A/N - First of all, sorry for the slow updates! Thanks to DefineSugar and daCanadianmonstah for reminding me.
They dropped anchor in a port called Sibarita, one of the few places on land where pirates went unpunished. The town's few officials were notoriously corrupt; a monthly bribe ensured that they turned a blind eye to the more illicit activities that went on.
Roderich disapproved. When Francis informed him of their destination, his lips thinned and he launched into a rant about how he despised the 'venal reprobates' that had allowed Sibarita to become such a 'den of iniquity'. Francis had long since stopped bothering to remind him of the fact that said den of iniquity had helped them more times than he could count, and instead pointed out the fact that they weren't going to stay long – they were only there for a routine repair of the ship, prompted by the storm, and to stop off for some much needed supplies.
To be honest, Francis had been dreading visiting Sibarita again for a number of reasons, ranging from the inconsequential - a plethora of jilted ex-lovers - to the significant - a certain Englishman who wasn't willingly part of the crew.
It got to the point where Antonio, who for such a brilliant tactician was extraordinarily dense, noticed there was something bugging him. "Dios mío, Francis, I've never seen you reluctant to put in at Sibarita before. What's up?"
"Arthur," Francis sighed.
Antonio blinked. "What about him?"
Apparently this was one of the times when his quartermaster's dense side was coming into play. "He can't go anywhere when we're on the Achéron, the only options are staying on the ship or visiting Davy Jones. But at Sibarita? He'll leave as soon as we drop anchor."
"So lock him in the ship," Antonio shrugged. "Besides, I thought you had his watch?"
Francis' heart leaped. What with everything else that had happened, he'd forgotten about the watch. But Antonio was right; Francis still couldn't be sure, but he didn't think Arthur would leave without it. It was precious to him, for whatever reason…
The initials.
A.K.
Francis had presumed they stood for Arthur Kirkland, but what if he'd been wrong?
When Arthur had told him what happened to Jeanne, he'd mentioned having a younger brother – what had he called him? Something like… Al.
Al Kirkland – A.K.
"Amigo? Francis, what's wrong?"
What had he done?
From his lofty position in the crow's nest, Gil had been yelling regular updates as to exactly how far they were from land ever since it had been first sighted.
Eventually he'd scampered down and was now practically hanging off the edge of the ship, eager to disembark. Beside him, Arthur was looking towards the shoreline and wondering what was so special about this place.
"So where exactly are we headed?" Arthur asked curiously.
Gil snapped out of his reverie and sighed happily. "Sibarita…" He said dreamily.
Arthur waited, but Gil didn't seem to be planning on saying anything else. He prodded him.
"Whores," Gil blurted. "Er, whores, pirates, thieves, murderers – Sibarita's where the scum of the world goes. Great place."
Arthur raised an eyebrow in question, and Gil snorted. "They look even more like caterpillars when ya do that."
Arthur thumped him.
"Sorry. I mean, it's great 'cause if you don't get stabbed or mugged, Sibarita is the only place where people like us can relax on land without havin' to worry about gettin' clapped in irons and hanged."
"Technically, I'm a carpenter." Arthur pointed out.
"Yeah well don't go bangin' on about it in Sibarita, mate. Be dead in seconds. Anyone asks, you're with Bonfoy. He's badass enough that people won't give ya any trouble."
From elsewhere on the ship came the steady rattle of chains and then a splash as the Achéron dropped anchor. Gil whooped.
Behind them, there was a cough. Arthur and Gil turned around to see Francis.
"I'll be off," Gil said with a grin, winking at Arthur. "People to do, things to see."
"Monsieur Kirkland, may I talk to you in private for a moment?"
"Um, sure," Arthur said hesitantly. The fact that Francis was back to calling him by his surname couldn't be a good sign, but even so he followed Francis back to his quarters.
It wasn't until Francis had escorted him inside that Arthur remembered the fact that he was technically a prisoner, and that prisoners don't get to sightsee.
Francis was rifling around for something in his desk – a key, Arthur presumed, but then Francis turned back to him and pressed something round and cool into the palm of Arthur's hand, closing his fingers over it.
"Je suis desolé," he said. He brushed past Arthur back on deck, leaving the door open behind him.
Arthur frowned in confusion and looked down at what he held in his hand.
It was his watch.
Arthur felt a rush of guilt. He hadn't thought about it for a while now, but it was nice to feel its weight in his hand again.
Turning the stem as he had done so many times, Arthur was surprised to see that Francis had taken unexpectedly good care of it. There were no new scratches on it, and the metal looked if anything slightly less tarnished than he remembered. Now that he'd wound it up, its slender hands kept the same soothing tick, and on the back its faded inscription still spelled the initials in neat print. Arthur traced the letters absently.
And then Arthur realised what this meant.
Francis had returned him the watch. He had even left the door open. It was a clear message; Arthur had overstayed his welcome. This was Francis' way of politely telling him to get out.
But no, maybe he was just reading into it too much. After all, Francis wasn't the sort of person who'd tell him to leave like this, in such a subtle and impersonal way.
And then suddenly, memories flashed through Arthur's mind, bringing with them a sense of horrible clarity.
"Sorry, mon cher, but you are much too interesting to set free."
…
"I'll wait. After all, you're mine now, and there's all the time in the world."
"It's not like I'm going to fall in love with you and beg you to take me! Or don't tell me, you think that's what will happen?"
…
"I love you."
Francis had planned on keeping him – Arthur's lip curled distastefully at the word, but there was no other way of putting it – until he was no longer interesting. Arthur had told Francis that he loved him. At the time he'd thought Francis was asleep, but what if he'd heard? Then he would know that he'd won, that Arthur had fallen in love just as Francis had said he would. No longer a challenge, Arthur was obsolete.
Just taking up valuable space.
Arthur clenched his fists. He'd been such an idiot! Francis – Bonnefoy – was a pirate. What sort of cretin believes in someone like that? From the beginning, Bonnefoy had been untrustworthy, and Arthur should have seen that. Would have seen it, if he hadn't been so busy falling in love and…
He growled, angry with himself. Francis had done nothing but disrupt his life and cause him pain. In the months since he'd been forcibly ripped away from his old life, he'd been threatened and hit and shot.
Jamming his watch into his coat, Arthur stalked off the Achéron without a backwards glance.
Sibarita prided itself on being a city without law, without a hierarchy. But someone had to be in charge, had to make sure that the city ran smoothly and that the bureaucrats were kept happy.
That someone was João Lisboa-Carriedo, Portuguese entrepreneur and manipulator extraordinaire.
And according to the skinny runner who'd scurried up to Francis with the message as soon as he'd disembarked, he wanted to talk to Francis.
Whatever this was, it was important. To do with their run-in with Braginski, perhaps? The Russian was probably looking for a renegotiation of territory. Francis couldn't imagine that Ivan was satisfied with taking a half share of gold, no matter how much it was worth. Either way, Francis didn't mind – he still had Gil and Arthur.
Except of course he didn't – not anymore. Now that Arthur was free to go, it was just wishful thinking to believe he would stay on the Achéron. Gil would probably go with him; the two of them had been thick as thieves recently.
Francis threaded through the familiar cobblestoned streets, dark in their narrowness. He ignored the advances and cajoling calls as he passed, sidestepping an inert figure that was either very drunk or very dead, and wound his way to the unassuming, run down building that was the criminal centre of the city.
He was let in as soon as he gave his name and guided to a smoking room on the second floor.
"Monsieur Carriedo?"
The man that greeted him was far from the sallow criminal Francis had expected. João Lisboa-Carriedo had the same dark hair and sun-kissed complexion as Antonio, and welcomed him with a firm handshake and an easy grin. Apparently not one for formalities, Carriedo cut straight to the chase. "Please, call me João. You are a friend of Arthur's?"
"That's one way of putting it," Francis hedged. He had no idea how Arthur felt about him, and Francis' own feelings were far more than just friendship. "You know him?"
"Sim. When we were children, we were part of the same gang of pickpockets. Him and me were thick as thieves." João grinned at his own joke. "I was pressganged into the navy and I hadn't heard of him since – until a few days ago." His face suddenly turned serious. "I have no idea how he got mixed up with Braginski, but I need to warn you. Ivan's after Arthur, and he'll do anything to get his hands on him. While you're in Sibarita, don't let Arthur off alone."
"Braginski's ship isn't at port – I made sure before we dropped anchor." Francis clenched his fists to prevent his hands from shaking. Arthur was in danger?
"That doesn't mean he isn't here. Francis, it's my business to know everything there is to know about this city and I can say one thing for sure – Ivan is here, in Sibarita. I don't know where, but I do know that you have to keep Arthur safe." João could obviously read something on Francis' expression, because he hesitated. "He is safe, isn't he?"
Francis closed his eyes and tried not to think of what would happen if Braginski were to get his hands on Arthur. "If you will excuse me?" He said, and it took all his effort to keep his voice steady.
"Of course." João said, and Francis turned to leave.
"Oh, and Francis?" João smiled beatifically. "If anything happens to Arthur, I will personally hunt you down. As for what I will do next – well, I don't think you need me to spell it out."
Francis smiled raggedly. It was nice that João cared about Arthur so much, but Francis knew that if something happened to Arthur, whatever physical pain João inflicted on him would seem inconsequential in comparison.
Arthur staggered out of the bar, head already thumping from the noxious cocktails he'd downed in quick succession. The night air was blessedly cool.
He was stopped suddenly by an iron grip on his arm.
It didn't faze Arthur. He laughed. "Sorry, mate, but I'm skint as they come. I'd 'ppreciate it if you let go."
"Oh, but I am not after your money, Mr Kirkland." Arthur heard the fluting scrape of a knife, and suddenly a blade pressed cold into his throat.
The voice was soft, and accented Russian. Braginski shifted closer and placed his mouth beside the shell of Arthur's ear to whisper, gently as a lover's promise –
"I want to see you suffer…"
A/N - Yep, I am a cruel person. If you want to rail at me in person, please feel free to do so in a review!
Alternatively, if you liked the chapter, please tell me, I really do love getting reviews! They are my personal brand of crack (but with considerably less health risks).
Apropos of João, he comes in as Artie's childhood amigo because the alliance between England and Portugal is the oldest in the world still in force. Now ain't that adorable?
Is Francis too much of a drama queen in this chap? I mean, he's definitely one for hyperbole, but I dunno if it was just a bit too woah. Concrit? :3
Thanks for reading!
