Charles had not expected this to be his life, he had never in his life even imagined a situation where he had finally achieved his freedom, and had now voluntarily put himself into this situation. For being trapped in a terrible storm in the seas and still having no room for anything else in his head than the thought of her face with that little smile on her lips surely did not fall into the category of freedom. His mind was like a prisoner to her. It baffled him, he could not reason the situation. One moment she'd been some girl, then before he noticed, she was everything. How that had come to be did not make any sense to him, they had shared a quarrel and a kiss and that was all it took. He did not want this, or had not wanted this. But in this moment when he was desperately trying to help the sail up, it was her who stayed with him in that moment. It terrified him. For this to be only the beginning, what would come to be between them would surely be more than this. But him being terrified seemed not to stop him. It did not stop him for yearning to see her again, hold her, to be engulfed in her presence, for it was intoxicating. If he'd survive this storm, he'd see her again and at that moment nothing could have made him happier.
She had heard that Teach's crew had been hit by a storm. That was this morning. She had yet to see him. It made her anxious. And she did not know how she felt about feeling like that. Eleanor had a deeply complicated relationship with her feelings. She wanted not to care, not to feel this persisting need to see him and know he was alright. But she could not chase that feeling away. It stuck with her till late afternoon, at which point she could no longer ignore it. She let the pen fall down on the paper, the ink leaving a nasty stain, with a splatter making its way to her hand. She brushed her hair aside and did what she had to, walking down to where she'd most likely find him. When she got to the beach full of tents set up for the crews, she realized she had no idea how to actually find him. Thankfully Jack Rackham appeared seemingly out of thin air.
"Have you seen Charles?" she asked, rather rudely, but thankfully he did not seem to mind.
"Yes, he's lying down for a bit. Do you want me to take you to him, Ms. Guthrie?"
"If you'd be so kind," she replied, a sudden feeling of relief filling her as now she at least knew he was alive. Jack led her to the tent and vanished. She took a deep breath and knocked on the beam holding up the tent structure.
"Fuck off, Jack," a groggy voice from inside groaned. It brought a small smile on her face. She took that as an invitation to walk in.
"I'm not Jack," she said, taking him in. He was on the bed, legs and arms spread, and a massive bruise on his forehead. Other than that he seemed to be fine.
"You are definitely not Jack," he admitted.
"Still want me to fuck off?" she asked, taking a tentative step closer to him.
"Fuck no," he said and silently looked at her.
"What happened there?" she asked, and pointed to his head. He groaned.
"Slipped, fell down, on my head. A concussion." He made a gesture to wave it off, like it was nothing. But watching him on the bottom of his bed, hurt, and clearly in some sort of discomfort, it made her look at him differently. He was not just some pirate she had conflicted feelings about, well he was all that, but he was also someone she did not want to be alone, not when he was hurt and perhaps even when he was not.
"Want me to stay with you?" He looked at her, as if he was hesitating, about what, she did not know.
"Yes," was what he finally said and shifted his position a bit. A clear invitation for her to come next to him. It was her time to hesitate, but she sat down on his bed, and finally laying down, on her side, her head on his pillow and looking at him. It was the strangest moment, possible even the strangest moment in her entire life. She was in bed with a pirate, but not in the biblical sense. They were both so quiet, as if something solemn was happening, and perhaps it was. There was no need for words. All she needed was to be right there with him, knowing he was going to be fine.
It was also what he needed. Her beside him. Charles was not a man to show vulnerability, but Eleanor being there, was something he had never experienced. Never in his life had someone stayed with him when he was not feeling well, never had anyone cared enough to be there. She came, however. To see him, and she stayed. For hours. He kept slipping to sleep, but she kept keeping him awake. "You shouldn't fall asleep. Not with a concussion." How she knew that, he did not know, and he did not ask. It was hard to stay focused. He turned to his side, so he was looking straight into her eyes. A lock of blonde hair had once again escaped. He reached to tug it behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek. She brought her own hand to touch his and took hold of it, guiding their intertwined hands on the space between them. Had he been of his right mind he might have laughed. Charles Vane, in bed with a girl, holding hands. Positively absurd. Or perhaps he wouldn't have laughed. For her hand felt like something he never wanted to let go. Despite her best efforts to keep him awake, the night snuck up on them and they both closed their eyes, just for the moment, only to open them to meet the new morning.
Eleanor did not wake up with a jolt, nor did she wake up to a feeling that she was out of place, in some place strange. No, she woke up well rested and feeling oddly… happy. For a moment she basked in that feeling, until of course she realized she was still in the bed of none other than Charles Vane. She looked at the man beside her, only to find him already awake and looking at her. His hand reached to stroke her face. Her eyes wandered from his eyes to his lips. But before she could turn thoughts into actions, a too familiar voice called her.
"Eleanor!" a man shouted seconds before the canvas door of the tent was pushed aside and Mr. Scott's angry face entered the tent.
"Ms. Guthrie, get out of this place this second," he said calmly, yet anger bubbling under the surface. His eyes roamed over the place, setting on Charles, who did not seem phased. But when was the man ever phased. Eleanor however felt a little redness rising on her cheeks. She didn't want to feel embarrassment, she wasn't doing anything wrong. And when Eleanor was made to feel something she did not want to, she was determined to take control of the situation, in her own way.
"Could you please wait outside for a moment, Mr. Scott?" she more commanded than asked in her most proper and authoritative voice. She could see Mr. Scott's nostrils flare a little, but he did as she asked. She knew this was not the last she'd hear about this, but right there she needed to assert her dominance to gain control of her feelings. She rose to a seated position in his bed, getting ready to leave and face Mr. Scott once again, but suddenly she turned to him, crawled closer and planted her lips to his. He was still lying on his back, yet he wrapped his hand behind her neck and pulled her closer to meet the kiss fully. The kiss was short, but the little devious smile on his lips after she broke it was making her blush again, this time for a different reason. She got up, giving him a final look, and finally facing her warden, with stubble burn still felt upon her cheek and the taste of his lips still on her tongue. She braced for the inevitable talk of propriety, but she did not care, for if anything that felt even nearly as good as being with him felt, then she did not care how improper it was.
It was the first of many talks about propriety that Eleanor had to hear from Mr. Scott. He was a pirate, he said. A man below your station. And men only ever wanted one thing, surely she knew that. Please do not do this, Eleanor. All of it was true. He was indeed a pirate, and yes her social standing certainly was much higher than his. And for what came to that one thing men wanted… well she wanted it too, so how could he fault a man for wanting it. Yes, she was fully aware what Mr. Scott meant with that. The implied 'he'll just use you and cast you away' was hanging in the air, unsaid. Of that she did not know if it was true. Would he cast her away? What would change? Would anything? For the better or for the worse? But there was no way of knowing, and it was nothing she could not figure out, in time.
Eleanor had left him in his bed, with the taste of her on his lips, her smell lingering round him. He groaned, for he did not know what to make of this feeling. This feeling of needing her here, of the urge to tell Mr. Scott to go fuck himself and leave her here with him, because it was clear as day to him it was where she belonged. The day crawled by, his groggy feeling easing. What was going to happen now, he did not know. Would she be coming back? The night fell without a sight of her. He made his way by the fire, to Anne and Jack, in search of rum naturally. It was getting so late he had given up on thinking she'd be coming back. He didn't blame her. But the light footsteps on the sand behind him proved him wrong. She reach him, gently placing her hand on his shoulder as he was sitting by the fire. If he had been looking anywhere else than her beautiful face, he might have seen Jack and Anne exchanging a look of worry. But had he seen it, he wouldn't have cared. He took her hand and pulled her down next to him, unable to make himself let go of that hand.
"Rum?" Jack asked, and without an answer poured her a glass, which she took delightedly.
"Got an earful from Mr. Scott?" Charles asked her, the rum never failing to make him more talkative. She huffed and downed the rum, and grabbed the bottle to fill it again.
"Indeed I did. Apparently you are a pirate, how could you have failed to tell me, Charles?" she said with an eye roll. He laughed at her exasperation. "And, wait for it, apparently men want only one thing. Shocking news, isn't it," she said, her voice dripping sarcasm.
"Well that's where he is wrong. Men want three things. Money, women and alcohol," he said, wrapping his arm around her waist and simultaneously emptying his cup. It made her throw back her head and let out a merry laugh. It brought a smile on his lips.
"Seems like you got it all, then," she said more quietly, giving him a look that he was not sure what he was supposed to do with. Well, he did know what he would have normally done, but something made him decide against it. Instead he poured her more drink.
Before long the rum had gone to her head. Everything around her was fun, and Charles Vane was the most hilarious man in the existence. Not to mention the most handsome. The dawn was getting closer and closer, but she was having the time of her life. Until he decided to pull her up.
"You've had enough. Bed. Now," he announced. She pouted in her drunken haze. He somehow managed to drag her to the tent, he body refusing to cooperate. As he let her down on the bed a giggle escaped her mouth as the world seemed to be spinning around her.
"I bet this is what it feels to live on a ship," she laughed. He emerged right next to her on the bed. She inched closer and kissed him, letting her hands roam around his body, feeling his hard muscles all around his body. She moaned against his lips and with one hand started to pull up his shirt. Then he pulled his lips away from hers.
"You're fucking shitfaced, Eleanor," was what he said, with a frustrated groan.
"And?" she challenged.
"Go to sleep." He turned his back on her and she let out a frustrated groan of her own. But Eleanor indeed was very drunk, and before long, she fell asleep next to Charles Vane for the second time out of the hundred times that were yet to come. The next morning she would wake up with a terrible headache. He would laugh at her, mock her goodheartedly and tell her to go vomit outside of his living quarters. An advice she took. He would lean against the beam propping up his tent, and look at her throwing her guts up right next to him and think 'she's something else'. The warm feeling inside him spreading made absolutely no sense to him, especially as he was looking at this girl in the most unflattering situation. Yet it was how he felt. And would be feeling for a very long time.