before.
(Also, privately, Ed agreed. Fuck Cleveland indeed.)
“We’re going to Chicago!” Jack continued, and yeah, he was definitely still drunk, with the way he was talking like every sentence had a fucking exclamation point.
“Why are we going to Chicago?” Ed was either too sober or too uncaffeinated for this conversation.
“Because a certain someone is in Chicago, and we’re going to give him a peace of our minds.”
“Stede Bonnet is playing a show,” Izzy explained, in his usual clipped tones. “Jack’s been up on twitter all night talking to some of our more - mmm, disgruntled fans about his covering our song and a bunch of them are going down to his show to - what was it, Jack?”
“To protest the murder of real music!” Jack replied around a mouthful of bagel. Those were Ed’s bagels. He had them brought every week from a place in Brooklyn, and every fucking week Jack ate his last egg-everything bagel. “It’s going to be wild, man, there’s these people, on twitter, you know? And they get it man, they’re just as angry as me about everything!” Ed did not share Jack’s enthusiasm. In fact, as Jack went on and on about the little twitter monsters he had been engaging with since the early hours of the morning, Ed got a terrible, creeping feeling that crawled up his spine and burrowed into the back of his brain. This emotion was directly at odds with whatever else was going on with him, because the minute he put two and two together and realized that they were going to the same city as Stede Bonnet his palms began sweating inexplicably and his heart rate doubled like he was about to take one of his signature stage dives.
“I mean it was fun until he blocked our band’s account, at least -” Ed’s head whipped up so fast his own hair hit him in the face. “Or deactivated his own account, I couldn’t tell -”
“Jack what the fuck did you do?” Ed pulled out his phone, typed a few frantic terms into google, and waited as the page loaded to see how bad the damage was.
“Jeez man, what’s with the stick up your ass about this guy? He’s nothing, he’s -”
“Jack,” Ed said, in the voice he only used when shit was about to go down. “Shut the fuck up.”
19 Tweets that Summarize the Bonnet Scalawag Drama
Scalawags’ Calico Jack Criticized for Liking Homophobic Tweet
Stede Bonnet Deactivates Twitter Account After Death Threats
“Izzy, tell the driver to pull over.”
“Why -”
“Because I’m going to beat the shit out of Jack and I don’t want to get blood on the carpet.”
“Hey man, come on, it’s not that big a deal, it’ll all blow over by like -”
“Izzy!”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Izzy vanished through the little door that separated their apartment from the driver’s side of the bus while Jack continued to wheedle.
“C’mon, don’t get so upset, it was just some fun, it’s nothing l, I get death threats on twitter all the time -”
“Jack, if you want to keep the teeth that are still yours inside your head, I recommend shutting the fuck up right now.” The bus swayed - Ed’s message to the driver had been conveyed, then. “I’m getting off this bus. You stay here. I’m going to make a few phone calls and if I don’t like what those phone calls tell me, I’m going to leave you on the side of the road. Do we understand each other?”
It was in this way that Ed found himself backstage at the Allstate Arena, three hours before Stede Bonnet’s show.
He was fine, totally. No problems at all. He was definitely listening to everything the PA - Lucius?- was saying to him. Yup. 100%.
“And look -” They had reached Stede’s dressing room, and Lucuis stood in front of it, like an angry ferret guarding a beloved resource. “He likes you. He likes your music, he likes your whole… vibe. So just - just don’t fuck that up for him any more than your bandmate has.”
Ed nodded. “‘Course.” Lucuis pursed his lips and knocked.
“Oh mon capitaine! You have a visitor!” The door was thrown open so quickly and so violently that Lucius almost tumbled into the room, and it was only by the grace of Ed’s reflexes that the three of them didn’t have a lawsuit on their hands.
“Hello,” said Stede, with a dazzling smile that was making Ed forget what you were supposed to say back. “You must be Blackbeard.”
Stede was wearing a blindingly bright red and gold dressing gown with - Ed sighed - a lacy cravat tucked under his chin. He was ridiculous. He was unreasonable.
“I’m - I’m… Ed! Call me Ed - I mean.” Stede’s smile somehow got wider and it was nothing but grateful and kind, no hidden daggers behind his teeth, no impression that the smile was anything but.
“How lovely. Ed, then.”
“Yeah, I’ll just -” Lucius said, walking off to parts unknown.
“Would you care to come in?” Stede asked, stepping aside to allow Ed entry. “We wouldn’t want to do this out in the hall.”
Do what out in the hall?!
Oh, right, the apology, the reason Ed was here, the reason that his manager had got in touch with Stede’s PR person and set up this meeting. (“Should Jack come himself?” the PR person had asked, and even though Ed couldn’t come up with enough synonyms for “absofuckinglutely not” that were PR friendly, the message had gotten across.) It was all just business. An apology, a - a firm handshake, or something, and that would be that.
Stede’s dressing room was exactly what Ed would have pictured, were he inclined to think about what Stede’s dressing room might be like. There were two full racks of clothes - silks and satins and lace and glass buttons and sparkling sequins - a vanity covered in makeup, and a table laden with what looked like a gourmet spread of food and a very expensive bottle of wine. There was a record player, an actual, honest to god record player, spinning what sounded like Billie Holiday - Until the Real Thing Comes Along, if Ed were to venture an educated guess.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am,” Stede began, and that got Ed’s attention right quick.
“Wha - for what?”
“For covering your song without asking you, personally. I was told my people went through the proper channels but there’s no excuse for the awful breach in etiquette -”
“Don’t -” Ed shook his head. “I like the song.”
“You do?”
“Yeah - uh - a lot, actually. You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’re fine. Jack’s just - he’s a drunk asshole who doesn’t know how to behave in polite society. He’s just mad that you turned it into a hit.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just - you like it? What - er - what do you like about it?” He swept his hand over to one of the chairs at the table, and Ed sat.
“The orchestra, for one.” Stede poured him a glass of wine. “It fits the pathos of the song better than the driving bass drum did.” Damn, the wine was good. And the - whatever that yellowish cheese on the charcuterie board was, that was unfucking real. Stede just lived like this, huh? Having expensive wines and cheeses brought to his dressing rooms that he set up hours before the hit. The Scalawags just sort of wandered off the tour bus twenty minutes before showtime, exactly enough time for Calico Jack to break or spill something.
“Oh!” Stede clapped his hands together like Ed had just said the best thing he’d ever heard. “That’s wonderful, you know it was a nightmare getting the London Philharmonic to record it for me, but I needed that particular sound.” Ed almost choked on whatever this fancy sliced meat was.
“The London Philharmonic?” How had Ed missed that? In all the research and NOT stalking - it wasn’t stalking if you were just looking up a man’s wikipedia page and his twitter and maybe you also found his instagram - he just assumed it was the touring band on the album, not a sitting orchestra.
“Well, of course. They’re the best. And that song - your song, it deserved nothing but the best.” Ed’s heart did an extremely dumb and annoying flip floppity thing.
“Haven’t seen the philharmonic since I was a kid,” Ed said, in a bizarre non sequitur.
“Oh, they’re really very lovely, except for a certain second violinist. Always about a quarter step out of tune but - well, that’s what nepotism will get you, I suppose.”
Ed asked about this violinist, and then Stede asked him about the cut on his wrist, and the conversation spiraled out from there. Ed barely reached for the (really, really just amazing) wine as the afternoon wore on, the record spun out, andvStede changed it for a new one (Fleetwood Mac, this time). Ed found himself talking about his mother, hearing about Stede’s failed marriage, admiring Stede’s mountain of clothes -
“Tell me if this is too presumptuous -” Stede said, after a particularly heavy pause following his evaluation of Burano vs Honington lace. I will not tell you even if it is, Ed thought. “But you wouldn’t want to…”
“Sure I would,” Ed said, all in a rush. “Uh - I mean - what is it?” Stede blushed, actually blushed! and let’s just say that Ed was grateful his leather pants were so fucking tight. This was monstrous.
“If you’re in town tonight and don’t have anything else planned, would you care to play your song tonight?” Ed blinked. Stede’s face was so open and genuine and hopeful and who the fuck had the right to look like that anymore?
“Here?” Ed needed clarification, okay? “Here, with - with you?”
“I understand completely if you have to get back on the road, but yes, it - it might be nice.”
Fuck Cleveland.
“Sure, yes, I’m in.”
“Wonderful!”
The Scalawags were a band, sure. They had played lots of concert venues, been thrown out of them too. But they had never played a show like this, had never had a packed house of thirty thousand mostly sober adults screaming and singing along and dressing up in their own costumes. Stede was almost apologetic in his nips backstage for a costume change and some water, (“It’s not always like this,” “I prefer to play more intimate venues, honestly,” “No, they don’t throw bras so much anymore but someone did throw a jockstrap, now that was rather funny -”) By the time the second encore rolled around Ed was vibrating out of his skin. What if he fucked up? No, he was going to fuck up and he was going to ruin the show and make Stede look like an idiot and all those horrible little twitter trolls were going to -
“Now, I would like to introduce you all to a true gentleman, an excellent songwriter, and my good friend as of today, Mr. Ed Teach!” Ed froze, one foot in the air, like an idiot, like a child with stage fright.
“C’mon big boy, there you go,” said Lucius, coming up behind him and shoving him onto the stage to the roaring cheers of a sold out crowd.
He stumbled out, and held up a hand against the lights.
“Over here!” Ed turned to see Stede waving him over, and as soon as he locked eyes with the man, it was like in those stupid fucking stories he had always heard and never believed, how the rest of the crowd and the band just melted away and it was just the two people on stage - but it was! It was happening!
Was he having a stroke? He sniffed - no burning toast, just the faint smell of leather and sweat that had accompanied him to every gig he’d ever played.
“Ready?” Stede asked, and fuck yeah, actually, he was ready, he was ready to blow the roof off this fucking arena with his guitar. Ed grinned.
“Let’s do it.”
It was perfect.
“What a show!” Ed had somehow found himself back in Stede’s dressing room, watching the man gush about the show over a glass of champagne. “Your playing! It was simply sublime!” Ed shrugged, sipped on the glass of champagne that had made its way into his own hand.
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Ed muttered. How was he supposed to get back on that fucking tour bus after this? Christ, Jack would be passed out by now, hopefully he hadn’t pissed himself again, and Izzy would be dour and irritating about how the show had gone and would find an awful bootleg on youtube and sit there picking apart every single moment until Ed threw the damn phone out onto I-80.
Fuck that. Fuck all that. He wasn’t getting back on that damn bus, at least not until -
Ed interrupted what he was sure was a very interesting digression on the playing style of David Gilmour when he leaned over, plucked the champagne flute out of Stede’s hands, and kissed him.
His lips were just as soft as Ed thought they might be, and he made a little moaning noise when Ed slid his hands into Stede’s hair that went right to Ed’s dick.
“Is this - was that -” Ed said, pulling back. This wasn’t going to be something he fucked up, he was going to get this right he was going to have flowers sent over from a nice florists, none of this 1-800-FLOWERS bullshit -
“I was wondering when you would get the hint. Almost thought I had it wrong.” The hint? Ed thought of the outfits, the music, the wine, the food.
Oh fuck.
“Was all this a - a come on?” Stede laughed.
“A seduction, and, well, that depends.”
“On what?”
“Did it work?”
“You crafty bastard.” Ed could feel himself grinning now, and kissed him again while hauling himself into Stede’s lap. It had been a long day, and Ed thought himself entitled to the most comfortable seat in the room. “I’ll show you how well it worked.”
Ed did not make it back to the tour bus that night, and was obliged to fly himself to Cleveland the next day.
Bonnet and Blackbeard to Collaborate on Album after Concert Showing
SCALAWAGS BREAK UP!
Calico Jack Arrested in Jacksonville, FL for Crimes Against Birds
More than a Collab? Bonnet and Blackbeard Open Up About Relationship