#charles vane x hope wickham

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Conclusion

Coming in juuuuust under three years in the making, my epic OC collaboration with @acebreathesfire​ is finally complete and posted! it didn’t sit right, to leave this unfinished.

As my choice of photo may imply, this is an Explicit chapter. I am who I am, and my slow burns must culminate in all the details. Hope that doesn’t turn anyone off! There is more plot after the naughty bits, if you prefer to scroll to the end...

taglist: @kind-wolf​ @ladyhubris @summertimesadness101 @23orso @n3rdybird​ @bitchyikes​

Hope is fairly certain that Charles meant for her to follow. And the fire that his heavy look ignited in her core certainly is impelling her to rush after him, but she doesn’t let her feet move. If she enters that cabin with him now, after everything that’s been said, his touch still hot on her skin, there’s only one thing that can happen.

And that thing will be irreversible.

“Hope,” Jack calls across the table, interrupting her moment.

She turns to him, blinking, hoping any trace of moon-eyed girlishness has cleared before he can catch her throwing any more looks after their captain.

Read on

[whenimaunicorn]

Back from the dead! To make a post for an even deader fandom!

Or rather, finally got a chance to breathe and think about writing after almost a year of my new full-time job.

I certainly don't know what's cool on this website anymore or how things are being done, but I'm excited to say that I got a chance to basically finish The Heart of Admiration this weekend! I'll be posting the final chapter on Monday.

*waves to the three people that still care*

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 10

After a long hiatus, inspiration appears, and I’m ready to bring this fic to its conclusion. Here is the penultimate chapter! Catch up first here

Hope marks the scent first; something heady yet familiar wafting up from the pillow her face is half-buried in. The smell of him pulls her consciousness out of sleep. Her eyes snap open to an empty cabin illuminated by golden morning light.

She checks the floor, but he’s gone. She rolls onto her back, languid despite her annoyance that he would let her sleep in well past the dawn.

What if he left because he didn’t want to face her?

It’s a silly fear. She pushes it to the side. After what he said to her last night, and the way that he held her . . . of the two of them, it’s not him that’s having hesitations.

She’d kissed him. Oh, God, and what a kiss it was. She’d planned to leave herself room to make a careful, level-headed decision in the light of day, but now she can’t think of anything but the press of his lips, the tender strength of his touch. If she just stayed here in his bed, how long would it take him to come back, looking for her? And what might happen after that?

Another silly thought. Hope’s pride won’t allow her to lay about in bed all day, no matter what the circumstances may be. She sits up, her eyes falling upon the chest of her belongings. She’d almost forgotten; she’s still Mrs. Vane today, anyway. She freshens up, gets herself dressed, then heads down to the mess like a captain’s wife would do. The same, except that she’s wearing trousers and a jacket; she’s a sailor just like any other member of this crew, planning to pull her weight today same as every day.

Could it really work like this? She uses the short walk to ponder the success of the ruse, the way Fellows, and even the crew, seemed so ready to accept the plausibility that Captain Vane might be married to his navigator, and not some soft woman he kisses goodbye and leaves on shore whenever he goes hunting. Warmth swells in Hope’s chest, though she’s not certain she can trust it. The men may only be tolerating the situation so that they can poke fun at how ridiculous they really find it.

She must not have slept in too late, for the mess is still busy, and there are Jack and Anne, breaking their fast with Mr. Fellows. And Charles is seated right there beside him. Hope doesn’t think that she entered in any way that would call attention, but Charles’ head snaps up, his eyes finding her like he has a sixth sense for her very presence.

A warm smile breaks across his face, and his arm lifts to beckon her to take her place at his side.

“Ah, there’s your lovely wife,” she hears Fellows saying as she walks across the room. “I was beginning to wonder how much you must have worn her out last night.” As false as the man’s notions are, Hope’s chest nearly bursts at the blooming joy of imagining herself as Charles’ newlywed bride, being teased for overindulging in marital pleasures.

She allows herself to be tucked under Charles’ arm. It seems she’s not the only one enjoying the liberties this ruse allows as he presses her into his side, snug and tight. Anne is glaring at Fellows for his lewdness, but Hope kicks her swiftly under the table and she stands down.

Jack seems distracted by the sight of Charles’ hand wrapped around Hope’s shoulder. Did Charles not already tell him, then, that his sins have been forgiven, and his poorly-chosen words have done no lasting damage?

Hope’s “husband” looks down at her, sharing one brief, knowing look before returning his attention to their company. “She’s tough,” he grunts back to Fellows, and so his ankle is the next one that Hope’s boot has to find. He exaggerates a wince at the sharpness of her kick, so Fellows knows she didn’t take such crassness lying down, then catches her face up with a soft knuckle under her chin. “Good morning, my love,” he rumbles down at her, and Hope knows he’s not merely playing the part with those words.

He leans in and brushes his lips across her cheek, right in front of all these people. Hope can barely squeak out an answering “Morning” as she feels a flush that starts somewhere below the waist and quickly travels up to redden her cheeks.

Jack has a better poker face than Anne. While he manages to catch himself before it looks like he’s staring, Anne is reading the flush in Hope’s cheeks with intense interest, bordering on shock. Hope doesn’t know how to respond to her friend other than shrug, which only makes more questions appear in Anne’s eyes.

However, Anne’s eyes are not the ones Hope is most interested in reading. Her gaze flits back to Charles, who has not yet turned from her. He seems almost affronted that Hope had looked away from him at all, just to check the reactions of their companions at the table. “I trust you slept well?” he murmurs.

“Indeed.” At the risk of scandalizing Anne further, she redoubles her decision to enjoy the marital ruse to its fullest while it’s lasting. She gives Charles her sunniest smile. “Thank you for asking, my darling.” The simple pleasure that opens up his expression when he hears that term of endearment is worth the bit of embarrassment. “And you? Is it hard to get used to sharing your cabin?” It’s a tease, but it’s a jab with purpose. Hope is not indulging in this playacting simply for her own fun; she’s much too practical for that. What better chance have they than this, to determine if their love can really face the cold light of day, and the facts of a life at sea such as theirs?

Charles doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s no burden when it means having you at my side.”

His words, combined with the depth in his eyes as he says them, set her fluttering and tingling all over again. What’s worse, the effervescent joy results in a vibrant giggle that bursts regrettably from her throat.

Everyone stares at her. Even Fellows seems to sense this is violently out of character for her. Anne looks almost disgusted.

“Hope, darling, I’ve never seen you in such a good mood,” Jack says, and then he looks at Charles and he looks too smug.

“No thanks to you,” she says coolly.

That wipes the look off his face. His eyes shift between the two of them again, less certain. “I’ll admit, some of my words were—”

Hope cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “We may need to have it out after breakfast, but let’s not talk of it now.” Let him squirm a little longer.

“All’s well that ends well,” Charles grunts, and his hand slides across her back, incredibly soothing. Any other choice words die on her tongue. She had no idea it would feel so good to be touched by him. Nor that such depths of affection would ever come so easily from the man she had once so easily dismissed as ‘the brute.’

Anne is squirming in her seat now, just dying to know what happened last night, what exactly has so obviously changed between her captain and her friend.

Jack bumps Anne’s elbow. “Is that all you’re going to eat, darling?” he asks, with a meaningful look at Anne’s bowl. He’s spooning his own gruel into his mouth doubly fast, probably to stop his own tongue from wagging any further.

Anne turns her glare on Jack, and Hope realizes how healthy her own appetite is. Reading her mind, Charles pushes his own bowl in front of her, but Hope only glowers at him and rises. As reluctant as she is to pull herself away from the man, she is perfectly capable of fetching her own breakfast.

Otherwise, this may be the beginning of exactly the sort of changes she fears.

Hope steps into the chow line, passing Stevens where he sits with a knot of the old Starling crew, their heads pressed together in some quiet yet intense conversation. She returns his nod, then feels something tighten in her gut as he rises too casually and enters the queue behind her.

In the whirlwind of emotion that ended last night, she had entirely forgotten his murmurs of mutiny. What on earth should she say to him now?

“Today's a wonderful day, ain't it?” he says to her shoulder, just as the man in front of her has a bowl in his hand and his attention on the cookpot. There’s a subtle emphasis on the word ‘today,’ and Hope fears she knows exactly what that means. She turns her head just enough to let him know she’s listening; not far enough to make it look like they are engaged in more than the slightest passing of pleasantries. He lowers his voice, crowding her as if he’s eager to get to the food. “You won’t have to be  ‘Mrs. Vane’ much longer. Look for me in the hold an hour after we make port.”

She nods. It’s her turn to take a bowl, and she won’t allow her hands to hesitate as she ladles up her serving. She’s certainly not in a position to debate the issue with Stevens right now, not if she isn’t prepared to turn him over immediately for mutiny, and she can’t convey reluctance without spooking the men into changing their plan and leaving her in the dark, certainly. So she lets Stevens go on assuming what he’s assuming. She’ll deal with it later. Before they get to port.

Her mood has been dampened but she tries not to let it show as she resumes her place at Charles’ side. He doesn’t wrap her up in his arm this time, instead leaving her room to eat, but his fingertips dance up and down her spine. Is this what he’s been wanting all this time, to constantly be touching her? She thrills at the very idea of it, even as it makes her worry. Can she really get away with this, happily ever after, with no sacrifice of freedom or respect?

“Your crew has such a family orientation,” Mr. Fellows remarks, looking around at the paired faces of his breakfast companions. “I never thought a pirating crew could be soft enough for ladies.”

“Say that again,” Anne growls from under the brim of her hat.

Fellows has the grace to look chagrined, at least. “That didn’t come out how I meant it.” He raises his hands as if to fend her off. “I only meant that, while a pirating life always seemed rather exciting, I always thought it would be lonely, too. That it would naturally be without any comfort, any kind or friendly feelings at all, among a crew of cutthroats,” he catches himself with a gulp, “again, no offense intended….”

Charles leans back, a smile pulling at his lips. “We certainly have cut a few throats in our day,” he muses, catching Anne’s eye in prideful reminiscence.

“And many more to come,” she answers, as if making a promise.

“I don’t know what I would do without Anne at my side,” Jack agrees, leaning in. “Though I doubt I could be rid of her if I tried.”

That earns him a whack. Fellows only nods solemnly, his eyes wide with envy.

“You never would, though,” Charles suggests, staring levelly across the table at his friend. “Nor would I let you. She belongs here on my crew as much as you do.”

“On some days, more, dare I say,” Jack replies with a wry little grin. He tilts his head. “I feel sorry for those men who feel they must leave their wives behind on shore. Honestly. How can you truly know your partner in this world if you can’t share your life with them? Your exploits, the triumphs, the bitter defeats?”

“I would never do that to Hope,” Vane rumbles. He does not turn his head to her, but his grip settles around her waist. “We haven’t been married long, but even if she said she wanted that cottage by the sea, I’m not sure I could suffer it.”

“I will never say that,” Hope interjects. “My dreams all lie upon the waves. Not caged inside four walls in some anchored corner of the world.”

He looks down at her then. His eyes teem with something wild and passionate and true.

“Are there more women like you in the world?” Fellows says forlornly, breaking their moment. “Perhaps you have an equally wild and courageous sister out there for me to meet?”

Charles’ other hand finds hers beneath the table.

“Oh, my sister is decidedly the domestic sort,” Hope dismisses. “Her husband captains a ship, but I’m not sure she has ever even set foot upon it.” She shifts in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. She’s not certain Charles is aware that Fisher has a captaincy again, sailing a different ship out of ports other than Nassau and usually headed in a direction that the Ranger isn’t. Would it displease him, to know that his revenge against the captain of the Starling had only been a setback, and the man who had crossed him was out there pirating again?

“At least tell me your secret, Captain Vane,” Fellows continues, interrupting Hope’s train of thought. “How do you get a woman like Hope?”

Charles leans back and considers. His eyes search her face as he composes his answer. “You have to be bold and patient in equal measure.” He speaks slowly, thoughtfully, but with a certainty that gives her chills. “To love a woman like this takes both courage and restraint. It’s never going to be simply ‘your way.’”

“Even though you are her captain?”

“What’s a captain without his officers? Her counsel is usually quite wise.” He smirks, just a little. “And you have to be willing to be put in your place. Unexpectedly, and often.”

Jack sloshes his canteen in a quick toast. “Hear, hear!”

Anne makes his point for him with another glare and another whack.

Vane never takes his heavy gaze off Hope. “Am I forgetting anything, love?”

Hope finds herself almost speechless, though she certainly doesn’t want to be. It’s as if he’s using every turn in this conversation to continue the one they had been having last night. She wants to be able to believe that he’s sincere. She’s going to have to continue to test him until she can. “To never believe that you’ve tamed her,” she adds. “And never to even try.”

He doesn’t say anything back. His eyes don’t leave hers as he lifts her hand and kisses her fingers like a promise.

A clanging bell indicates the start of the next shift. An assortment of muted groans and curses flutter up from the men rising from their seats around them; cheerful ones, mostly, as the day’s work will bring them to port with a prize soon to be converted to coin to line their pockets quite handsomely. It’s enough to break the moment, as Hope herself begins to rise on reflex.

“We setting out soon?” Jack inquires in their direction.

“Works for me,” Hope shrugs. “I’ll adjust our heading after we clear the bay. We can take all day swinging around wide, so no one thinks we returned to port coming from this direction.”

“Truly magnificent,” Fellows comments softly.

“Get us underway, Jack,” Charles directs. He stands, looking down at Hope. “I’m going to my cabin.”

“Now?” Jack asks.

“Unfinished business,” he explains, curtly, and Hope feels pinpricks run all down her spine.

A/N: I can say that you won’t be waiting too long for the final chapter, but we all know what my time estimates are worth. I know what’s going to happen, at least. Posting this update now as a motivational factor for me to get the rest of the story out of my head and finally out into the world.

Taglist:  @ladyhubris @summertimesadness101 @23orso @n3rdybird @bitchyikes @navigatrixnarrations @fearlessindigo @itmeansofthesea​ @kind-wolf​

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 9

Charles Vane has laid his heart bare...will Hope be able to do the same? Words: 2421 Catch up here

Vane waits in silence, listening to Hope wrestle with the blanket on the floor beside him, seemingly settling in for the night. She has not spoken one word since his impulsive confession, and it feels like iron bars are clamping across his chest, squeezing tighter with every moment that passes in which she still remains silent.

He had meant to reassure her, to defend himself against her ugly accusation that he was no more than a brute with the basest of intentions. But she does not seem reassured, not judging by the frenetic little movements he hears as she adjusts and readjusts the blanket on the floor beneath him, and not judging by the oppressiveness of the silence settling between them.

Should he offer her the bed? Or would she only take that the wrong way, too.

“Did…?” Hope begins, but she does not finish. Vane’s heart swells against all his constricting doubts at even a single word from her. She starts again. “It almost sounded as though you confessed your undying love for me.”

Her tone is a touch wry, and Vane can’t tell if she’s mocking the very possibility of it. For fuck’s sake, he hates this. “Put it out of your mind,” he growls. “I had resolved never to tell you.” He stops himself from saying any more by vividly imagining splitting Jack’s lip as soon as he finds him in the morning. If only he had followed through on that earlier impulse up on deck, and shut him up before Hope could overhear those damning words.

She sighs on the floor beneath him, a heavy exhale that sets off further alarm bells between his ears. How can he undo this? He’s going to do more to Jack than just bloody his lip if she leaves. Her voice floats up through the dark again. “I could ask you ‘why,’ but I already know. I asked you not to keep me in a cage.” She rubs her hand across her face. “Does Jack have the right of it? Am I caged here anyway?”

“Of course not,” Vane says quickly, leaning further over the edge of the mattress although he can barely make out her wide eyes in the dark. “You are free to do as you please. I have no claim over you.”

“Haven’t you?” Her voice is soft, a faint little plea, and he wonders if she even meant to say it out loud.

His fearful heart swells again, and he forces himself to wait, wait, he can’t push her, like he pushed Eleanor, he will never again become entangled with a woman who’s only telling him what he wants to hear. Hope will come to him for her own reasons, or not at all. “I’ll not ask you for anything. Nor prevent you from doing anything you wish. My feelings are my own, and have no bearing on your freedom.”

Somehow this next silence is worse. Why is it worse? Only because every fresh word she wrestles out of him feels like further confirmation that he will never have what he wants. It’s one thing to nurture hope and never act. Quite another to have to speak it, and to know that the gloomy future he is preparing himself for is more certainly inevitable.

She just lays there. Hands tucked across her chest, staring at the ceiling. “I suppose I ought to inform you,” she finally says, “that I've been having similar feelings.”

There’s no describing what happens inside Charles Vane’s heart when he hears those words. But his stubborn mind catches on a snag. “’Ought to?’” he parrots.

Hope releases another burst of air. “It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“I found myself preparing a similar speech to give you, this morning. I’ve come to the same conclusion,” she says, so matter-of-factly. “That it would not be wise to jeopardize what's working.” Her head turns, her eyes seeking his in the dark. “My place on this ship. The happiness we already have.”

There’s a rushing in his ears. “Is it a risk, though? If both our hearts beat with the same passion?”

“Your partnership with Eleanor started in love, and look how that turned out.”

It hurt even to Hope say her name. She shouldn’t compare herself to that woman. “I don’t think what I felt for her was ever love,” he says slowly. “And she certainly never loved me, I know that now.”

Hope’s gaze returns to the ceiling. “So I’ll ask you again. Charles.” Her voice is soft. “Do you love me?”

He lifts his chest, leaning out into the space between them, his hair spilling almost far enough to reach her face. “If this isn’t love, then I am certain I’ll never know the meaning of it.”

 Hope believes him. Truly, she does, and while it sets her heart beating faster, her chest swelling with some answering feeling, she feels a restless in her limbs, a queasy apprehension in her gut. It is so easy for a man to love a woman. Not much changes in his life at the admission. But for a woman such as her to accept a man … suddenly there are expectations involved. Roles, and duties. Every freedom she’s worked so hard for could be lost in an instant.

So while she marks the excitement in her chest, the flushing in her cheeks—enjoys them, even—she makes sure her voice comes out steady and measured. “Thank you. For answering so honestly.”

She swears she can hear his heart crack in the silence that she allows to follow. She can only imagine he expected a declaration with similar passion. She’s almost inclined to make one, thinking about the connections they’ve shared, the way she’s started to consider Charles Vane to be the only man on Earth that might see her for who she truly is. A man that might take her just as she stands, scars and quirks and unusual dreams and all. But she cannot be rash. Whatever she says tonight can never be taken back.

“Hope…”

The emotion in that one word, the way he says her name, nearly undoes her.

She does not speak and he continues. “You say you have similar feelings,” his voice rumbles down from the mattress above her. “Will you not give them voice?”

“I need time.” A simple truth. She can give him that much, at least. And perhaps, perhaps just a little bit more. “I didn’t dare let myself want something I never thought I could have,” she almost whispers into the dark.

He’s silent for a long time, gazing down at her, and his dimly-lit face seems to be at peace. As peaceful as that craggy brow and thin mouth can get, at least. Giving her the time that she asked for. When he does speak again, it’s not to push the issue any further. “Take the bed.”

She’s shaking her head, but he’s already lifting himself from the mattress.

“I'll not make you sleep on the floor.”

“A gentleman after all,” she quips, pulling back to make space as Vane does not wait for her to argue, lowering his body to the deck beside her.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

They share a smile, their noses only inches apart in the dark. “Our respective ranks dictate that you should get the bed. I’m not some fragile Lady,” Hope chastises.

“I know that,” her captain replies. He settles his head against his arm. “Take the bed anyway.”

She can see his face so much better from this distance. It’s overwhelming, really, and perhaps she should let him win, and stand up now. She finds that she’s loathe to give up the view, not when she can see the guarded softness in his eyes. The affection that’s been lurking behind his long looks for some time, she realizes. Even shrouded in the dim light of the cabin at night, Hope feels as if she’s seeing the sun emerge from behind the clouds after days of stormy and shrouded skies.

They lie there in the dark, bodies stretched out together across the floor, not touching, but only barely, waiting for Hope to make a choice. She finds she cannot bring herself to leave his side and climb up onto that lonely bed.

If he kissed her now, she would welcome it. A thrill runs through Hope’s body at the very thought, a jolt from her toes to the roots of her hair.

If he kissed her now, he’d undo all the promises he’d just made to her.

She lies still, gazing at him.

Is she testing him?

Is she testing herself?

She lifts her chin, an almost imperceptible, involuntary contraction at the base of her skull. His eyes sharpen; the captain has spotted the prize. His focus shifts to her lips.

He does not move.

She lets her eyes rove across his face, remembering the caresses she’d stolen in the middle of the night. She knows exactly what it feels like to trace her fingers across his stubbled jaw. Her fingertips tingle now, even at the memory. What would he do if she reached up and did it again, now that he’s fully conscious?

She remembers other things, too. The tight embrace of his arms for the rest of that night, his unconscious body bold to do the things she now knows he longed to do while waking.

A delightful warmth is pooling between her legs. When she’d been with men before she’d been curious, or bored and excited merely at the idea of daring to be so improper. This is different. Hope doesn’t want excitement now, she wants him. She aches to feel this man’s hands upon her body, his lips upon her skin.

Does she dare? Surely a kiss is as damning as the confession she had already chosen not to make. But she cannot tear herself away. Her gaze falls to his lips and his stoicism cracks, she watches them part, the tip of his tongue sliding quick and coy to wet them, but still he will not move toward her.

She lifts her head. Her eyes catch his and she can see the effort he’s making to remain perfectly still. He will let her decide. There’s a pull in her belly, in her sex, to close the distance between their bodies, and she wants to let it overwhelm her. Her fears bid her to rise, to push off the floor and retreat to the safety of that bed, to return to this topic on the morrow with clearer heads and a better negotiating position. And yet, when she tells her arms to press against the deck and lift her away from him, they only draw her closer to his face.

Hope’s lips are hovering above Charles Vane’s cheek. She feels her own breath bounce back to warm her face, that’s how close she’s come. And still the man does not move. He may even be holding his breath.

She lets her nose trace across his cheekbone, and hopes he cannot hear the tiny whimper that slips from her throat, at the tension of her indecision. But it’s his stillness that is her undoing; the beauty of knowing that despite what he wants, he will wait; in the face of the most immediate temptation he will not take even an inch of advantage. He soothes all her fears by doing nothing, and the tension breaks as Hope lets her lips fall upon his mouth.

She gets one petal-soft swipe before Charles begins to move with her. At first it is only his lips, firming and pressing back against her own. She feels his breath against her face, he had been holding it, and he lifts his chin to deepen the kiss, just by a fraction.

There is a rushing sweetness coursing through Hope’s body now, and it’s making her want to move. She brings her fingertips to Charles’ face, tracing that rugged cheek, and a moment later she feels his arm moving cautiously up to mirror her. His callused fingers move almost reverently along her jaw.

His mouth opens beneath her own. The tip of his tongue traces her lip; an invitation, not an invasion. Hope feels her restraint begin to break and she presses in with her whole body. Charles is there to catch her, welcoming her to fit in against his firm, solid warmth as his tongue presses in to find her own.

She wraps herself around him, toe to knee to belly and chest all finding their perfect match against his larger frame, her fingers pressing past his braids to bury themselves in the roots of his hair, his scent and taste surrounding her as she gets lost in their kiss. Charles’ arms embrace her firmly, anchoring her in as her body runs wild with a passion she has never before experienced, or even expected to be real.

The warmth is suffusing her, infusing her, but its very strangeness pulls her back. What is she doing on the floor with her captain in the dark? His lips are sweet and his arms feel like home, but this was not the message she intended to send tonight.

He must feel her sudden hesitation, because Charles pulls back from their kiss, although his embrace remains firm and warm. He looks into her eyes, searching for the truth of her.

Hope takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to gather her wits against these rushing feelings.

“Forgive me for taking such liberties,” his voice rumbles into the tiny space between them. As if he was the one who took any of the initiative in that. “Perhaps I should not have.” His arms remain snug around her.

Hope huffs a little. “As I keep telling you, I’m not a Lady.”

Charles bends his forehead to touch hers. “In this respect, I’d rather treat you as one.” His lips twitch in a little smile. “Ought we say ‘goodnight,’ for now?”

Relief and regret flood through Hope, both at once. “Yes,” she agrees. She kisses him one last time, slow and sweet, but resists the urge to press her body wantonly against his once more. All that can wait, or perhaps never come to be at all. She needs time to cool her head and think clearly on this matter.

But when she’s settled alone upon the bed, Hope finds her arm reaching down from off the edge, her fingers winding in the firm clasp of Charles Vane’s until she falls asleep.

Part Ten

Taglist is open:  @ladyhubris @summertimesadness101 @23orso @n3rdybird @bitchyikes @navigatrixnarrations​ @fearlessindigo​

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 8

Charles Vane x OFC

Turmoil leads to certain truths being confessed into the dark.

Words: 2246 Content: angst with a side of angst; contemplation of betrayal, unexpected fluff (is the slow burn finally catching?)

It’s approaching midnight, and Hope’s still pacing the deck. She’d already resolved she doesn’t give a whit about keeping up the ruse for Mr. Fellows anymore; tonight she’ll sleep in her rightful place among the crew. Now that she knows what awaits her in her captain’s quarters.

The only thing that’s stopping her from going down to her hammock right now is that she knows she won’t sleep. Too many thoughts are swirling in her head. All she can do is pace, and take measurements she doesn’t even need, and pace again.

Her worst fears realized. Hope feels sicker than she did when Charles Vane disbanded her crew, and she had to beg for her brother-in-law’s life to be spared. Sicker now, because at that time she hadn’t expected anything better from the fearsome brute. Everyone knew Captain Vane’s reputation, and that of his whole crew for that matter. When had she let herself believe that him, and Jack Rackham for that matter, were somehow more noble than any other of the black-hearted men that turned pirate?

She forces herself to take a breath. If she’s now maligning the entirety of her own profession, then certainly her emotions have taken away all rationality. And yet—had seducing her truly been his plan all along? And had Hope actually been falling for it?

Perhaps Stevens and the boys have it right. Something deep within her heart breaks to hear that thought, even if it is only resounding through the inside of her own skull. Avenge the Starling and run. There’s a certain justice to it. The bird flies the cage, but takes everything with her on the way out? Marvelous. Hope feels her heart turning as black as the inky waters look this night, and allows herself to sink into that feeling a little deeper. If they got free with it, they could easily run right back to Nassau. Certainly Eleanor Guthrie would give them haven after they crossed Charles Vane, merely on principle.

Hope feels her guts sicken even more.

Just a few hours ago, she’d been pondering what had felt like the very real possibility that she was in love with Captain Vane. Distraught that her feelings weren’t returned. Now all she can hear is that ugly edge in Jack’s voice as he taunted their captain to take her. They don’t see her any differently than the women back on shore, after all. Prizes to be captured, warm bodies to be used, the luckiest of whom could only hope to become a cherished object kept locked up and secreted away.

That would never be her. Hope simply would not allow it.

Should she go talk to Stevens? Her feet carry her to the ladder, and then away again. She remains furious, but she can’t yet commit to that course of action. There is a difference between capturing a prize on open waters, and stealing a treasure right under the noses of men that trust you. Hope had only supported the scheme that ended the Starling because they had truly planned to hold the cargo safe until a beneficial, fair negotiation had been reached. She would not want Vane to think her a liar, if she proved herself capable of turning around and doing just the thing he had accused her of.

And yet. What else is she to do? Carry on as if nothing had changed? This ache in her heart demands satisfaction. She could leave without causing any trouble; she could think of several other captains that would have her, but even that more reasonable thought leaves her feeling itchy. Slipping away without making some sort of statement just won’t do.

~*~

She’s on her way down to the berth deck, finally ready to set her swirling thoughts to rest, but she doesn’t get very far. Stevens is coming up the other way. She’s surprised; she thought this was his shift to sleep. His pace slows when he sees her, and his eyebrows raise in silent question.

She’s leaning toward conspiring with him, but she has not yet made up her mind. A bolt of panic flashes through her. If she speaks with him, her hesitancy will show, and she may ruin her chances of playing this situation in either direction. Might not be able to help him or stop him.

He’s almost reached her. His mouth opens to speak a greeting. Hope realizes they’re right in front of the door to the captain’s cabin. The one “Mrs. Vane” sleeps in too. To her own horror, Hope finds herself taking the coward’s way out, giving Stevens an apologetic smile and stepping right in through that door as if this was her intention all along.

Vane is sitting on his bed, half-undressed, because of course he is. But what is she to do, step right back out into the hallway again? She shuts the door quickly behind herself, then whirls to face her captain so that she does not look the coward.

They stare at each other for a long moment. What is she to say? She didn’t even plan to come in here. And she certainly can’t explain why she did. “I’d given up on seeing you tonight,” he rasps up at her. He eyes her and she says nothing and so he continues. “After you stormed away without giving me a chance to explain myself.”

“I still don’t want to hear it,” she growls. How could she know what words to trust, coming out of his mouth? She doesn’t want excuses. She doesn’t want this smoothed over with half-truths. She can’t bear to feel the crack in her heart widen.

His brows lift, then converge in an angry crease. “Then why did you come in.”

A good question, Hope. She’s not even certain why the sight of Stevens made her feel such panic in the first place. She had convinced herself up on deck of her new resolve, hadn’t she?

And now Vane is sitting here right before her, looking up with poorly-disguised pain in his eyes. In his eyes? He growls again before she can formulate an answer. “You’d better not tell me that you intend to berate me without hearing my side. That’s not how this is going to work.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

She tries to turn away, but when her captain makes a scoffing sound she can’t help but look back. “So you came in here, what, because ‘Mrs. Vane’ needs to go to bed?”

“It is late,” she says. Too early to step back out again, and risk Stevens wondering why she ducked in here in the first place. She settles for an easy lie. “I thought I’d find you already asleep.”

“The only time you’re content to rest beside me,” Vane says bitterly, looking away. “When I’m unconscious.”

Hope barks a laugh. Does he really think she’d climb into bed with him after what she overheard? “This time, I will gladly sleep on the floor.”

He flops back in the bed, turning on his side so all she can see is the broad expanse of his scarred back and his hair spilled across the pillow. “Suit yourself.”

She tries to. Pacing across the short space to her trunk, she sits down on it and takes her boots off. Noisily. She doesn’t want to talk, but she doesn’t want to let the man rest, either. He shifts positions when she all but hurls the second one onto the decking beside her, but that’s the only reaction she gets.

She looks around for anything soft to lie down upon, but it appears that the only blanket in the room is trapped underneath Vane’s inert form.

She’s not going to ask for it.

Instead, she puts out the light, loosens her belt, and lies down on her back, fully clothed, on the stretch of decking beside Vane’s bed. A porthole lets in a little moonlight, just enough to outline the hulking form of his shoulder above her. She closes her eyes, tells herself she doesn’t want to look at him. Now is the time for sleep.

Her mind won’t rest. Now that the man is right here, willing to talk to her, she can’t help but imagine what she might say to him were she inclined to let that conversation happen. A bird in a cage. That’s what Jack had called her. She’d certainly felt that way when she got here; has she been lying to herself since then? Getting comfortable with the crew, becoming friends with Anne, and even with Vane himself. Was all that just gilding on the bars?

He was willing to let you go, she tells herself. You just didn’t take it.

Still. The things she’d heard Jack say don’t sit right. We didn’t have to come down so hard on the Starling, he’d said. She’d been approaching them ‘round the corner, and of course her feet had slowed when she heard them talking about her, and her “value.” A part of her wishes she hadn’t. It hurt to know this side of the story. That the dismantling of the Starling had been her fault, that she’d inspired a lustful eye just waiting for an excuse to crack that ship and steal her like a prize. Jack’s words are burnt into her memory: You saw what you wanted, and got control of her.

Vane releases a heavy sigh above her, laced with the frustration of being unable to sleep.

It pisses Hope off. Why is she laying here blaming herself? Jack may have said it, and Vane may not have disagreed with it, but that doesn’t mean it’s true, that she’s responsible for this man’s brutish choices. She’s glad he’s still awake, glad he’s just as troubled as she; if anything he should be the most troubled. He’s not even offering to make any amends.

“The least you could do is give me that blanket,” she barks into the darkness above her.

She hears more than sees Vane roll in her direction. “The least you could do is let me speak.”

“Is this a negotiation? Withholding comfort until I consent to hear you out? Because if we’re talking, you are the one who is going to listen to me.”

“Fine.”

But Hope doesn’t know what to say. The silence stretches between them. As her eyes rove around in the dark, she realizes Vane is peering down off the side of the bed. The angle of the moonlight is likely illuminating her face more clearly than his. He’s just watching, and waiting. But she doesn’t know where to start.

“How much did you hear?” he asks softly. Is it defensive, or is he trying to give her a place to begin?

“Enough,” she barks back.

Vane sighs. “Jack—” he begins, but Hope cuts him off quick.

“You think you can blame this on Jack? I didn’t hear you disagreeing with him.”

“That’s not—”

“You said that I would talk first. I’m not going to lay here listening to you make excuses. The truth and a lie are so close, aren’t they? So close,” she seethes. “After all your talk about ‘liberating’ me from a crew that I was ‘too good for.’ I remember what you said, the last time this ship was likened to a cage around me.” She glares up at the beams of said ship, although she can barely see them in the dim. “You did it for me, yes, but not for my own good. And not for my skills, apparently, either. After all we’ve been through, the truth comes out. I am only here because you want to sleep with me.”

“I don’t want to sleep with you,” Vane grinds out through his teeth.

Hope is too surprised to interrupt him, this time. Even as the silence stretches out a little longer. She no longer knows what she wants him to say next. This morning she was disappointed at his lack of interest, and this evening she was enraged at the spectre of his lust. Which is it? What does she want from him?

“I want,” Vane says slowly, words rumbling even deeper than usual, like rocks deep in the earth grinding together, “to share my life with you. I want you with me every morning when I wake. I want to work with you, seize prizes with you, and sometimes even be the reason that you smile.” Every word is measured, thoughtful, and as true as the very roots of the earth. “That is more important to me than anything else. Anything.”

Hope wishes she could see his face better, as he confesses these words into the dark.

“So I hope that you can forget what you heard Jack say, because I already have everything that I want most.” Is that a stubborn set to his jaw? “And I would never want to lose it over the matter of lust. I was handling my feelings just fine before this,” he pauses, “and I will continue to do so, quietly, and respectfully. As you certainly must admit I have been doing so far. Do not let it trouble you.”

He stirs in the bed above her, and it takes her a moment to work out what he’s doing. His whole body lifts, and then settles, and then his arm extends silently down to her, proffering a fist full of the requested blanket.

In stunned silence, she takes it.

Next chapter

Taglist is open:  @ladyhubris @summertimesadness101 @23orso @n3rdybird​ @bitchyikes​ @navigatrixnarrations​

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 7

Charles Vane x OFC

In which some things are left unspoken that perhaps should be said, and others are uttered that definitely should not have been.

Prompt:  “Looking for mermaids?” Content: introspection, sex-negative attitudes, crass objectification, angst, angst, angst. Catch up here.

Notes: I’m embarrassed to admit how long it’s been since I posted the last part, so I’m not even going to look up the date. Especially since this chapter resumes right where the last one left off! I hope you can remember what was going on with all that “Mrs. Vane” nonsense, because none of the other characters are letting Hope (or Charles) forget it... Also, fair warning, this ends on an cliffhanger, but I do have most of the rest already written and hopefully will be able to put it out in a more timely manner. Words: 2300

It's so much worse than she had thought. Bad enough that Captain Vane might now have the impression that she feels some romantic inclination towards him, but to learn that it’s spread to the entire crew, too? Jack’s words have set her to brooding all the more intently. Hope barely even noticed him depart.

Because . . . she doesn’t feel that way about Charles Vane. Does she? What face could she be making, that Jack thinks he sees longing in her eyes when she contemplates their captain? A ridiculous notion.

And yet. Hope has never believed in lying to herself. A capable woman faces all of the facts head-on. To do otherwise would leave a lady trapped. Outmaneuvered. Society thrives on the soul-numbing lies it requires women to tell themselves. And Hope’s most fervent promise to herself was to leave that sort of thing behind.

No self-deception, then. When she thinks of Charles Vane, her chest warms. His presence on deck sets her heart beating faster, and the effect is not solely due to his authority, is it. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does she listens eagerly, interested in every rare glimpse into his mind.

Bother. Jack might be onto something. 

Those stray thoughts she suffered through in the wee hours last night may not only have been sparked by Vane’s unusual proximity. The warmth in her body spreads lower.

When she turned to piracy, leaving Society, she abandoned its restrictions. This included a short period in which she satisfied certain curiosities. So her maidenhead is gone. Its passing was . . . anticlimactic. She hasn’t thought much about sex since then. Pities the women required to perform that marital duty on a nightly basis, if she’s being honest. And she’s quite motivated to keep to her course now, a life of independence that will hopefully culminate in the acquisition of a small fortune sufficient to set up her own comfortable retirement by the time age starts to stiffen her joints.

She’s surprised, then, to find the notion hidden in the depths of her mind that with Vane, such intimacy could be different. The way his hand had molded itself around her thigh last night, the feel of his arms around her and his breath against her neck when he’d smelled her perfume. Her body had responded so much more vigorously than expected.

But it was probably just the drink. And reactions such as those are always fleeting, aren’t they. Such feelings are not an acceptable reason to risk her respectful place on this crew by tumbling into bed with its captain.

Hope turns away from the rail, puts her back to the sea and gathers her thoughts into a forceful summary of conclusions. Yes, it seems she is harboring a certain affection for Charles Vane. But it’s manageable. Not something she is going to allow to interrupt her plans. If she can just figure out how to wipe the dreamy schoolgirl look off her face that certain perceptive members of the crew have apparently noticed, she should be fine. Because it’s not like her feelings are returned. He would have made a move by now. She remembers her early suspicions, that Vane might be attracted to her, but things had settled, quite comfortably, between them since then. She’s almost embarrassed to have been prideful enough to have thought it.

That issue being settled, she marches herself back up to the helm to adjust their course and sets her thoughts to things that are truly important.

~*~

Fellows pulls through; the cache is there, and no soldiers in sight. They make quick work of hauling it all onto the Ranger. The sun is slanting low by the time they’re done; they’ve had to swing around the long way to avoid being spotted by anyone that could later connect their ship to the theft.

Days like these remind Vane why he’s so grateful to have such a skilled navigator, who can locate their position so precisely that they can leave the sight of land and come back in at such an exact, advantageous angle. Swoop in on the cache from nowhere, and swoop right back out again. They’re like ghosts today.

Rich ghosts. He’d never hear the end of it if he ever drove her away with his clumsy, misguided affections.

Vane knows he will have to be very careful tonight. Their ship could not be seen returning from the location of the cache, and there was not enough time to return Mr. Fellows home from a more roundabout angle before sundown. Which meant their guide was spending the night on the ship, bunking with the crew, and Hope . . . Hope would of course be sleeping in the captain’s quarters with her “husband.”

Vane exhales, fingers gripping the railing as if the wood might impart some of its steadfastness. To have had her unexpectedly in his arms was one thing. A pure, heavenly moment that had caught him by surprise. It was quite another to know that she was to spend the night with him again. How could he possibly stay calm, and feel her body just beside his, in his own narrow bed?

It would be a simple thing to sneak a hammock into his quarters, of course. He feels his face burn a bit as he becomes aware that he’d like to pretend that particular solution had just never occurred to him.

Hope’s smart. She will definitely think of it herself, anyway.

~*~

Hope finds herself down by the guns. It’s not her turn to help with the cleaning and re-setting, but she doesn’t want to be anywhere near Fellows, or Vane, or the boisterous crew in the mess. Besides, she likes being seen doing extra work; helps combat many of the prejudices about a lady on board. She settles in next to Stevens, one of the handful of her old Starling crew that had been accepted with her into the Ranger’s fold.

“Mrs. Vane,” he says by way of greeting just as she starts the scrubbing. He doesn’t say it like the other crewmen had. There’s scorn in his voice, and perhaps a hint of a question.

Hope scowls. “Not you, too.”

Stevens nods, as if she’s passed his test. They work in companionable silence for a while, until the only other man on this deck stretches, stows his tools, and exits via the ladder. Probably sneaking off now that Hope has effectively taken his spot. Only then does Stevens speak. “Been hopin’ you’d come talk to me.”

Hope looks up, without pausing her work.

“Seem to be finding your place here.”

“Everyone has use for a good navigator.”

“More than that. Look like you’re fitting in.”

“Do I?”

“Or is this just what you do. Make people like you. Find your way to the top, the inner circle, even if you’re just making the best of it.”

There’s a bitterness to the way he’s speaking, but Hope doesn’t feel like it’s directed at her, necessarily. Stevens has always had friendly feelings for her, that’s why he followed her to this crew. She decides to say very little, invite him to say a little more. “Can you blame me?”

“Guess not. You’ve always had a way with people.” He glances at the hatch, though there’s no one there. “Big take today,” he comments.

Hope grunts in agreement.

“Biggest we’ve had, since leaving Nassau.” He puts a little more oil on his rag. “Big enough to make up for the Starling.”

Hope’s hands stop moving. She forces them to continue. “I . . . hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Stevens sniffs, a sudden rush of nose-clearing air. “We have. Me and some of the boys.”

He has to mean the rest of the Starling crew. There’s four more of them, those that Vane hadn’t seen a need to punish for her brother-in-law’s stunt, fine seamen who hadn’t seemed like a mutiny risk to Jack when he recruited them out of the splinters of that disbanded crew. Hope had even vouched for them.

Apparently Jack can’t be right about everything.

“With your help, Hope, it’d be easy.”

~*~

Vane’s quiet contemplation is interrupted by Jack’s voice. “Looking for mermaids?” he asks, joining his captain on the deserted stretch of deck and staring down into the dark waters alongside him. The ship is safely hidden in a cove, and most of the crew are down in the mess for their nightly meal.

Vane replies with a rather rude gesture.

“No, there’s only one maid you’re interested in.”

Vane looks up sharply.

“Has a nice ring to it, ‘Mrs. Vane.’ I suppose that’s why the crew can’t seem to stop saying it.”

He grunts. “Torturing her.”

“Maybe just a little.”

Jack lapses into silence, but Vane is certain that won’t last for long. Maybe he should walk away now, avoid the question that is sure to be coming next. However . . . Vane can’t stop asking it of himself, either. So he may as well just let Jack say it.

“I’m out of more subtle advice,” Jack says. “And you never were one for subtlety, anyway. So here’s this: if you want her, just take her already.”

Not exactly what Vane thought he’d hear. He shifts, looks more squarely at Jack, and plays dumb with his reply. “I have.”

“Not onto your crew. It’s obvious how much you want her in your bed.” He’s eying Vane closely.

Is this what Jack thinks of him? He’d always pegged Jack as a bit of a romantic, seeing how well he treats Anne. He’d been bracing himself for a conversation about deep feelings. Not this crassness. “And as a member of my crew,” Vane growls in reply, “she’s got full rights here. I can’t have her by force.”

“Who says you need to force her?”

This is not what Vane wanted to hear, either. The last thing he needs is to build up a false hope. “Lay off, Jack. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turns squarely back toward the water.

“You really can’t tell.”

“I’ve tried flirting with her, Jack. When we first got her. She rejected me quite squarely.”

“Sometimes I wonder what it is you consider to be ‘flirting,” Charles, when most of your experience is with whores who already know how your coin spends.” Or girls looking to yoke his power, but at least Jack was kind enough not to mention that part. “Is it possible your approach lacks a certain . . . art?”

“Don’t say you’re offering to teach me,” he growls.

Jack’s hand flutters in the air. “You’re a lost cause anyway.”

“I’ve already resolved to never try again.”

“But why?” Jack leans over the rail, seeking his eyes. “She’s as smitten as you are; I don’t see how you can’t see it.” He sighs. “You’re too much alike, too proud and too timid, both at once, to see what’s right in front of you.”

“I know what’s in front of me,” Vane retorts, choosing to ignore the accusation of cowardice. Because he likes Jack. He’s let him get away with worse without rearranging his face over it. He can let this one go too. He takes a deep breath, and feels himself scowling. “I’m not going to say anything to her. Leave it, Jack. You weren’t there this morning. When she woke up and found herself in bed with me . . .  she made her lack of interest abundantly clear.”

Jack is shaking his head. “I can’t believe that. More likely you’ve scared her off with your extreme stoicism. How is she to know of your interest, if you’re not giving any signs of it?”

Vane looks over from the corner of his eye. “If I’m not giving any signs, then how can you be so certain that you know my heart?”

Jack claps him on the shoulder. “Because I know you too well, Charles. I know your tells. And you’ve gone through too much trouble to capture this bird.”

Vane growls his disagreement with that choice of phrasing.

Jack keeps barreling on. “Yes, yes. She’s a great value to the crew. But that’s not why you took her.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Is that not what you did? You saw what you wanted, and you got control of her. We didn’t have to come down so hard on the Starling. But you needed to stake your claim. Now I feel like we’re all just holding our breaths. I’ve never seen you like this. You took her, I don’t understand why now you won’t take her. Tough as she is, she’s too much a maid to be the one to take the initiative. She might even be a virgin still. In need of a strong, experienced hand like yours to guide the way.”

Vane grunts, he can’t help it. He’s been trying so hard not think this way, but Jack’s words bring unbidden images to his mind. Hope’s wide eyes, looking up at him from his pillow. The softness of her flesh; the sounds she’d make if he—

Jack’s still talking. “God knows you both could use it. And she won’t be getting it anywhere else, not with you looming over her as you are. So why don’t you get on with it? Scoop her up and throw her in your bed. Hope’s not more than a bird you’re keeping in a cage if you keep going on like this.”

“Is that what I am.” Hope Wickham herself materializes from the shadow at the end of the deck. How long had she been standing there, listening, fuming? Long enough, judging by the look on her face. Charles Vane feels his heart sink down to his knees.

On to Part 8

Taglist is open: @navigatrixnarrations​ @ladyhubris​ @summertimesadness101 @23orso @n3rdybird​ @bitchyikes​

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 6

In which we learn how Hope and Vane spent that fateful night in that tiny room.

Prompt:  16. “everybody sees how you look at him.” Content: pining, angst, more pining, a healthy dose of denial, and certain individuals having way too much fun with the fake marriage ruse. Catch up here.

Notes: the first section had been previously posted as a preview, if it feels familiar. Keep reading, for everything that follows is new. Also, shout-out to my partner in crime for this fic, @navigatrixnarrations​, the real inspiration for Hope Wickham. Words: 3767

Hope dreams she’s teetering on a great precipice, unable to pull herself back nor to find the courage to see what lies in the darkness below her feet. She wakes up to the realization that she is actually just about to fall out of bed.

She pulls herself back on the mattress, able to do no more than achieve a slightly more stable balance before hitting a solid wall behind her. A warm, toned, breathing sort of wall. Her sleeping captain had encroached upon her territory in the dead of night, and now her shoulder is jammed into his chest and he’s softly snoring into her ear.

“Move it, you lunk,” she hisses, nudging him firmly with her shoulder.

It accomplishes nothing. There’s not even a hitch in his breathing.

“You’re on—my—side,” she growls, shoving against him harder with each word, bracing her feet against the mattress and throwing her back into him.

The snoring stops with a bit of a sigh, then resumes without any further acknowledgment of her disturbance.

Hope twists her body around with a few jerky movements, and stares down the bridge of his nose. His head is sharing her pillow. Unacceptable. “Captain.” She grasps his shoulder and shakes it, tentatively at first and then more briskly. “I need more room.”

He makes some sounds, half-words not recognizable in any language that Hope is familiar with. They sound both curious and exasperated. A few more brisk shakes get Vane to shift onto his back, but he remains soundly asleep.

At least she’s not nestled between his pectorals anymore. But his immovable shoulder is still preventing her from getting comfortable without touching his body. The amount of space left in the bed would be no problem if she were inclined to embrace the man, to wrap the line of her body along the whole side of his. The thought makes her flush, both with unexpected craving and with the embarrassment that would suffuse her if her captain woke up to find his navigator spooning him.

The craving, and her exhausted need to just get a little more comfortable, win out. She lets her top leg relax until her shin falls against his; better, but not enough. She rolls forward on her hip into her favorite sleeping position, daring to stack her knee on top of his thigh. Instantly, her tight muscles relax. The move presses her belly comfortably against his waist. The warmth of him is lovely, as are the gentle waves of his breathing. A part of her cannot believe she is pressing her body against Captain Vane’s in this way, while the rest of her is just too tired to care about propriety.

Her arm would be most comfortable draped across his chest. But did Hope dare to go that far? In the square of dim moonlight cast by the small window, she finds herself inspecting her captain’s sleeping face.

She’d stopped pretending she didn’t find him handsome. Her eyes follow the strong lines of his cheekbones down to his powerful jaw. When she’d first joined his crew, she’d been nervous about his intentions toward her, but the possibility that he found her attractive had never materialized into anything troubling to her. Despite the fact that Vane was now an inert mass in the center of her bed, he had never pushed her so far as to make her truly uncomfortable. In fact, his lack of direct advances have made her wonder if she’s imagining the whole thing. It is still distinctly possible that he thinks of her simply as a trusted member of his crew, valued only for her skill.

His jawline is vexing her. The fine stubble on it, grown out through the course of the day, is practically beckoning her fingertips. It would not be at all appropriate for her to stroke him in the dark, whilst he sleeps, and yet what other chance does she have to explore the way Captain Vane makes her feel without him catching her at it?

Shoving him did not wake him up. Perhaps tickling would do the trick. She tells herself she is only reaching fingers up to his cheek in order to annoy him into waking, and that only for the purpose of rolling him over to a more reasonable share of the mattress.

There's nothing surprising about the texture of Vane’s cheek, not technically. It’s just skin and little bristles of hair. And yet something about it feels absolutely unique, infinitely fascinating to her fingertips. She feels she could enjoy doing this for hours, or conversely that this one moment of tactile pleasure is stretching out wider and more significant than any moment has any right to. How can something feel soft and rough at the same time?

Vane's breathing hitches, his great brows creasing as he seems to become aware of her touch. Hope's fingers retract as if burnt. She really shouldn't have been doing that. She no longer wants him to wake up.

With a rumbling little groan, Vane reaches his arm over and embraces her, gathering Hope against his chest and rolling into her until she is trapped with both arms curled up between their bodies.

There is nothing to do but admit defeat, and let sleep take her, cozy and warm in the arms of her captain.

~*~

He hadn’t known exactly why he said it. She’s mine. How Hope must have shuddered, listening to that. He knew she could handle herself. It just sort of came out of his mouth when he saw the way that fisherman was leering at her. But now here she is, curled up against his chest in the thin light of early morning.

He’s grateful that he woke up so gently. Oftentimes unpleasant dreams haunt him in the early hours before dawn, and he does not always awake without a fight. This time, fleeting dreams melt into awareness of a warm weight at his side, and now Vane thinks he will just never move again. Her hand is on his chest. His heart beats strong and wild just beneath her palm. He stares at the ceiling, breathing carefully, only shallowly, and hopes this moment might stretch out forever.

His arm is around her. When did that happen? She fits so perfectly right there, tucked into his shoulder. If ever he had doubts about the depths of his feelings for the woman sleeping beside him, they were surely dispelled now. This is more than just desire, more than just skin craving skin. Her trusting little body anchors him, makes him feel as if heavens and earth are all turning as they should, with this bed at their absolute center. As if everything that exists had navigated his life right to this still point right here.

When she wakes, it will be over. If only they really were husband and wife, if the story they had spun in the tavern downstairs had magically come true overnight. But Vane would not risk losing her from his ship, not just to tell her how he feels. Better to see her every day, to hear her voice carry across the deck over the ocean winds, to take the smiles and tongue-lashings she throws in equal measure, and keep his heart concealed. At this point, not even his crew would forgive him if he drove her away.

She stirs. Oh, the cruelty of that soft sound that she makes as she wakes. Vane keeps himself still and unthreatening as he feels her body tense, as she lifts her head with a start and pulls her hand away from his heart.

Her hair is mussed and lovely, a lock of it falling across her face as she blinks at him in the warming light. She looks neither angry nor confused, so his worst fears recede. She looks . . . he can’t quite put his finger on it. Distressed?

“I—” a nervous smile darts across Hope’s face. “I’m sorry.” She laughs, and pulls her body away. That’s all she does, when she awakens to find herself entangled with his limbs at the center of a benevolent universe. She laughs.

She averts her eyes. She won’t look at his face as she scrambles to sit all the way up. Carefully not letting any part of her body touch him again. What more evidence does he need that he’s right to keep his heart locked away? “Mornin’,” he growls, polite as he can. Then swivels away from her to set his feet firmly on the floor.

~*~

Somehow Hope had been sure that she’d awaken before her captain, that she would be able to pull away and hide the secret embrace she’d bestowed on him during the night. Instead, she’d found herself rousing to the face of a very much aware and awake Charles Vane. And he had just been letting her sleep on, curled up against him like that, with her palm splayed across his bare chest…

Heat rises again in her cheeks, and she keeps her back to him as they both straighten hair and clothing and prepare to look presentable enough to walk downstairs. She hopes she hadn’t made him too uncomfortable. Poor thing was probably so shocked to wake up and find her like that that he was afraid to move. Probably thought she’d yell, accuse him of impropriety, trying to sneak something while she was asleep. But Hope knows she’s the one at fault here. She was the one who had indulged secret desires, and the only one that should be feeling any shame today.

The right thing to do would be to say something. Clear the air. But what on earth is the proper etiquette for I’m sorry that I took advantage of the warmth of your body last night? I apologize for testing the waters and liking it just a bit too much.

“You must think me silly,” she says to him. She’s not really certain where she’s going with that, but it’s a start.

Charles looks up at her abruptly, shirt in hand.

He’s listening. She has to say something more. “I promise that I’m not—” she cuts herself off. It’s imperative to reassure him that he doesn’t have to worry about her attraction to him, but equally important that she not even give him the idea that’s what this is about, if such thoughts had not already occurred to him. “I want to reassure you that my feelings aren’t—"

This time she’s cut off by a loud, thumping knock at the door. Both their heads swivel at the sound. “I hear congratulations are in order,” Jack Rackham’s cheery voice calls, emanating through the wood. “I was told the ‘newlyweds’ would be found in this room.”

Hope checks that her blouse is in order, then jumps to open the door. Their quartermaster’s face looms down at her, one amused eyebrow raised expectantly. “We didn’t get married, Jack. It’s all a misunderstanding.” She steps back into the corner, trying to create enough space to allow him entry into the tiny room.

Why is Vane looking at her like that?

Jack’s eyes float to find the captain as well.

Vane is gruff. “Told the mark she was my wife.” He pulls his hair out of the collar of the shirt he just finished shrugging on. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“So we’ve made contact, then.” Pleased, Jack sweeps fully into the room.

Hope closes the door behind him, mindful that Fellows might come walking up at any moment to begin their rendezvous. “More than contact,” she confirms, intent on filling Jack in quickly before another knock comes at the door. “He’s agreed to lead us right to it.”

Jack seems distracted. “A fine bit of news.” His eyes linger on the single bed, the two pairs of boots still standing side-by-side at its foot.

Something about the way he makes eye contact with Vane, directly after looking up from the rumpled bed, irks her. Hope stalks into his line of sight and crosses her arms. “Nothing untoward happened, Jack.”

Why do his eyes keep flitting back to Vane? Jack has nothing but a nod for her statement. Why on earth would the captain’s feelings be the ones anyone would be worried about right now?

“I promise you,” she says stubbornly, “he was a perfect gentleman.”

“That's not what you called me last night,” Vane rumbles behind her.

She whirls on him. “Don’t make this worse,” she barks at the cheekiness she detects in his halfhearted smile. “The last thing you want today is an angry wife.”

“So we’re keeping up this little ruse, then?” Jack inquires. Judging by the impressive angle of his eyebrow, he's realized Vane’s feelings aren't the only ones that might require caution in this moment.

Vane’s big hand cups Hope’s elbow, guiding her in the direction of their boots. “No way around it. Our contact took a fancy to her.” He holds her eyes for a moment, measuring his next words. “Which she leveraged. Seems I've got a coquettish little wife on my hands. Fellows finds out we ain't really married, now, and the only way to keep ‘im would be to send her to his bed instead of mine.”

Jack looks, frankly, flabbergasted at every word of this report. He turns wide eyes to Hope, for confirmation of such an extremely uncharacteristic story. “What—” he stops, screwing up his face in confusion, then tries again. “How much did you have to drink last night?”

Hope scowls at him. “It was a calculated play. Got us the deal, didn't I?”

“So long as the man can get out of bed today,” Vane adds, helpfully. “We did attempt to drink him under the table by the end, there.”

Hope's memories flash to that portion of the evening, to the fire ignited in her blood by the casual grip of the hands Vane kept resting on various areas of her body, the alluring spark nestled in the laughter behind her captain’s eyes. She can admit that the tittering, maddening, absolute uncertainty of these new feelings, she still tells herself they are new, led her to drink much more than was her usual habit.

“Perhaps we had best go knock on his door,” she says, forcing her mind back to the real business at hand, “before he gets away.”

~*~

She’s not sure how on earth she hadn’t thought to expect it. Hope considers herself an intelligent woman, extremely capable of thinking a plan through, anticipating the obstacles, the contingencies, and every flavor of unexpected consequences that might come from a particular course of action. It’s what makes her a damned good pirate, after all.

And still, it hits her like a blow to the stomach, knocking all other thoughts from her head for one long, unreasonable moment.

“You’re back,” the boatswain calls, waving as she and Vane accompany Fellows up the gangplank to board the Ranger. “Welcome aboard, Captain. Welcome aboard, Mrs. Vane.”

She almost stumbles. Which is especially embarrassing because the captain had his hand on her arm, and absolutely must have felt her composure crumble at those particular words.

“And who is this that you’ve brought with you, Mrs. Vane?” Oh, Shane is having fun with this. Hope can hear the subtle emphasis he has put on the honorific this time. They sent Jack up to the ship ahead of them, to let everyone in on the need for a little subterfuge while Mr. Fellows leads them to the treasure. It seems clear now that the crew has decided to have fun with it.

She’s not going to live this one down.

“This is Mr. Fellows,” she introduces. “Please, meet Shane Rollins, our boatswain.” Hope would like to remove her hand from Captain Vane’s arm, now that they’ve attracted the attention of the crew, but his fingers have covered hers and she can’t quite bring herself to recoil. She expects to find him laughing at her when she looks up at her “husband,” but his squinted eyes are very carefully not looking at her. Perhaps there is a slight tilt to the chiseled line of his mouth. Bother. He probably finds this extra funny given the way he found her wrapped around his body this morning.

Quite a few more members of the crew are on deck than usual, watching them board. She could chalk it up to excitement over the treasure her guest was about to guide them towards, but the smiles are just a bit too sly for that, aren’t they.

And it only gets worse as they get underway. Their guide turns out to be a gregarious, amiable fellow even when hungover. He, of course, stays close by the navigator’s side, attending to his “important business” of advising their course while chatting up the various crewmen who continue to insert themselves into the conversation. And it seems that as long as Fellows is glued to her side, Captain Vane will be too. Which, while perhaps intimidating to Fellows, (perhaps), does absolutely nothing to dissuade the crewmen from attempting to fluster Hope as best they can.

“Such a handsome couple you two make.”

“I confess I did tear up just a bit at your ceremony.”

“Oh, I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“That’s because it was yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“No, yer daft, it were a week ago.”

“Ain’t they been married for months now?”

“Nah, it only feels that way, on account o’ how long they was makin’ eyes at each other before that.”

For her part, Hope mostly just stares resolutely out to sea. Despite Vane’s uncharacteristic nearness, he himself does nothing to feed into the madness either.

“I just love seeing the two o’ you so happy together. Oh, put your arm around her. Give her a kiss.”

That last one is met with the flattest stare Hope can summon. There is no way that even an actual Captain’s wife would ever put on a performance like that. “Reckon we’re close?” she asks Fellows instead.

“Oh, might be a couple more hours. Plenty of time to keep trading stories.”

~*~

Eventually she reaches her limit, right about the time Jack starts spinning his own version of their false narrative, opening with “We had never thought our Captain here would be the marrying type…” Hastily, Hope excuses herself to go put on a fresh set of clothes, before her growing frustration blows the whole charade.

But when she gets to her bunk, she finds it stripped, her few meager belongings nowhere to be seen. Did they—?

Hope fumes. There’s only one logical explanation for this, isn’t there. The crew’s been quite thorough in their commitment to establishing the ruse. She stalks back out of the lower decks.

She finds her clothes in the Captain’s quarters. Of course. Her skin prickles as she disrobes in here, even though the room is empty. To be undressed inside Vane’s private space . . . to her horror, Hope realizes the main emotion it’s filling her with is a sense of longing.

This is so inappropriate. She dresses herself as quickly as she can, then gets hung up on deciding where to set her soiled clothes. She can’t have Vane returning to his cabin and seeing her shirt and breeches flung across his bed, where she just almost forgot them in her haste to exit. The impression of casual intimacy that would leave just wouldn’t do at all. They’re dirty, so she won’t tuck them away into a drawer… She settles on draping them carefully across the chest of her belongings that the crew had so helpfully moved into this cabin. With the most innocuous bits of each garment facing forward, neatly lined up, to minimize all possibility that they might create the impression they had been flung aside by a now-naked woman.

When she’s satisfied, Hope doesn’t return to the main deck. They’ve likely moved on in conversation up there, but her renewed appearance might only drag their wicked minds back to making fun. Instead, she finds a secluded section of railing from which to hide a little longer, while contemplating the sea.

The waves are mild this morning, and the blue expanse glitters in the brightness of the sun. She wishes she had her hat, but it was missing from her bunk and she was not going back to Vane’s cabin to search out where the crew may have stowed it. Wouldn’t be right to start rifling through his things, even if no one on this boat seems to have felt shame doing it to hers.

When she had awoken, so embarrassingly nestled against her captain’s chest, she had thought it would be easy to simply carry on and ignore what had happened. The way that lying with him had made her feel. But now it seems no one is willing to let her forget it. The feel of Vane’s arms around her… she has to press her eyes closed for a moment, against the sudden rush of heady emotion threatening to disperse all reason and good sense in its wake.

She opens them at the sound of boots approaching on the deck. It’s Jack, strutting toward her with a keen, wary look in his eye.

“What.”

He lifts his palms in a gesture of harmlessness, then takes a place leaning against the rail at her side. “Just making the rounds. Ascertaining that each man is at his post.”

Hope rolls her eyes at that. “Did you disperse the crowd around Fellows, then?”

Jack fixes her with a look out of the corner of his eye. “Eventually.”

Hope sighs, and sags a little deeper as she stares out across the water. “I hadn’t expected the crew to be quite so… enamored of this idea.”

“No?”

“Sure, it’s a little funny,” she grants, “but they were like a bunch of gossiping old biddies up there. What, I wonder, set that off?”

She rounds on Jack, preparing to accuse him of stirring up the crew’s expectations. But something in his flat, serious look stops her. “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

Jack presses his lips together, exhaling a little huff through his nose as he chooses his words. “Darling.” He leans in a little closer. “Everybody sees how you look at him.”

Hope tries not to let her eyes widen at the splash of nerves that rush through her body. “What? How do I look at him?”

“Like the secrets of the heavens might be written under his skin.”

Next chapter here

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration Compilation Post

Charles Vane x Hope Wickham (OFC) Slow Burn

Prequel One: A Matter of Some Urgency (Vane POV) by @navigatrixnarrations​

Prequel Two: A Matter of Some Urgency (version) (Hope POV) by @navigatrixnarrations​

Part One: Vane falls for a rival crew’s quartermaster. Vane/Reader (we hadn’t named the character yet) by @whenimaunicorn

Part Two: He’s got her on his ship, but will she truly be his? Reader POV by @whenimaunicorn

Part Three: The future is negotiated. Reader POV by @whenimaunicorn

Interlude 1: Roll The Dice (Hope POV) by @navigatrixnarrations​

Part Four: acceptance on the Ranger comes with a little blood (Hope POV)

Interlude 2: The Same Constellations (Vane POV) by @navigatrixnarrations​

Interlude 3: Those Men Are Fools (Hope and Vane POV) by @navigatrixnarrations​​

Part Five: pursuing a new lead comes with unexpected complications (Hope POV) by @whenimaunicorn​

Part Six: in which we find out how they spent that fateful night in that tiny room. (Vane and Hope POV) by @whenimaunicorn​

Part Seven: in which everyone is still processing the concept of “Mrs. Vane” and some people start saying things other people aren’t sure they wanted to hear (Hope and Vane POV) by @whenimaunicorn​

Part Eight: a night of turmoil leads to an unexpected confession. (Hope POV) by @whenimaunicorn​

Part Nine: pragmatism wrestles with passion (Vane and Hope POV) by @whenimaunicorn​

Part Ten: maybe this could really work (Hope POV) by @whenimaunicorn​

Part Eleven: in which all questions are answered (Hope POV) by @whenimaunicorn​​​​​

[whenimaunicorn]

What’s this? The next chapter of The Heart of Admiration might actually be ready to post? And is has ANGSTY INNER MONOLOGUES and MEDDLING SIDE CHARACTERS? And probably WAY TOO MANY CELESTIAL METAPHORS???

(even Vane is giving me side eye)

[whenimaunicorn]

Ohhh I've just read my way through your black sails stories and they are EXCELLENT. Do you have any plans of continuing the series with Hope? I'd love to read more of that :)

Ooooh thank you!!! I am continuing, I’m just slow! Gotta do the slow burn justice. Would you like a sneak peek of how the bedsharing is going, whilst you wait?

His jawline is vexing her. The fine stubble on it, grown out through the course of the day, is practically beckoning her fingertips. It would not be at all appropriate for her to stroke him in the dark, whilst he sleeps, and yet what other chance does she have to explore the way Captain Vane makes her feel without him catching her at it?

Shoving him did not wake him up. Perhaps tickling would do the trick. She tells herself she is only reaching fingers up to his cheek in order to annoy him into waking, and that only for the purpose of rolling him over to a more reasonable share of the mattress.

There's nothing surprising about the texture of Vane’s cheek, not technically. It’s just skin and little bristles of hair. And yet something about it feels absolutely unique, infinitely fascinating to her fingertips. She feels she could enjoy doing this for hours, or conversely that this one moment of tactile pleasure is stretching out wider and more significant than any moment has any right to. How can something feel soft and rough at the same time?

Vane's breathing hitches, his great brows creasing as he seems to become aware of her touch. Hope's fingers retract as if burnt. She really shouldn't have been doing that. She no longer wants him to wake up.

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration - Part 4

Charles Vane x OFC slow burn - Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Note: since this story is getting so long, I’ve decided to convert it to a third person OC. She’s really acquired too much specific backstory to be a Reader insert already. So meet Hope Wickham, who hopefully feels like a natural extension of the same character! I’ve never done this before, hope I’m pulling it off gracefully.

Chapter Summary: Acceptance by Vane’s crew comes along with a little drunken violence, but who would expect any less from pirates? Treating Vane’s wound brings more intimacy than Hope bargained for... CW for combat and giving someone stitches.

This episode’s prompt: “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

The tavern is dark, and so thick with smoke that Hope’s eyes are burning around the edges. But the ale is strong, the company is spirited, and all she sees are wide grins around the table. That’s all that matters to her.

The Ranger crew is celebrating again. They’ve just taken port in Tortuga after their third successful hunt since finding themselves on Miss Guthrie’s shit list; the leads she had provided them since the night Captain Vane stormed out of her office had been more insulting than if she had given them none, and so they put their heads together and sought their prizes outside of the neighborhood of Nassau. The takes were smaller, so far, and not everyone here already knew their reputation, yet, but it was well worth it to keep on feeling free.

“This one’s for that Guthrie bitch,” Anne Bonny growls as she thrusts her tankard up for another toast. “Just ‘cause we all know she wouldn’t want us to have it.” Grunts and guffaws answer her around the long, creaking table that the Ranger’s officers and most sociable crewmen have crowded around. “Don’t matter if we can’t fence our prizes, so long as we can drink ‘em!”

That gets a round of cheers and splashing clinks of pewter tankards. Hope drinks deep to that one, short-sighted as she finds the sentiment to be. Because the real point is, with takes like these they’ve managed to keep the morale of the crew up, despite setbacks. They hadn’t lost one capable sailor over the humiliation Eleanor had tried to deal them. In fact, the experience appeared to be knitting the crew tighter together, with Hope right in there with them.

Her expertise helped, as Jack had predicted. The Ranger’s crew had a reputation for idiocy and belligerence once they got into the drink on shore, but every sailor respects the skill of a navigator that can not only lead them right to the richest prizes, but also point them straight back towards a port where they can waste those riches as quickly as possible. It also helped that Hope had drank a few of them under the table that first night, that her wit was only sharpened by liquor, and oh yes, that she had found a few choice words for Nassau’s despot herself on that evening.

Shane, the Ranger’s boatswain, elbows her deep in the ribs. “Tell us again,” he slurs, drinking entirely too fast as he so often does on nights like these, “how you gave the Guthrie woman a piece of your mind last time we was in her joint.”

Hope presses her lips together in a restrained sort of grin. She resists the urge to glance at Captain Vane; if she looks too worried about his reaction it will only set him off worse. But any mention of Eleanor tends to sour his mood, whether negative or neutral. (Positive mentions simply do not happen among this crew). Her eyes travel as far as Jack Rackham, seated beside the captain, and she can see he is checking on him already. When no flash of concern lights up the quartermaster’s eyes, Hope feels safe to at least start telling the story. “I don’t know what she was thinking, approaching me like that.”

Even though she speaks quietly, many of the side conversations cease, heads up and down the long table swiveling around to pay attention to her tale. It seems like no matter how often this episode comes up, there is at least one crewman present that has not yet heard her tell it from her own mouth.

“She had already failed to perturb the Captain, with whatever she said in that private meeting she called him into after we cashed in her lead,” Hope continues, setting the stage.

“Thought she could drag him in by his ear, like she was his fecking mum,” one of the gunmen interrupts. Nods and grunts of agreement pass around the table. Hope just loves the way the men so gleefully rehash the same old stories when they’re in their cups, loves even more that she’s started to be in them.

“He’s not fallin’ for that shite anymore,” Shane piles on, sending a look up the table at Vane that’s half approval, half challenge.

As usual, Captain Vane chooses the path of least words. “Bitch can rot,” he growls over the rim of his cup. His eyes simmer with more complicated feelings than those three words belie, but only to someone who’s looking.

“Which is what he told her, more or less.” Jack’s melodious voice smooths the story along, taking the attention off the uneasy topic of the crew’s feelings about their captain’s… entanglements. “So on to Plan B, Miss Guthrie went.” His eyes turn back to Hope, and most of the crew’s follow.

“She comes by my table, just stands there at first, stiff as you please. Like I’m just going to jump up as soon as she notices me.”

Anne rolls her eyes.

Hope remembers the way her stomach jumped at that point, her respect for Miss Guthrie not yet lost, but there is no reason to recount that part of the story. “Then she does this little cough, when I keep on drinking, take my next turn throwing the dice.”

“It was a good throw, too,” someone pipes in from further down the table.

“It was,” Hope agrees, “and I had a stack of coin on it.” She takes a swig of ale. “But she just stares at me. And as soon as my hand is on my winnings—‘may I have a word with you, Miss Wickham.’” She does a passingly fair imitation of the woman’s voice, higher and snootier than her own.

“What did she want?”

“She told me she was going to get me on another ship.”

The room always gets quieter at this part of the story. A warm, tingling sort of feeling blooms in Hope’s chest, at the way her new crew takes such pride in this exchange. It reassures her more deeply each time, that she made the right call when she took Eleanor’s offer as an insult.

“’It’s terrible, what Vane is doing to you,’ she has the nerve to say to me. ‘But the Nightingale is coming in tomorrow. And the Walrus.” Groans all around the table. They always groan at the mention of the Walrus. “I’ll get you set up with a crew that’s more civilized.” And every time she repeats that line, there is less booing and more harsh, prideful laughter. Hope scoffs. “Like I’m already in her pocket, a piece to move around on her chessboard as she sees fit. She says to me: ‘Vane can’t force you to do anything.’ And I look right back at her, take the drink out of her hand, and say ‘no, he can’t. And neither can you.” Her neck prickles at the way the men look at her when she tells this part. “I like his ship. I like his crew.’ I lean in, sip a drink out of her own cup, and say, ‘I think I might even be starting to like him.”

More cheering, and fists hammer on the table. They love that part. Everything had felt so crystal-clear in that moment, when Eleanor Guthrie patronized to her like that. Hope didn’t want to be protected, didn’t want to be sheltered or assigned. She wanted to earn what she’d got; and here was a crew she was already bonding with, (drunkenly at least) and a captain who respected her skills so much that he’d gone out of his way to get her on his ship, and respected her mind so much that he’d rushed Jack to make sure she felt she could leave.

“So take your fake concern for my wellbeing, I said to her, and go fuck yourself with it. Since Vane’s not at your beck and call to take care of that for you anymore, either.” It wasn’t exactly what Hope had really said. But every story gets larger in the retelling of it, does it not?

Tankards are banging on tables, toasts are being raised, and Shane whacks Hope on the back in comradely approval. “And that’s the night you became one of us.”

She can’t read anything in Vane’s stillness as he regards her from the head of the table.

 Hours later, Hope and Anne are staggering back into the tavern, arm in arm, coming back from a piss ‘round the back of the building. In this town a woman’s got to have someone right there watching her back before she can even think of squatting down. “Where’s everyone?” Anne slurs, her brows furrowing as she inspects the corner where the Ranger crew used to be sitting. Her head swivels toward the other side of the room, Hope’s following rapidly after.

Many of the crew appear to have moved along to some other establishment, or perhaps staggered down to their tents set up on the beach. Jack and Captain Vane are still here, though, sitting at a table with two men Hope doesn’t recognize. All four of them are positively bristling.

Their Captain waves the women over when he spots them. Anne lets herself be tucked under Jack’s arm, and Hope cautiously takes the open chair next to Vane. The strangers at the table look surly, one with long hair tied back into a disheveled tail, the other’s brown locks cropped closer but no less messy. Their once-fine coats, stained and inexpertly repaired, mark them for fellow pirates.

“Captain Mackinaw,” Vane introduces, wrapping a hand over the top of Hope’s shoulder as he does, “meet Hope Wickham, my navigator.”

She braces herself for the long-haired man to comment on her sex, as so many men do, but this Mackinaw is too preoccupied to do more than nod vaguely in her direction. “I can’t just let this stand, Charles.”

Vane nods. Hope has never known him to be a sloppy drunk, but she can feel his inebriation in the careful way he removes his hand from her shoulder and reaches out for the ale on the table. He lifts it for a long, contemplative sip as his fellow looks at him expectantly. “You want me to back you up?” he offers, in slow, measured tones.

Mackinaw looks relieved. “They’re at the north end of the beach. If we make a show of numbers, I reckon they’ll hand it back over without a fight.” He takes another long pull of his own drink, the gesture much sloppier than how Vane had pulled off. Hope resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“And if they don’t?” Jack asks.

Mackinaw smiles sharply. “Then they’ll learn what it means to cross them that used to sail with Edward Teach.”

 “This is a terrible idea,” Hope growls through her teeth, hefting the cudgel of broken wood she’d picked up on their way down the beach.

“Nonsense,” Jack replies. “It appears they have things well in hand.” Less than twenty paces away, Vane and Mackinaw square up against an even-scruffier captain and two of his largest crewmen. Vane’s body language is bristling, and Mackinaw’s looks mocking even from here.

“I don’t believe Charles Vane has ever been known for his ability to talk his way out of a fight,” Hope retorts. She shifts, squaring her hips, attempting to add to the impression that a full crew of violent, capable men is poised to storm down the moonlit beach at a moment’s notice.

“Good,” Anne hisses, sparing one contemptuous glance for Hope as she brandishes both her knives in the direction of the tents. Mackinaw’s rivals are rousing now, recognizing the threat. “I’ve an appetite for blood tonight.”

Hope’s not even sure why she’s here. This could get every bit as bloody as a vanguard charge, if someone says the wrong word, takes things a step too far down there. Violence is not in her skill set; if anything, she should be handling this part, the negotiations that so often stop swords from crossing. But she doesn’t know Mackinaw; barely even understands the grievance he has with the other man on the beach. Something about a horse, or a woman, or a horse that belonged to a woman… and now good men might get hurt, or even killed, because Vane feels loyalty to a man he once sailed with when they both served under the notorious Blackbeard.

An angry shout. Anne takes a step forward; most of the crew lined up behind follows suit. Vane hadn’t rounded up quite all of his men from their carousing around the town, but combined with Mackinaw’s crew they look like a veritable army ready to surround the other crew’s camp.

Said crew is forming up ranks of their own, however. Mackinaw’s rival does not appear ready to back down, puffing up his chest and speaking loudly enough for her to hear the tone of blustering confidence. Hope knows a failing negotiation when she sees one. “Blood it is,” she says wryly.

She doesn’t intend for anyone to hear it, but Jack cocks his head at her.

Vane’s hand has crept to his sword. Mackinaw’s head tilts; the shabby captain grimaces, glances back at his crew, and then throws himself at his rival. The two captains struggle in the sand, pummeling each other.

Is it going to stay between them, or is everyone about to brawl? Hope catches movement from one of the big men who had been backing that captain up. He takes a step that puts him more fully behind Captain Vane, who had turned to watch the men rolling on the ground. “Watch!” she roars, in inarticulate, impulsive warning.

The men behind her surge, evidently interpreting her shout as their signal to advance. They loose themselves down the beach, stampeding Hope along with them.

She grips her cudgel tight, keeping pace with her crew to avoid being trampled. Her face and limbs flush so hot they’re prickling. She managed to see Vane turn before his attacker could strike, ducking under the blow and knocking the man in the gut with the pommel of his sword as he drew it, but after that she loses him in the jumble of bodies rushing past the both of them, to engage the charging Ranger crew.

Hope runs until she’s stopped, feeling like she’s part of a wave crashing into a craggy shore. She sees the shape of a man, arms raised in threat, and she swats at it with her cudgel. The impact of it thudding into him throws her more off-balance than she expects. But the untampered momentum with which she had hit him is enough to knock the man to the ground.

Anne roars beside her, a ferocious sound, triumphant. She kicks that man across the jaw to keep him down, then thrusts her face close to Hope’s. “Atta girl!”

And after that Anne’s bloodlust is infectious, as Hope finds herself suddenly eager to pick her next target to bludgeon. Her crimson-haired crewmate keeps pace with her, seemingly amused by Hope’s sudden spirit.

A man missing more than a few teeth looms up in front of her, and lands a blow that glances off Hope’s head. She falls back, but Jack Rackham catches her from behind and heaves her right back onto her feet again. Her attacker wasn’t expecting her to come up so fast; nor was he expecting her foot to land so heavy in his gut.

She wants to get to Vane. She doesn’t have time to consider why, only knows that the direction that she should force her feet through this fray is over to where she saw him last. She ducks under fists and shoves bodies away from her. Anne and Jack appear to have the same idea, and they’re better at it, too. Hope hears the crunch of a broken nose to her left, turns in time to see a man dropping to his knees, howling. Blood trickles down Anne Bonny’s forehead, and she doesn’t wipe it away when it reaches her open-mouthed grin.

The fighting ends just about as suddenly as it began. “Yield!” comes the voice of the enemy captain, and his men, for the most part, stand down. When the throng clears and Hope can see Charles Vane again, something in her chest loosens even though the side of his face is puffy and his hairline is stained with blood. He’s holding the shabby captain from behind, sword under his throat, and Mackinaw is gloating in front of them.

 And as far as the Ranger crew is concerned, that’s the end of it. No loss of life, and not too many injuries to show for the impulsive brawl. It could have been so much worse. Hope still doesn’t even understand what it was all about. She follows her captain back to their own beach camp. She follows him through the camp, settling the wounded, watching him check on every man without slowing down. Watching him favor his left leg the whole while, and otherwise ignoring his own obvious injury entirely.

When she notices that the size of the bloodstain suffusing the fabric of Vane’s trousers has definitely been growing, Hope finally approaches him. “It’s nothing,” he grunts, waving her off. “Now where’s Jensen? He came down with us, didn’t he?”

“You’re no good to him, or any of the men, if you pass out from blood loss,” Hope scolds.

Vane looks down at himself, mouth set in an ornery line. He brings the lantern in his hand close to his thigh, and wet blood glitters. He grunts, then puts all his weight on that injured leg and gives her a pointed look, brows raised high. He’s still drunk, she realizes. “It’s fine.” His usual growl grinds tighter across the words, though. And when he tries to take a normal stride past her, the leg buckles.

She reaches out to steady him and finds herself wrapped firmly underneath his arm. He lets her support his weight for just a moment, their faces so close as he studies her expression. His jaw still has a stubborn set to it. Her palms feel hot against his body, particularly the right, which landed close to his heart. “Back to your tent,” she orders. “Let me tend to it.”

His brows furrow and she pushes him up the beach before he can argue further. He takes one step with his weight on her, then shakes off her support while muttering something about the men watching. “Jensen?” he roars, still looking around the maze of tents.

“Sleeping it off,” someone shouts in answer, and only then does Vane turn back to Hope, ready to cooperate.

She scowls, shaking her head a little as she accompanies his limping path toward his own tent. “I wonder what will get you killed first – your loyalty or your stubbornness?”

Vane doesn’t answer. He may not have even heard it. When they reach his tent, he pushes aside the flap and all but collapses inside. Hope pauses for one steadying breath before bending to follow him in. The captain seems the type to be a very difficult patient.

The lantern he had been carrying is set just inside the entryway. Vane settles onto his bedroll, a weary noise escaping his lips now that there’s no one left to observe him but Hope. She’s going to want more light, to examine that wound properly. She looks around for another lantern amongst the smattering of personal effects he’s brought to shore.

There’s rustling behind her as she gets another light blazing. When she turns around, Vane’s got his shirt off, resting back on his elbows and waiting for her.

“I’m glad to see you’ve gotten yourself more comfortable,” Hope says dryly, “but that’s not the half of your body that I need to take a look at.”

Vane grins, and Hope tries to stop herself from blushing. His sun-darkened skin glistens in the lamplight, creating an all-together different effect on her than all the other times she’s seen the man stripped to the waist while sailing. He dips his head in acknowledgment of her words and lifts his hips to remove his trousers.

Her eyes register a long line of pale white skin being revealed to her gaze before she whips her head away, belatedly realizing he’s not wearing anything underneath. The image of the side of his bare ass is going to be hard to get out of her mind now, and she makes an irritated noise at the man. “Cover yourself, please.”

She waits, probably longer than necessary, before turning herself back to face her entirely nude captain. He’s lying back against a cushion once she’s gathered her nerve, with a blanket pulled over only his uninjured leg, and his unmentionables. And is the bastard smirking? She should march herself right out of there.

But then Hope’s eyes fall on the wound that’s been revealed and she forgets her modesty. “Uglier than I was hoping to see,” she mutters, worried, and drops to her knees beside his bedroll.

Vane makes an offended noise. Did he think she was talking about his body? How drunk is he? Hope is a little concerned that he doesn’t seem concerned about the wound in his thigh, slashed down the outer edge about a foot up from his knee. She brings the lantern closer and pokes at the bright red edge. When he doesn’t flinch, she presses a little harder, moving the flesh around to try and get a better idea of the depth of the wound.

“It’s not too deep,” she reports when she’s completed her assessment, “but it could use some stitching.”

“Told you it was fine,” he says gruffly. When she glances up, he holds her eyes. He’s given her many unreadable looks since she’s come to know him. But this one, while he’s laid out naked underneath her, with the flickering light so soft and warm, sends tingles through her body. “You good with a needle?”

Hope blinks. “Yes, yes,” she stutters, searching her pockets for her sewing kit. It’s another feminine role she’s tried to avoid getting stuck in, being the one who mends, but for Captain Vane she’ll make an exception. “Hold the lantern.”

She marvels that his arm doesn’t even waver as she cleans out the wound, holding the light up steady for her above his leg. His face remains almost serene, gaze already on her each time she glances up at him, as if watching her work is all he needs to ignore the pain. She pushes the errant thought away; more likely he’s just drunk enough to feel numb.

She can see the entire length of his body, bare from the swell of his shoulder, down his sculpted waist, over his hip bone and all along his pale white leg. It’s distracting, the way the eye is pulled to the crease where his thigh meets his belly, and—

And perhaps he’s not the only one who’s still a little drunk.

“Hold the lantern closer,” she says, and squints in closer to where she’ll begin her stitching. Tells herself not to think about the body that this leg attaches to.

She thinks she hears a little hiss of air the first time the needle goes in, but it might have just been the wind. When she dares look up again, Vane still has a straight face, contemplating hers.

“It was a foolish risk,” she says as she slides the needle in a second time. “If you took this slash just a few inches in toward the artery, you could have been bleeding out.”

His voice rasps only a little worse than normal. “But I didn’t. And reputations are maintained. It was not an insult Mackinaw could let slide.”

“And his name is worth our risk?”

Vane’s eye narrow. “He would do the same for me.”

“Are you sure?” The needle goes in again, and Hope feels the barest flinch in Vane’s limb. “I’ve known many that wouldn’t care a wit for the suffering of former crewmates.”

“Teach’s crew was different.”

Hope is the one to look levelly up at him, now. She’s heard tell of how Edward Teach came to leave Nassau’s harbor. “Perhaps so. But I would not expect they would still feel that way about Charles Vane.”

Her words cut him, she can see that. He flinches in a way that her prodding at his physical wound could not have caused. “Mackinaw had left before all that,” he says simply.

Hope nods, and drops her eyes back to her work. Just two more stitches ought to do it. Was he trying to make up for that betrayal, was he happy to sacrifice what he had in service to any member of that old crew that might forgive him for having helped Eleanor drive Blackbeard out of Nassau? These are questions she does not dare ask.

“Tonight was foolish,” she says again, after completing the last stitch. She bites off the end of the thread. “Foolish, but noble.” She still feels a small amount of shame when she thinks about the dispersed crew of the Starling, about being one of the handful who now serve under the very captain that had taken their ship and exiled her brother-in-law (although from the letters her sister sends, it seems that he is supporting her just fine pirating out of other cities). She can understand those complicated feelings, the ones that have no easy answer, when facing the fallout of one’s own choices. Any action that smacks of amends must feel like a breath of cool air. Now, exhausted and sobering up in the dim of Vane’s tent, brushing her arm over his lifted knee as she wraps his wound up tight, she finds that she may actually be admiring him.

Part V

Taglist:  @pleasemelafook-outta-ere​ @ladyhubris​​ @summertimesadness101 @acebreathesfire​​ @kind-wolf​​