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Edward Teach has not celebrated Christmas in a very long time.
He was raised, and to some extent remains, a Christian, the festive seasons of his past filled with advent candles and prayer. He remembers the smell of cloves and orange peel, and devouring dry supermarket turkey on Christmas day. Most years, his father would be drunk within hours, shouting and screaming at anybody who had the misfortune to stumble upon his presence. Young Edward would spend Christmas tucked away in his room, door locked, trying to drown out his mothers’ sobs without making too much noise.
Moving out, he had felt no need to celebrate the holiday season. He had cut himself off almost entirely from the religion that bore him, shunning even its most secular of holidays. He’d been called a scrooge, and a grinch, and many other less festive names by his peers and colleagues. He’d spent the winter season throwing his heart and soul into dreams of Blackbeard, building his fictional legacy.
And then he met Israel. A devout atheist, a workaholic. Another man with no interest in celebration. For years they’d driven each other forward, their relationship souring as Edward’s Blackbeard had grown between them, grown sharp and cruel, grown cold and bitter. For Izzy, and for Edward, there was only one God worth their time and devotion.
Still, none of this comes to mind as Ed rushes down the grand, excessive staircase of Stede’s childhood home on Christmas morning. He runs his fingers over the absurdly ornate banister, feeling the little grooves of every petal and leaf. He leaps over discarded clothes and still-unpacked moving boxes, dodging every obstacle with grace and just a touch too much excitement. At the bottom of the stairs, he turns right, rushing through the sparsely-decorated lobby and into the front room.
There are a few living rooms in their new house, but this is the largest and most central, and so, naturally, the most popular. It is adorned with garlands of gaudy tinsel and strings of popcorn and dried fruits, hand-stitched stockings stuffed to bursting over the long-unused fireplace. The first thing Stede had ensured was that the house was fitted with proper heating; not the inefficient, polluting logfires of his childhood, but boilers piped to radiators that filled every room with moderate warmth.
He opens the curtains first. It’s still dark outside- the sun doesn’t rise for hours at this time of year. Most days, Ed would still be fast asleep, curled tightly around Stede. But today isn't most days. Today is Christmas day.
The room is high-ceilinged enough to fit a ten foot pine- the whole thing adorned in a mismatch of tasteful, cutesy, kitsch, and crude christmas decorations. Beneath it bustles a metropolis of presents, towers of bright paper stacked high into the branches. Ed turns every single one over in his hands, looking for his name, shaking and sniffing and poking to guess what’s inside. He should wait for the others, really, so he bides his time with guessing games, imagining the most obscure and implausible gifts in every carefully tied parcel.
He doesn’t look up when Stede enters the room, busy wondering who on earth thought it was a good idea to buy Izzy what can only be a pack of very expensive hand-sculpted bath bombs. Banana scented, if he’s not mistaken.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Ed jumps, caught with his hand in Santa’s cookie jar.
“”Thought I should wait for the others.” He says as though he is being scolded. Stede chuckles.
“How long have you been up? Your side of the bed’s gone cold.”
“There isn’t really a ‘my side’, mate.”
Stede sits down cross-legged next to Ed, festive green robe splaying out around him. It has little pine trees embroidered on it, Ed notices. They’re kind of cute. He reaches over, taking Izzy’s gift from where Ed’s pressing the little unicorn outlines into paper. Without looking at the label, he says “That’s not for you.”
“How d’you know?”
“How do you think, darling?” Stede says gently, if a little teasing.
“Right…”
“Here,” Stede digs out a large, floppy present from the back of the pile, “This is from me.”
Ed pulls at one end of the neat blue bow and lets the ribbon unravel. He tries to be patient as he unfolds the wrapping paper, savouring the process, but his hands get ahead of him and soon he’s ripping and tearing to get inside, leaving the pretty snowflake pattern in shreds around him.
“It’s a little… ah, silly, I suppose…”
A grin breaks across Ed’s face as he realises what it is.
He’s been spending time with Stede’s kids lately - a lot of time, in the busy run up to Christmas, taking care of them through Mary and Doug’s last-minute shopping - and he and Louis have founded something of a ritual.
When the kids come over, Alma goes out into the garden with Izzy who, with reluctant permission from her parents, teaches her to fight. It’s basic stuff; how to punch without breaking your hand; the best way to disable your opponent, but Louis is less than enthused, and so, with the winter season upon them, they have themselves something of a disco.
Ed has never actually watched Frozen. But he has heard the songs from it many, many times. And he’s had the plot explained to him - though how much he retains from Louis’ confusing and snotty-nosed ramblings is up for debate - so he feels like he probably gets the gist of it. He loves Elsa, the outcast, with her icy powers that drive everyone away, and he hates Hans - the treacherous, meddling bastard. And if, when he and Louis are screeching along to the Frozen official Spotify playlist, he imagines his twirls and twists are the laments of a lonely ice princess, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
Except.
Well, Stede seems to have noticed.
Ed feels a grin splitting his cheeks, so wide and sharp it hurts. He can’t stop it, can’t school his face into something more reasonable, just lets out a high-pitched squeal and spins around and around, plastic-wrapped dress clenched tightly in his hands. He jumps once, kicks his leg, and almost knocks Edward Bonnet’s urn off the mantelpiece before hastily sitting back down, unsure how he’s supposed to present his excitement.
“I got Louis the Ana one.” Stede says, the twinkle of laughter behind his eyes soaked in a fond relief. “You’ll be a pair.”
“I-” He doesn’t really have words for how he’s feeling, can’t articulate the lump that swells in his throat or the energy that buzzes through his veins. He ploughs into Stede, knocking him over in a tight hug.
Through his mind rush millions of half-formed schemes already twisting around each other in a labyrinthine symphony. He can’t wait to see Louis on boxing day, for the kids to unwrap their presents and then…
He can see Louis’ face now, overjoyed, glowing bright under the fairy lights as he tears back the paper. His legs already ache from the hours of dancing that will follow, of bouncing in spirals and tumbling over antique furniture that Stede still hasn’t quite found just the right buyer for. He can feel sore vocal chords and a rapid heartbeat, the same few songs playing through tinny speakers so many times that the world fades away, so many times that there is nothing but music.
Lying with his face hidden in Stede’s neck, back twisted at an awkward angle, waiting patiently for the rest of the world to wake up, Edward Teach feels, stupidly, like a father. And like a kid at Christmas.