Title: Silhouettes
Category: Television Shows» Black Sails
Author: And The Moment's Gone
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T+
Words: 2,703
Warnings/Spoilers: Season 2 finale. You don't need to see it, but you need to know what happened.
Official Disclaimer: All Black Sails characters and plots belong to Starz, and Michael Bay, I do not hold stock either the company or the man. Charles Vane, Eleanor Guthrie, and any other character featured are NOT mine. The title comes from the Of Mice and Men song Silhouettes and I don't own that either.
"I have something for you."
While the rest of port was giving him a wide berth, Max included, Jack strode into the fort as if he belonged there, sidling right into Charles Vane's quarters and dropping a parcel of folded paper onto the low table.
"When I told my men that I did not wish to be disturbed, did you think that meant by everyone but you?"
The eye roll was for Jack's benefit only, as Charles hadn't turned away from the window. "You haven't wished to be disturbed for the last four days," he poured himself a healthy glass of whatever it was that was on the table, and took a swig. "And the only reason that the any of your men bothered to express your desire to me was because nowadays no one's entirely sure when you're next outburst is going to be. And they don't want to be the next poor fuck you throw off the bastion."
That had been two days ago.
And the afternoon before that, although there had been the argument made that Vane appeared, and the first man had just slipped.
Thankfully both men lived, although neither of them had been keen on rejoining the efforts to repair said bastion. Silver had been in the tavern just the night before lamenting the fact that if Vane couldn't keep his tantrums confined to the demolition of his quarters it was very likely he would wind up on the wall aiding in the repairs himself, peg leg and all.
Some day, someone was going to have to inform Jack as to how he was the one that always ended up in these situations.
The man in question was still facing the sill, scowl firmly in place. Jack tried to be happy about the fact that he hadn't been shot or stabbed yet. "Word from Port Royal is that the good King George has finalized his plans to retake the island, and that the fleet is launching any day now."
No movement.
Jack had a fleeting thought that at least Vane wasn't half dressed smoking opiates this time.
"And with Flint hell bent on letting you sort your own shit out, Max too busy complaining that your men aren't being sufficiently controlled, and the rest of the fucking island trying to stay out of your way," Was that a twitch? "I suppose it falls to me to see if I can't wrestle an agreement between the halves of you that refuse to allow you to do your fucking job."
Whatever control Charles Vane had held on to after being disturbed snapped, and he stalked down the steps toward Jack with single-minded focus of a man who wished for nothing more than an hour of peace. "My job?" He asked after a moment, his fingers clenching over the hilt of his dagger His other hand flexed briefly, and Jack was trying to negotiate the time it would take for Vane to draw his pistol with the time it would take for him to get to the door. "All I do is my fucking job."
Why in the hell hadn't he left that thing open again?
"I don't eat, I don't sleep," two things that Jack was well aware of, not that he would make the mistake of saying that out loud, thank you very much. "But I handle the rotations, my men guard the warehouses, and I oversee this fucking fort while Flint refits the God Damned bay in hopes that we survive the whole of the fucking Royal Navy." They were toe to toe now, Charles's hands still itching for something to do, and Jack trying so very hard not to show any indication that he was terrified that that might very well be murdering him. "So, I don't really need anything from you for me to do my fucking job."
Every single instinct in Jack's body told him to leave. The papers were in the room, so technically he'd already done his job. But words like 'Eleanor Guthrie's dying wish' kept fluttering past his eyes, and he realized that he most definitely did not have a choice here. "It's not from me," he said at last, "Actually." Taking a step back, Jack reached for the stack situated on the table. "This came in on the Rambler yesterday." He held them out, not surprised when Vane made no move to take them. "Cooper wouldn't tell me how he came by it, just that he was told to deliver it straight to whomever owned the brothel."
"And why the fuck should I be interested in letters from the Rambler?" Charles understood what Jack was doing there, insofar as the fact that the last week of his life had been a haze that settled somewhere between rage and despair and it was effecting his Captaincy. Jack had always had the ability to measure moods, and push only so far as he needed to. It was the reason why he had made such an effective Quartermaster aboard the Ranger.
Today Jack might actually die for it.
"Because the Quartermaster told one of Max's girls shortly before it was laid in my hand that they were set upon by the Scarborough, handed this package and a very civilized threat, and then simply left alone."
It was the mention of the Scarborough that got Vane's attention. Jack wasn't about to kid himself that it was anything else. Charles had been noting the passage of that bloody ship through any news from the docks. There wasn't a single prize crew that hadn't been pumped for information to possibly appease the captain. Sadly they hadn't been able to provide much intel.
"This came from the Scarborough?"
His hand was held out now, and Jack took that as his cue to retrieve the papers and hand them off. "Apparently in attempting to garner both information and cooperation, Captain Hume saw fit to allow Mistress Guthrie," there was no delicate way to say this, "one last goodbye."
"And she sent them to you?" The papers still hadn't been opened, Charles didn't try to confirm that these words were truly in Eleanor's hand, but even if they were, his question would still be valid.
Jack and Eleanor didn't have a personal relationship, at all. Hell, they'd barely had a working relationship. Their only interactions revolved around her trips to Charles's tent, and the odd time they caught each other in the tavern. Charles always preferred to negotiate their cargo himself – even after he and Eleanor had their 'falling out'. Jack had to admit that receiving the stack of papers had vexed him too, until he'd read them.
"When she was 'removed' from the island, Flint was off to Charles Towne, Mister Scott with him, Max – well we don't have time for that explanation – and you," Jack stopped abruptly, trying to decide if there was a proper way to remind someone that they promised revenge via a note pinned to someone's dead father's sort-of crucified corpse.
There wasn't, so he just let the sentence hang.
"I think I was merely her safest bet." He was also the least biased of anyone that she could count on to still be on the island, but that was neither here nor there. With Vane staring at the papers in his hand, Jack realized that he had run out of things to say to get him to open them.
This time, his job was truly done.
"The first page in a half are more or less pleasantries," he said as an afterthought. He'd yet to be dismissed, and just straight up leaving didn't sit quite well with him. "She asked me to convey to Max that she wished her personal affects to go to Mister Scott, and she gave us a few ideas on fortifications and stockpiling for the oncoming invasion." He didn't mention that there were going to be a few less people working in the tavern, or that he would most likely need some backup when they started consolidating the warehouses according to Eleanor's instruction. He supposed those were things that he would have to discuss with Flint in the coming days.
He didn't mention the book that he had ferreted out of the crates that Max had created out of Eleanor's belongings. The one that was currently tucked under the mattress of the room he shared with Anne, waiting for Charles to decide that he was ready to receive it.
Jack watched as Charles slid open the folds, using his finger to pop the sticky seal open again. He didn't actually look at the writing when the pages flipped open, Charles's eyes finding something incredibly interesting on the mantle of the fireplace on the other side of the room just then. It took one long minute, before he finally allowed himself to confront the packet in his hand.
And Jack had never wished he could unsee someone inviting vulnerability so much before now.
Because no matter what Charles had steeled himself to expect, no matter whatever it was that he told himself would or wouldn't change when he saw the words, there was no mistaking Eleanor's neat and efficient lettering, or the care in which she appeared to take in her lines and wording. He scanned the document briefly first, taking in the fact that she never once calls anyone save Mister Scott – who was already a known associate and therefore implicated enough – by name. Jack was always referred to as 'Sir', Max his 'partner', and him…
Our Dear Captain will most likely say that I deserved this.
Charles had to fight to keep himself upright.
She was right, of course she was. When he'd first heard the news of her capture, the first thing he had told himself over and over again was that he had warned her of flying too high. He had told her that she wasn't invincible and that she needed to stop acting as though she was. Charles may not have said it out loud, but he had tried consoling himself with the fact that she had walked into this mess with her head held high, and he could save her from Pirate Captains, drunken crew mates, and sometimes even gossip, but he was entirely helpless when it came to saving her from herself.
His eyes jumped a few lines down, where there was a smudge against her precise lettering. Charles wondered if her tears were still so very bitter.
There was no hint to the passage of time as Charles read and reread her words. He had also managed to sit down on the edge of his bed at some point – and he didn't have the energy to figure out how it had been put back together after his latest fit of rage. Instead he concentrated on her words, the way she had always been able to see through the façade of their interactions. Eleanor Guthrie had seen him as inimitable, a veritable typhoon and she loved him for it. She had drawn her strength from his and been grateful.
And she forgave him.
Everything that he had forced from her, everything that she had made him earn, she had given it freely in the only way that the two of them could have justified that kind of transaction. She knew that he was using her, just as he knew she was using him, and every step of their dance had been worth every second to her.
I loved him as certain dark things were meant to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
They'd never said those words to each other when they were together. Hell, Eleanor had never used that particular adjective to describe the way she felt about him at all. It was always him, and always past tense. It had been the one taunt that he would pull out when he was feeling particularly vicious, to remind her that her mother had wished for her to be a romantic, and she had had the kind of love written in those books she cherished, and she threw it away for reputations sake.
Suddenly those words seemed more cruel than they had when he had first started throwing them in her face.
Because she knew.
And no matter what she had let him believe, Eleanor Guthrie had loved Charles Vane; wholly and unapologetically.
Do not let this be what breaks him.
If you can do nothing else for me, if there is no good will left in Nassau for Eleanor Guthrie, then do what you must for him.
Please.
It might have been safe to say that those three lines were the only reason that Jack had allowed himself to walk headfirst into what could have very well been his death.
She knew where she was going, and she wasn't naïve as to what was going to happen to her when she got there. But her concern wasn't for herself. No, she knew that if Nassau, if he had any chance of making it through this, then Charles Vane would need to be whole,
It didn't escape Charles's notice that in order to guarantee he reached that state, she had lain herself bare before no less than three people. He didn't have to question how painful that would have been for her under normal circumstances. But she did it for him nonetheless.
Charles was standing now, folding the letter back to it's original shape and moving across the room to tuck it into the inside pocket of his coat. Jack had gone, which came as no surprise seeing as though he had apparently missed the sun setting. He had left a full bottle of rum on his exit though, and Charles downed half of it in one gulp.
He was pirate king Charles Vane.
This would not break him.
"One thing, Jack."
Vane had come out of literally nowhere. Jack had been counting his winnings from tonight's card game, setting aside a bit for Max since she had provided sufficient distraction and hospitality during the game, and the low rumble of his former captain's voice had been enough for him to fling a handful of coins to the other side of the table. He didn't try to retrieve them just yet, choosing instead to concentrate on stacking the ones in front of him as he cast a vigilant eye over the man. Vane had seemed to find clean water sometime since he had been left, and even his hair lacked the grime that had built up over the three weeks since Charles Towne. He had donned clean clothes as well, and Jack made note to send the clothier a thank you.
He didn't remark on the fact that Charles's eyes looked clearer than anyone had seen them in recent record, or that he held himself casually as he surveyed the room for eavesdroppers.
Whatever it was that Charles had found in Eleanor's words had done for him more than the entire island combined.
"Flint doesn't think that it's a good idea to let me off the island-"
"Can't imagine why he came to that conclusion." He hadn't meant to interrupt, honestly he hadn't. It just kind of slipped out.
Jack also didn't want to say that that looked like the makings of a smile on Charles's Vane's face, as he relieved him of his mug of ale. "So you and yours are going to have to something for me."
Anything, he almost spouted. If it kept the look of desperation from Vane's eyes, he would take Anne and do damn near anything. There was Flint of consider, and whatever favor Vane wanted would need approval, but Jack had talked himself into and out of less favorable situations. Flint wouldn't begrudge them anything that would promise Vane's sanity and cooperation, would he? "What kind of favor are we talkin' about here?"
"I want Hornigold, Dufranes, and every other stupid fuck that thought it was a good idea to hand Miss Guthrie over to Hume." Setting the mug down, Charles tilted his face to the moonlight. "And I'm not too particular as to the condition that their bodies make it back in."