DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Again, sorry! Apparently I've lost the ability to update within anything resembling a timely fashion. I'm still having some issues with writers-block, but I have a better idea of where I want things to go now, so bear with me. Thanks again to all the lovlies who've been following & commenting, it's what's kept this story going.
PS: I've used some 1700's clothing terminology in this chapter that may need deciphering, so I included some simplified definitions below.
- A Justacorp is a coat. An example being like the ones we often see Anne Bonny wearing.
- A bastian shirt is the loose and flowy type of shirt that we see most of the pirates wearing. It's the stereotypical pirate shirt.
And I'm pretty sure most of you know what breeches and trousers are, so I won't bother with defining those ones.
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The camp was bustling with movement and voices. The men had been informed of their impending departure and had consequently begun scrambling to make the appropriate preparations. That was good, that was progress, but Eleanor was in no mood to appreciate it. She was too busy imagining all of her careful planning being rendered meaningless by this ridiculous notion of secrecy. She feared the whole thing was all about to blow up in her face. Again.
Unfortunately, Eleanor's worries had a way of manifesting themselves under a cloak of irritation and impatience. For her, a heated resentment towards the source of her apprehension and her own inability to silence it, was a common fallout of experiencing such emotion.
As such, she now sat seething in a disgruntled heap. She watched Charles move calmly and quickly about the tent, seemingly without a care in the world. He was busily stuffing various items into a large, darkly stained traveling trunk made of solid oak and adorned with a myriad of ornate geometric carvings. It was no doubt a prize he'd procured on one of his hunts, as she couldn't imagine Charles waltzing into a carpenter's shop and requesting such an embellished piece. He was a man of simpler tastes, inclined more towards items of necessity and function than to anything quite so florid.
Which was why she couldn't fathom his agreement with this nonsensical plan.
As she continued to stew, Charles continued to appear ostensibly indifferent to her surly disposition. She wasn't certain if he was intentionally pretending he hadn't noticed her agitation, or if he just didn't care. Either way, she decided she was quite through with this taxing practice of remaining reticent.
"You can't possibly believe this is going to work." She grumbled.
He continued gathering up essentials and depositing them into the trunk, not bothering to turn around as he answered her. "As long as you keep your mouth shut, head down and hood up, it'll work just fine." He stated evenly.
Her frown intensified. "You're just going to march me out into that camp and straight on up to your ship?" She glared out at him through questioning and contentious eyes as she gestured sharply toward the camp outside the tent flap. "How do you think that's going to look? You think none of those men are going to question such an abnormal turn of events?" She inquired acerbically.
He sighed. He wasn't a fool, he knew there would be questions and whispers and suspicion. There was no way her presence here was going to remain undiscovered for very long. But they didn't need it to last forever, they only needed two days. "No."
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. He calmly continued packing, as though he believed this one austerely word to be answer enough.
It wasn't.
She waited in the choleric silence for another half second before throwing her hands up in frustration. "No?" She exclaimed hotly. "How am I to be of any use to you, if you tell me nothing of your plans? Hiding me away indefinitely is neither practical nor even remotely feasible. "
Leaning forward over the truck and bracing his hands on it's lip, he closed his eyes and breathed deep through his nose. Jack claimed such exercises were supposed to be calming. But as the seconds ticked by, Charles became quite certain Jack was full of shit.
He still didn't turn around or straighten, but his words slipped through clenched teeth. "Your identity is not yet in question here, you and Lou have seen to that. As long as you keep quiet and out of the way, no one should dig too deep."
"Lou? Who the fuck is Lou?" Eleanor questioned sharply.
Huffing out a frustrated breath, Charles finally turned to face her. Irritation and impatience were clear in both his expression and tone. "Well I assume he's the idiot you duped getting in here." He scoffed.
Right, the toothless cretin.
As he watched understanding light in her eyes, he continued. "According to Jack, Lou's already told half the camp that the Madam's presented me with a shiny new gift, assuagement for Alice's upkeep. Claims she sent this consolation in the form of a private whore."
Eleanor shifted uneasily and it occurred to him that her bearing and expression held a suspicious resemblance to embarrassment, which wasn't something one found very often in Eleanor Guthrie. After all, this was the same women who'd stood in her tavern and boldly announced to all it's occupants that earners made her pussy wet. Not exactly a statement made by the modest or demure.
He wasn't entirely sure, but knowing her as well as he did, he was inclined to believe that her discomfort stemmed from the fact that she'd realized he was aware she'd declared herself his whore. Given the generally disadvantaged circumstances and subordinate connotations of being a whore, he'd little doubt that such a declaration had stung her her pride. Which he could admit he found somewhat amusing despite his irritation with the situation.
It was a rare thing to happen upon something that genuinely embarrassed this woman. And as such, his first instinct was to see if he could push the matter, rile more of a reaction out of her just for the hell of it. But as soon as he thought it, he regretted it. That course of action was too dangerously familiar, too appealing. He didn't need to entangle himself any further with her.
Instead, he shook his head and returned to packing the truck. "Regardless, Lou has the camp thinking I've got an off-limits whore in here. You're presence won't be too heavily questioned as long as you keep your head down." At least he hoped it wouldn't, they had a lot banking on this precarious little contingency.
She rolled her eyes. "That's hardly reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be." He retorted evenly. "You want to come with us? This is how it gets done."
Her arms folded across her chest. "You can't keep me hidden away forever, you'll be lucky if it lasts a week." She stated reasonably. He sent her an odd sideways look, suggesting to her that he already knew as much.
Again, not exactly reassuring.
Closing the trunk, he turned to scoop up her discarded cloak from the floor. She watched him with scrupulous attention as he shook the sand from the garment, rolled it up and tossed it haphazardly in her direction. The garment thunked against her chest, her arms instinctively coming up to catch it as she sent him a disapproving look.
Deadpan, he nodded towards the garment in her arms and stated. "Put it on."
Her eyes narrowed and she made no move to comply. She held no love for the demanding tone in which he'd spoken to her, nor for this ill-conceived notion of a plan. Both rose her hackles and ruffled her feathers, left her feeling decidedly irascible and disturbingly inhibited.
She looked as though she might say something scathing, but he curtly cut her off. "You can leave here by my side..." He extended his hand palm up for her to take and watched as she glanced warily from his face to his palm, then back again. He jerked his head back and to the side, gesturing towards the trunk behind him. "Or you can leave here in that trunk..." He declared stoically.
She gave him a somewhat startled and skeptical look. Surely he wouldn't dare. He had to know she wouldn't make such an attempt easy on him. But then again, perhaps that was the point. He'd always enjoyed challenging her, often seemed to revel in his own ability to provoke and best her.
His face remained impassive. "Your choice." He offered tightly, his palm remaining upturned and extended towards her.
He knew damn well that she would find neither decision appealing. He understood that ultimatums were something she loathed, that she was far more accustomed to issuing the orders than to adhering to them. Which was why he'd offered her the choice at all. Mostly, he was hoping she'd have the good sense to choose the more amicable option. But another less reasonable part of him was hoping she'd choose the latter, that she'd give him an excuse to lay hands on her again.
He ignored that part of himself as best he could.
Her jaw set as he watched her battle with her herself. She studied his palm for another moment before glancing toward the trunk and back to his face. Whatever she read there must have given reasonable credence to his threat, because she calmly lifted the cloak to cover her shoulders and moved to clasp its front. She stubbornly refused to break the sullen eye contact as she slowly adorned her hood.
Though defiance still shone in her eyes, she lifted her hand to reach for his extended one. Her hand hovered above his open palm and for just a moment, she inexplicably hesitated in making the connection. She wasn't even sure why, but something had given her pause.
He arched a brow at the delay, his expression clearly questioning.
Confused and irritated by her own hesitation, she swiftly dropped her hand into his, wrapping her fingers solidly around his. Before he'd thought to stop it, his own fingers had moved unbidden to close over hers, his thumb resting idly on the back of her middle finger.
The gesture of extending his hand had only been meant to facilitate her cooperation. But now it suddenly seemed too intimate. Her hand was soft and warm in his, so much smaller than his own. It brought forth a wash of impromptu emotion, memories he had no business reliving. He wanted to pull his hand from hers, to shut down this idiocy before it led to something worse. But he also didn't want her to realize that such a simple touch had unnerved him.
She felt it too, wondered if the look that rode his features was anything she shouldn't read too much into. Her irritation ebbed, faded momentarily into the background as she struggled to decipher this moment. A similar look had graced his face hours earlier, just before Jack had interrupted them. It was a look that spoke far too many volumes to interpret clearly, but there was something about it. Something that tugged at her gut and moved a small part of her to question the finality of their relationship. She knew it was insane, a totally irrational hope to harbor. But she couldn't quite seem to squash it, not entirely. A part of her still clung to that mad hope with fevered desperation.
She was giving him another strange look, and he wasn't sure he liked it. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he strove to ignore the pull of her, to remind himself of who she was and what she'd done.
His frown deepened as he watched her features soften slightly. Her thumb slid hesitantly and feather-light across the back of his fingers, and he knew before she moved that she was going to try to close the distance between them. The fact that he both dreaded and longed for such a happening, made things all the more irksome and confusing.
At this rate she would still be the death of him, a proceeding he had every intention of taking steps to avoid.
She took a slow and cautious step toward him, her eyes cast upward and studying his face. The intelligent part of him screamed for movement, demanded he get a hold on himself before the situation got completely out of hand.
Finally his brain clicked into motion, commanding his limbs to move at his behest. He stepped away from her abruptly, but their hands remained entwined. She frowned and gave him a confused look, her gaze oscillating between his face and their linked hands.
With an exasperated grunt, he tightened his grip on her hand and gave it a sharp yank, hastily tugging her her along behind him as he began moving toward the exit. "Should've just tossed you in the trunk..." He grumbled as he dragged her unceremoniously through the tent flap and out toward the Ranger.
If it weren't for the fact that she was trying to remain as inconspicuous and uninteresting as possible, she would have railed against him. She had more than a few choice words on the ridiculousness of this course of action and the manner in which it was executed. But as it was, there was little she could do without drawing more attention to herself.
Instead she cursed under her breath and readjusted her hood to better hide her face, struggled to keep her footing and his pace as they tramped swiftly through the camp.
Bloody boorish brute.
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In the captain's quarters of the Colonial Dawn, Jack sat brooding behind his desk. He'd been agonizing over how to break the news of Eleanor to Anne. He'd decided it was probably best to wait until they were at sea, that way Anne would be less likely to storm off with murderous intent.
Anne had always been a moody woman, as dangerous and volatile as she was beautiful. And Jack had always been fine with that. He'd enjoyed the fact that she was a woman who said what she meant and meant what she said. It left less for him to have to wonder about. If she was unhappy about something, she was generally quite quick to make as much clear. She didn't always use words, as she tended to favor action over lengthy articulation. But regardless, she usually got her points across well enough.
However, lately she'd been acting strange around him. She'd been even more short-tempered and touchy than usual, and Jack couldn't seem to get a handle on why. He'd tried asking her about it, but she'd dismissed the inquiry with a healthy helping of 'Fuck you, Jack.'
The only other time she'd been even half this confusing was when she'd first started running on with Max. But that he'd come to understand; she'd been questioning who she was, finding a part of herself she hadn't been aware existed. That had warranted some confusion and upset.
This was different. This he didn't understand.
If Jack had to put a pinpoint on when the behavior had started, he'd say it was after she and Charles had engineered his extrication from English chains. In the rescue attempt, they'd been forced to abandon Charles and he'd been captured as a result. Had Charles been executed instead of being freed by Eleanor, Jack would've passed Anne's behavior off as a complicated expression of grief. But Charles wasn't dead, he was very much alive and Anne knew as much. Her behaviour was a mysterious to him as it was vexing.
Alternatively, Jack had briefly considered that the shift in her attitude might have had something to do with their relationship. Months prior to Jack's confinement, Anne had confessed to him that she felt she owed him an unpayable debt, that the burden of that debt weighed heavily on her soul. She'd told him she couldn't be his, that she'd needed to stand alone on her own two feet.
It had broken his heart, but he'd been willing to accept it. He understood what is was to need your name to be your own, knew the importance of feeling as though you were your own person. He hadn't wanted to take that from her, so he'd let her go. She'd still been around, never too far away when he needed her, but she'd ultimately chosen Max's bed over his own.
His relationship with Anne had remained steadfast, as no one could take away their history or what they meant to one another. But she no longer shared his bed, they no longer brushed lips or bodies. That aspect of their rapport had all but faded away.
It pained him because he still loved her, still craved that level of intimacy from her. But he'd managed to come to terms with that particular deprivation, to bury the ache and let her just be. She didn't want to leave his side entirely, she'd told him as much and he'd convinced himself that this could be enough for him.
But then she'd gone and kissed him.
It was action that existed in direct opposition to what she'd told him she wanted, and it had given rise to more than a few questions within him. But as the weeks went by and she made no further attempts to reestablish that sort of connection with him, he reluctantly wrote off the kiss as having been little more than a result of the intensity of the situation. He concluded she'd simply been grateful not to have lost him, that in the heat of that moment she'd reverted into old habits.
That's what he'd been telling himself since it had happened, and he actually had himself pretty well persuaded of it. But he was still bothered by the knowledge that Anne's odd behavior had started directly afterward. He couldn't help feeling that he was somehow to blame for her discomfort. Perhaps it was possible he'd done something to piss her off, but it wasn't like her not to just tell him when she thought he was being a prick.
As if on cue, the door to his quarters opened and in walked Anne. Clad in her signature beaten hat, men's breeches, bastian Shirt and justacorp, she looked her usual sullen self. But there was a tightness to her shoulders, an agitated air to her movements.
He watched her curiously as she closed the door behind her and turned to face him. Her brow was knit, jaw tight and lips pursed. Whatever was bothering her hadn't gone away.
For a moment she just stood there in the silence. He waited expectantly for her to say something, but she only continued to regard him with a quiet and intense scrutiny. He lifted his brow speculatively, giving her a small smile in an attempt to prompt her onward.
But still she made no move to shift or speak.
As he began to grow somewhat concerned, he opted to break the silence. "What is it?" He asked tentatively, unsure if he really wanted the answer. "What's happened?"
She'd come here looking to set things straight. She'd told him she couldn't be with him, at least not in the way she'd always known he wanted her to be. And when she'd said it, she'd truly believed it. She'd needed to set herself apart from him, to find out who she was without him and who she ultimately wanted to be. Max had allowed her to do that, she'd shown Anne there was more to who she was than just Jack and the sum of her own transgressions.
But then something had changed.
When she'd come up to that overturned carriage and seen Jack laying prone in the rubble and dirt, her heart had ceased to beat. The dread that had welled up inside her was near suffocating. For a moment she'd thought him dead, and in that moment nothing else had mattered.
Not Nassau, not the English, not Charles or the rebellion. Not even Max. Nothing.
And when he'd stirred, the relief that flooded through her was with an intensity so fierce that it nearly buckled her knees. She'd scrambled into that carriage towards him with an uncharacteristic whimper, completely unconcerned with upholding appearances.
In that instant, she'd no other thought than the need to touch him, to assure herself he was truly still breathing. She didn't think about what compelled her to press her mouth against his, or of what such a compulsion might mean. She'd simply done it. She'd needed to. At the time, it had felt the most natural and reasonable reaction in the world.
Though later, she'd begun to question things. She had thought she needed to separate herself from the wifely aspects of their relationship, that those things were a part of the obligation she felt towards him. But now she wasn't certain that was true.
Yes, she'd discovered an interest in women and it had been pivotal, a life changing event. But much to her surprise, this discovery hadn't entirely turned her away from the appeal that men could also hold. Though she did sometimes wonder if it wasn't so much men as a whole that she enjoyed, but rather just Jack.
Eventually she'd concluded that she didn't really give two shits about why Jack still held her interest, only that he did. She didn't need to put any labels or restrictions on any of this. It simply was.
It was true that she loved Max, that a part of her always would. Max had given her something she'd been searching for her whole life; a sense of self, one that existed outside the circumstances that life had cast her in. Anne would always be grateful for that.
But thinking she'd lost Jack had changed things, put things in a more crystal perspective.
Nothing that had happened had changed how she felt about Jack. She loved him, more than anyone and anything else. There was a reason people said his name after hearing hers, and it wasn't because she was any lesser. It was because they came as a pair. Being two halves of the same thing wasn't nearly the burden she'd thought it was. To find someone who understood you better than you understood yourself and loved you regardless, was no small thing.
She'd discovered who she was without him, forged her own identity, and still found herself to be better off with him than without him.
She took an awkward step forward into the room. She wasn't well versed in all this touchy-feely crap. She was a woman of very few words. What she did say was usually very to the point. She preferred things blunt and concise, didn't see the point in dragging things out or pulling her punches.
But Jack was just the opposite, he loved all those damned fancy words.
"You and me, we got things that oughta be discussed." She said frowning.
He tilted his head to the side quizzically, sending her a concerned and somewhat uneasy look before nodding. "Alright." God help him if she'd somehow gotten news of Eleanor through anyone but him. She'd have his hide for such a slight.
She shifted, irritated by her own lack of skill in this area. Another moment passed and she cursed vehemently, pulling the hat from her head and tossing into the corner as she began stalking across the cabin towards him. She shrugged out of her justacorp along the way, leaving it heaped on the floor in her wake.
To hell with fancy words.
Upon reaching him, she leaned down and gripped the arms of his chair, swiveling it to face her. She ignored the shock and confusion that registered in his face as she proceeded to climb into his lap. Straddling him, she gripped the sides of his face and firmly pressed her mouth against his.
His hands instinctively came up to grip her thighs, but his mind screamed for answers. She hadn't tried to touch him since the rescue and this sudden coupling seemed unprompted and abrupt. He wanted to know what had caused it, what had changed.
He awkwardly pulled away from her mouth. "Wait, wait, wait." He sputtered breathlessly, his hands waving gawkily for her to stop. It was clear she didn't appreciate the interruption but she did as he asked, leaning back with a frown and a resigned sigh.
"What is this? What are you doing?" He questioned with a jittery confoundedness.
Words, always so many words with him.
"That much ain't obvious?" She gibed sarcastically, gesturing plainly between their two bodies.
She watched him roll his eyes, his expression caught somewhere between bewildered amusement and troubled curiosity. It was a very sincere look, one that oozed with honest candor and pleaded for the same.
"You know that isn't what I meant." He stated with gentle insistence.
Why couldn't he just let it be? Her intention had been plain enough. Some things just shouldn't need explaining.
He needed to know what this was about, whether this was to be a singular event or a prelude to something more familiar and lasting. "What you told me when I asked why you came back... I understood you to mean it. You did mean it, yes?" Jack probed.
Her face took on a softer, more sympathetic inflection as his query brought with it a memory of the conversation in question.
I can't be your wife, Jack... But you and I are gonna be partners till they put us in the fucking ground.
At the time, she'd believed it. She'd thought that distancing herself from the romantic aspects of their relationship would make things easier, make her feelings of indenture less palpable and more manageable. And for a time, it had. But thinking he'd died had made her realize that things between them were more complicated than that. After she'd heedlessly pressed her mouth to his, she'd become aware of the possibility that she may have misjudged the depths of her own feelings.
That kiss had caused her to question herself, to consider the possibility that partnership wasn't the only thing she still wanted from Jack. And finally, after an extended and infuriating bout of self reflection, she'd come to the conclusion that she and Jack were indeed more than just partners. They always had been, and they always would be.
Her love of women hadn't changed her love for Jack. There was no real reason she couldn't love them both.
Her face was a mask of frowning sincerity as she watched him study her perplexedly. Finally she reached up to grip the sides of his face, her voice gentle but firm. "I did mean it. But I mean this too."
He gave her a pained expression. "And Max?" He asked gingerly. He didn't miss the flash of hurt that crossed her eyes before she spoke.
"Max chose her own path." She stated with soft but emphatic insistence. "So have I." Loosing Max had been painful, but necessary. She and Max had chosen to part ways with a mutual understanding and acceptance of the situation. It was the only reasonable and realistic conclusion to their relationship given that they'd chosen opposing sides to defend. Max wanted safety and security through cooperation with the English, whereas Anne had no desire to turn from either Jack nor piracy. And though she and Max had never openly discussed it, both women had always known who Anne would choose if ever she was forced into a corner. It would always be Jack. He was too much a part of her, too tightly interwoven into the very fiber of her being.
"I'm sorry..." Jack said gently, staring back into her pained and frowning expression.
She shook her head. "Don't be. You and I..." She pursed her lips, frowning as she rethought her wording. "What I owe you, it ain't nothing I could ever repay. But this," She gestured between the two of them emphatically. "this ain't got nothing to do with debts. I thought it did, but it don't."
His face was still riddled with worry and pain, but his features had softened with her declaration. Her hands were still gripping the sides of his face and his rose to gently encircle her wrists. "You're certain?" He questioned seriously, searching her eyes for answers she hadn't spoken.
Her lip twitched up in an irritated scowl. "I look uncertain?" She asked sarcastically.
He almost smiled, but mostly kept looking bewildered and confused. "I don't think so, no?" He shrugged in that antsy way of his, scrunched up his face and gave her a look that suggested he had no idea. "Honestly? You're like some insoluble riddle, a total fucking mystery to me. Every time I think I understand what it is you want, you prove me mistaken and I've got to start all over again."
Her eyes narrowed as she paused and eyed him for a long and heated moment. "That mean you're done trying?" She asked acrimoniously. Her face was guarded, but the thought had left her chest tight. She'd been certain he'd want her back. She'd never really considered the possibility of an alternative.
As she asked him, he watched the insecurity flit through her eyes. It pulled at his heart and left him frowning. Surely she knew better. He would follow this woman into the bowels of hell if only she'd ask him to. He lifted his hand to cup her jaw as he shook his head. "No..." He muttered and gave her a small, lopsided smile. "Never."
She returned his lopsided smile with a soft grin of her own before leaning forward to press her mouth against his. As the kiss intensified, she muttered against his mouth. "I want this, but it don't mean I'm giving up on snatch... Don't ask me to do that..." She needed to be sure he understood there would still be women, that there needed to be women.
He laughed, his breath sliding across her lips. Her interest in women had never been a problem, it had only begun to bother him when she'd started distancing herself from him. But if she was truly done pushing him away, if she honestly still wanted him, he couldn't care less if she needed to throw some pussy into the mix. "I wouldn't dream of it." He grinned, tangling his hands in her unbound hair. "Bring on the pussy." He quipped playfully.
She snorted and shook her head amusedly before shifting to deepen the kiss, her hands slipping downward to tug his shirt from beneath his waistband. "Idiot..." She muttered.
Perhaps the disclosure of Eleanor's current whereabouts could wait just a little while longer.
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