Chapter Text
He didn’t particularly want to admit it, but it was true: Ed Teach was bored. Extremely bored.
It was becoming harder and harder to hide it, frankly. He was lucky to have found another option after a career-derailing injury years ago, but teaching fencing to klutzy middle-aged folks looking for a mild thrill and teenagers who had seen The Princess Bride one too many times had become a bit of a grind. Ed generally tried not to think about it too much–the life of travel and the adrenaline of competition he’d lost before he’d gotten his fill of it–since dwelling on it never solved a thing. He especially didn’t want to deal with these thoughts right now, with the beginner class he’d have to lead starting so soon. Ed busied himself puttering around the club, getting the masks lined up on the shelves and the practice weapons on their racks. Izzy had already prepped the stacks of loaner plastrons and jackets.
“Oh God, here he is,” Ed heard Izzy say through gritted teeth. “Didn’t think he’d actually show up.”
Ed moved toward the front window to try and see who Izzy was looking at. “What, the guy who kept coming in to ask questions?”
“Yes, that absolute twat. Didn’t know the first thing about anything.” Izzy sighed. “He’s your problem now.”
As the door opened, Ed expected to see another middle-aged sad sack like all the rest who signed up for the beginner class but dropped out after a session or two–someone as worn down and bored as he was. Ed absolutely did not expect to see a man slightly shorter than himself, broad-chested, kitted out in full gear, bag slung over his shoulder, with angelic dark blond curls threatening to fall into his eyes and a blend of nervousness and unhinged optimism on his face. Ed recognized at a glance that everything the newcomer was wearing was top-of-the-line; he didn’t need to see the BMW in the parking lot to know this fellow wasn’t short on money.
The man looked anxiously around the still-empty club and caught Ed’s eye. His face lit up as he walked over and stuck out his hand. “How do you do? I’m Stede Bonnet.”
After all of Izzy’s grousing about him, this unusual gentleman was the last person Ed would have imagined. Here was something new, he thought. Ed grasped Stede’s slightly damp hand and shook it warmly. “Nice to meet you, Stede Bonnet. I’m Ed Teach. I’ve heard all about you.” All was a bit of an exaggeration, but Ed went with it anyway. Stede’s eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hair, but he said nothing. “You’re here for the beginner class?” Ed asked. Stede’s expression settled and he nodded brightly. “I don’t know how to tell you this, mate,” Ed said, “but you won’t need all of this just yet, especially that.” He gestured at the metallic lamé Stede was wearing over his fencing jacket.
“You can put your extra gear in the back,” Izzy said from behind the front counter, making Stede jump.
“Oh, it’s you,” Stede said, a look of annoyance crossing his face. “All right, then, Iggy.”
“Izzy,” the other man growled back, shooting daggers at Stede out of his eyeballs.
“Here, I’ll show you,” Ed said before Stede could get himself into any more trouble, well aware that Izzy was clenching his jaw as he looked back and forth between the other two. But he pointedly ignored it. Ed’s interest was piqued, and he wasn’t going to pretend it wasn’t. He had to know more about this unexpected character who had just shown up in his club. He guided Stede into the changing area. “Come this way.”
***
If Ed couldn’t put his finger on who Stede was, he wasn’t the only one. Stede himself had not been sure either, for quite some time. Who was he, now? Newly divorced father of two was part of it. Professor of Victorian literature at a small, selective liberal arts college was another. Person trying to figure out his own sexuality in his 40s hadn’t been part of the plan, but here he was.
“It’s 1999,” he thought to himself often. “This shouldn’t be so hard.” He couldn’t possibly be teaching at a more LGBT-friendly campus; Mary had been nothing but supportive. How could she not be, when she’d been the one to sit him down and make him really, genuinely, think about why their marriage, while friendly, had been so unsatisfying for both of them? Pointing out how he’d all but disappeared into his research, and his family almost never saw him? She’d helped him face up to what he’d been running from all his life, and Stede was grateful for it. But although in some ways he now understood himself better than he ever had before, Stede couldn’t help feeling old, and stuck, and like it was too late to reinvent himself. He had no idea how to even begin dating at his age, let alone how he might start dating… men. It still felt mildly startling even to consider. Simply put, Stede Bonnet needed a distraction, and when the flier came in the mail advertising beginner classes at Blackbeard’s Fencing Club, it sent him into all sorts of romantic daydreams. When he wasn’t teaching or prepping for class, Stede should have been working on article revisions or drafting the next chapter of his book, but he kept finding himself staring out of the window of his faculty office instead, thinking about swordplay and handsome men in fencing whites.
Still, as enticing as it was, it took days to rustle up the courage to even think about signing up for a class, let alone actually do so. What if he failed? What if everyone laughed at his clumsiness? He’d never been particularly good at sports in school, and he had generally been one of the last ones picked for any team. But the temptation of this particular venture was too great, and he succumbed.
Once Stede was in, he was all in. Of course he did his research, reading up on the different weapons, ultimately deciding to give foil a try. It had always looked quite dashing on the rare moments when they showed five minutes of it in the Summer Olympics broadcasts. Plus, he knew from the flier that Edward Teach was the main instructor for foil and epée, and that sour, exhausted man always at the front desk taught sabre. That in and of itself was enough to put him off that weapon. But even the strained interactions with that surly individual every time Stede came in to ask questions about what he should buy ultimately couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm for this new adventure. He’d ended up ordering all the equipment he needed through the club, figuring the investment would keep him from backing out, in the end.
When the evening of the first class finally arrived, Stede had to sit in his car for a bit and compose himself. He’d arrived absurdly early. Good lord, what was he doing here? What kind of ridiculous midlife crisis was this, anyway? Indeed, only the idea that he’d come too far to back out now kept him from doing exactly that. Stede sat in the parking lot feeling increasingly foolish. Eventually, he realized that sitting alone with his thoughts was worse than any awkwardness he might experience if he just went inside, so he got out of his car and walked toward the entrance.
The club was nestled in among other small businesses in the area: a bike shop on one side, a little bakery on the other. The plate glass windows in front let Stede see the main bouting area, the silvery strips lined up next to each other on the floor. It was airy and light inside. Stede grasped the door handle and went in.
He looked around the space, and his eyes lit upon his new fencing instructor. The little flier photo, while intriguing, hadn’t prepared Stede for how magnetic he would instantly find Teach. Good heavens, Stede thought. He took in the other man’s warm, dark eyes—had he ever seen such pretty eyes in a man?—his shock of salt-and-pepper curls, and the bit of stubble on his face. Stede noted the brace on his knee and wondered what the story was behind it.
Before he had time to get more flustered, Stede stepped forward and introduced himself. There was a cool elegance about the other man as he met Stede halfway and greeted him. (Stede hoped his hand wasn’t too moist when they shook hands; he’d broken into a sweat like some kind of teenager.) Ed’s voice had a low rumble to it, which Stede found disconcertingly appealing. And Ed had heard of him? What was that about?
This was worse than he’d imagined, honestly. It was terrifying enough to be attempting an activity so foreign to him. To have to try and learn from someone who looked like that with all of his no-longer-entirely-repressed feelings and attractions? What on earth was he to do?
***
After Ed showed him the changing area in the back and Stede had left the equipment he wouldn’t need right away in a locker, Ed said, “would you like to take a look around?” Stede nodded and they left the back room, walking over to a wall with some photos prominently displayed. There was Ed himself, years ago, at U.S. Nationals and overseas. The other owner of the club, Israel “Izzy” Hands, competing in sabre. And another person Stede didn’t recognize, but the caption said “B. Jimenez.” He leaned in for a closer look.
“Ah, I see you’ve discovered the star of our little club,” Ed said, smiling. “They go by Jim these days. They were Olympic caliber, but they got tired of the gendered competition and retired.”
“Really!” said Stede. “What do they do now?”
“They’re a private investigator, actually,” Ed replied. “Their office is just around the corner. You’d be surprised at how well the skills translate.”
Stede had many questions, but other students had started filtering in, looking similarly uncertain but excited. “Duty calls, mate,” Ed said. “But we can talk more later, if you like.”
“I’d like that,” Stede replied. He passed the time until the start of class observing the other students. Many of them were much younger, but he noted to his relief that there were some other middle-aged folks in the group. Thank goodness for that.
Once all the students had arrived, Ed got their attention and motioned to gather around. “Let’s get started,” he said, looking out at the small assembled crowd. Stede could have sworn that Ed held eye contact with him a shade longer than necessary, but quickly dismissed the thought. He must have imagined it. “Welcome to the beginner class. Izzy and I are glad to see you all here. You’ve all signed your consent forms, so you know this is a strenuous sport. Your gear is made to protect you, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t likely to get a few bruises here and there, so be ready. But fencing is not about brute force or even speed, or at least not only that. Fencing is chess with a weapon in your hand.” He paused and looked at them, feeding off their excitement, feeling more inclined than usual to be patient with them. “I know you’re all anxious to start fencing each other, but we have to start with the basics. That means learning your stance and proper footwork. Let’s get you moving now, and we can cover more about the weapons later.”
He had the class spread out across the room, demonstrating the en garde position, then moving on to steps and lunges of various lengths and having the students imitate them backwards and forwards. As Izzy came to the front of the room to take his place leading footwork drills, Ed started circulating among the students, giving tips. “Make sure not to drag your feet. Pick your toes up when you start the lunge.” When he got to Stede, Ed said, “keep your knee aligned with your toes and don’t push it too far. Doesn’t go well at our age.” Stede nodded and tried not to take offense; after all, Ed had included himself in the same age bracket. And doing the footwork was tiring, no question. Stede would have to step up his cardio if he didn’t want to end up impossibly winded.
Just as he was starting to think he might actually be getting the hang of this, Ed got the class’s attention once again. “All right, everyone! Let’s talk weapons. You can sit down if you’d like.” Izzy brought out one of each and proceeded to hand them, one at a time, to Ed. “We’ll start with foil,” he said, holding one up. “The pressure it takes to register a touch corresponds to what it would take to gut-stab someone.” Stede wasn’t sure whether to feel nauseated or excited by this; he decided to go with the latter. “Your target in foil is only the torso; again, you’re trying to disembowel your opponent. When you do an official bout, you’ll be hooked into an electronic scoring system. You’ll wear a body cord that goes through your sleeve and out the back of your jacket. One end of the cord will plug into your weapon”–Ed paused to demonstrate–”and the other will plug into a retractable reel at the end of the strip, and the reel connects to the scoring machine in the middle. If you complete the circuit by landing a touch on your opponent’s lamé, the machine will light up on your side and buzz.” He handed the foil back to Izzy and took the next one, which had a more bell-shaped hilt. “Now, we have the epée. Do any of you know its history?” Stede, ever the star student, raised his hand. “Yes, Stede?” Ed said.
“It’s the gentleman’s weapon,” he said. “Too many young men were ‘gut-stabbing’ each other, as you say, so they passed laws in Europe so that duels would be fought to first blood instead of to the death.”
Ed raised his eyebrows slightly and gave him a crisp nod. “Exactly,” he said. “So you can hit anywhere on the body, even the toe. The pressure you need to score is the same as what it takes to break the skin. For this weapon, you don’t wear a lamé, and both the epée itself and the piste–the strip where the bout happens–are grounded, so the system can tell if you’ve hit the floor or hand guard instead of your opponent.” He traded weapons with Izzy again, showing the class the longer hilt. “Finally, we have sabre. Sorry to say, women still can’t compete in sabre at the Olympic level, although anyone is welcome to work with any weapon here. Anyone know where sabre fencing comes from?” Stede raised his hand again. “Anyone other than Stede?” As metaphorical crickets chirped, the corner of Ed’s mouth tweaked up into a half-smile and he said, “yes, Stede, please share with the class.”
Stede tried not to preen at his knowledge and was not entirely successful. “It comes from cavalry battles,” he said.
“Correct again,” Ed said. “The target is everything from the waist up, as if you were sitting on a horse. You can hit with the side of the blade, not just the tip–so, lots of cutting and slashing motions. Along with waist-up on your lamė, your mask will be metallic too, so a hit on your head will complete the circuit and give you the point. Izzy is a terror with this weapon, and you couldn’t ask for a better teacher.” He tossed the sabre back to Izzy and said, “Right! Would you like to see a demonstration?” The class murmured its assent, and Ed and Izzy went over to the strip, plugging into the reels at either end of the piste and attaching their weapons. “Iz is being kind enough to join me on epée,” he said as they tested their epées on the floor and each other’s hilts (no buzz) and on each other (lights and buzzer, everything operational). “We’ll go to 5, the usual number of points at the amateur level.” Ed and Izzy saluted each other with their weapons, took their starting positions, and began the bout.
Stede was utterly fascinated. The two men moved back and forth on the piste, advancing and retreating, each looking for openings, testing each other’s blades now and again. The movements were more subtle than Stede had expected. Ed, having a longer reach, often stretched out his epée in a bit of a dare to the other man, but Izzy rarely took the bait, waiting until Ed would pull back, then beating Ed’s blade and darting underneath to strike a toe or Ed’s side from below. Nevertheless, Ed’s superior skills with this weapon were evident. With great economy of motion, he controlled most of the bout, biding his time and catching Izzy out of rhythm again and again. Stede couldn’t get enough of Ed’s elegant movements: sometimes they were explosive and lightning fast, sometimes so subtle that Stede couldn’t even make out the line of attack before hearing the buzzer and seeing it light up on Ed’s side. Stede found how he commanded the strip almost unbearably attractive. In the end, Ed took the victory 5-3 with ease. The two men saluted and shook hands, officially ending the bout. “We always have to demo with your weapon,” Izzy muttered, but he was not otherwise ungracious.
“Right!” Ed said. “Let’s get you a weapon in your hand for a bit before class ends. People who want to try foil, stand here. Epée folks, you go in the middle. Sabre people, follow Izzy over there.” Once they were sorted, Ed and Izzy directed each group to their respective weapons and practice masks. Stede, of course, had his own, which he quickly retrieved from the back.
Ed had the foil and epée students follow along as he demonstrated attacks and parries. “Parry 4, across your body. Parry 6, to the outside.” He led them through all 8 main parries, having them practice the various motions in unison. “Foil fencers, remember it’s absolutely key to parry every attack that comes toward you. If you don’t, you won’t have ‘right of way’ when you counterattack–that means your touch won’t count, even if you get a hit. Epée fencers, both of you can score at the same time, so you don’t have to parry, but obviously it’s better if you can get a solo touch.” Stede had to work very hard to absorb this information and not just get lost in the silkiness of Ed’s voice. It was doing things to him; that was undeniable. Ed continued, “Now, the important thing to remember is that you don’t just want to stop your opponent’s attack. You want to counterattack–that’s a riposte. Getting that in your heads right away will help you make it a habit: parry, riposte. Parry, riposte. Try adding a counterattack to your parries.” He went back to circulating around the room, correcting the students’ forms. When he got to Stede, he said, “you’ve nearly got it. Make it nice and crisp, and keep the tip pointed at your opponent.” He grasped Stede’s gloved hand and guided him through the movement. It was just a quick moment of contact, not even skin-to-skin, but it sent a shiver down Stede’s spine anyway. He did his best to replicate the movement, and Ed nodded in approval. “Yes, that’s it.”
The rest of the class was a blur for Stede; all too soon, it was over, and his fellow students were packing up. “We’ll see you next time,” Ed called out over the noise, “and we’ll get you all bouting soon enough.” Ed chatted here and there with a departing student, answering questions and offering encouragement. Stede gathered his things and was about to leave, secretly envious of everyone who had spoken with Ed, when he felt a clap on the shoulder. Stede turned around. “So what did you think, Stede Bonnet?” Ed asked.
“It wasn’t easy, but I loved it,” Stede replied, eyes sparkling.
Ed smiled. “So why foil? I would have thought a gentleman like you would go for something more refined like epée,” he said.
Stede blushed slightly. Ed thought he was a gentleman? And was that a good thing? “Foil just seemed more…swashbuckle-y,” Stede confessed. “It’s very dramatic to watch.”
Ed chuckled at that. “So you’re a bit of a pirate, eh. It’s always the quiet ones.”
Stede smiled back. “I’ve been looking for a little excitement in my life, honestly.”
“Well, glad you’re taking the class, mate. We’ll see you next week?”
“Count on it!” Stede said brightly, now heading for the door. When he reached it, he turned around and gave a shy little wave. Ed waved back. None of this escaped Izzy’s notice.
***
“What was that all about?” Izzy said to Ed, once everyone had cleared out.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Ed said, knowing very well what Izzy meant.
“Dammit, Ed, don’t play games with me. You know very well. I mean you making eyes at that fucking twat.”
Ed sighed as he gathered up his things. “Honestly, Iz, I can’t with you sometimes. I don’t see how I was doing anything inappropriate.”
Izzy grumbled. “Of course you weren’t. But don’t go making a fool of yourself. Or letting yourself get made a fool of.”
Ed stared at him, his jaw tightening. Izzy always knew exactly what would get under his skin. “I’m gonna need you to mind your own business, mate,” he said, with a note of warning in his voice.
Izzy sighed. “All right. Whatever. You go home. I’ll lock up.”
Ed gave a single nod and went out. “Thanks, Iz.”
“Mmph,” Izzy grunted in response.
Ed went out to the parking lot and got into his car, exhaling forcefully once Izzy couldn’t hear. So what if he was intrigued by this Bonnet fellow? The pickings were slim in this little town. Sure, it was within striking distance of New York City, but that was far enough away to make getting there a bit of a bother. Expensive to go to the city, too. He hadn’t been seeing anyone seriously for a dog’s age. Still, he couldn’t ignore the feeling in his gut that Izzy was probably right. He was setting himself up for one hell of a letdown, more than likely.