#guy thinks he might need to make an emergency appointment with his councilors but. surely he can hold out another week.

[autism-corner]

falling back into mental health hell sucks more because now im AWARE that its happening irrationally. brain just does it.

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 9 - In Which Charles, Anne, and Mary Hang Out

Charles flops down next to Anne on the sofa, right on top of the blanket she's trying to pull out of its artsy drape and into something that will actually cover her. It's pouring rain outside, which explains why Charles is home instead of out working on his tan – but it don't explain why he's bothering her.

“Fuck do you want, Charles?”

Charles ignores Anne's snarling with the ease of long familiarity. “We haven't hung out in a while.” He shrugs. “Thought it might be nice.”

Anne scoffs. “Jack kick you out, then?”

Charles laughs. “He's reading on the shitter-”

“So we'll see him sometime tomorrow, then,” Anne interrupts.

Charles grins. “I'll follow him a lot of places, but that's not one of 'em.”

Anne laughs and moves her legs so Charles can sit down without breaking her legs. And they sit in silence for a while, neither of them being all that inclined towards talking.

But eventually Anne breaks it to say, “Used to be him, following you around like a puppy. It bother you it ain't like that no more?”

Anne's blunt as always. But it's probably the reason her and Charles get along so well – neither of them one to mince words.

Charles shrugs. “This is Jack's world. Max's world. I wouldn't know the first thing about navigating it.”

But Jack's always been sharp. Been able to read people. To plot the course through troubled waters and come out the other side victorious, teeth bared and bloody from the fight.

So no, Charles doesn't mind following a man like that.

Anne nods in understanding. “It ain't a world I know much about either. But I don't mind it as much as I thought I would.”

That's a bit of an understatement, if she's being honest. She's not Charles, she hadn't lived in rat infested leaky shitholes out of some sense of strength or pride. She'd done it cuz she'd had no choice.

And now that she's got the choice of being inside, nice and dry and warm, instead of out on a corner somewhere, pushing. Well, she's willing to fight to keep it. Even if she's gotta go through every rich fuckhead in London.

Although she's looking forward to a little action, if she's being honest. They've been gathering intel on various upper-class creeps for a while now. And Anne knows that they're playing the long game, here. And that Max is more interested in blackmail and leverage than any immediate material benefit. But Anne's itching to knife someone – or at least lift a wallet or two. She wouldn't want to get rusty.

“Things have been a little slow, though, lately, ain't they?”

Charles looks consideringly at her for a long minute.

“You want to go out?”

It's not an ideal day for it, given it's pissing rain. But Charles has a list of a few lower-level bureaucrats in the Councilor's office he's allowed to intimidate. And, thanks to his own tireless efforts collecting gossip, a whole list of ways to keep them in line. Some of which don't even have anything to do with threatening their lives, which is novel.

Anne shrugs. “Beats sitting around here.”

A pause.

“Think Mary'd want to come?”

Which from Anne is as good as an admission that she wants Mary along. That she likes spending time with her and wants to do it as much as possible And that is as good a confession of sappy love-like feelings as Anne is going to make.

So Charles, as a good friend, says, “Doesn't hurt to ask. She can't be busy with Jack's social media shit all the time.”

Jack emerges from the bathroom to a silent and empty house. Which is unusual – there's enough people living there that there's always someone around, even if it's one of the housekeepers and not the people who actually live there. And Charles has a penchant for loud music with lots of pounding basslines, so it's never really quiet when he's around.

But, as Jack wanders through empty room after empty room, it's becoming apparent that he's by himself in the house for once. And if that's the case, then it doesn't hurt to indulge in a little “me time,” now does it?

Jack makes a beeline for Anne's bathroom – the one with the nicest bathtub, even though she hardly uses it. And he lights some candles and puts on some soft music and lets the tub fill with hot water and lavender scented foam. And Jack may even pour himself a glass of wine, even though it's barely past noon. But he's a man of leisure now, and surely that allows for the occasional bout of day drinking.

He relaxes into the warm bath, his head cushioned on a folded towel, closes his eyes and breathes out all the stress and anxiety and worry about succeeding that he's been holding since this whole venture started.

Eme drives them all to the posh councilor's office downtown. One of those real bullshit steel and glass monstrosities that are meant to make you feel like some kinda insignificant piece of shit out on the sidewalk. But Charles has never been one to be plagued by self-doubt.

They strut into the towering, ostentatious and austere lobby. No appointment. No credentials. Just sheer chutzpah. Mary feels a little out of place, next to Charles and Anne. But she's also really looking forward to Charles Vane and Anne Bonny putting the fear of God into some of the sick fucks she's been putting files together on.

There's one guy in particular she'd – well, she wouldn't mind too much if Anne or Charles actually killed him. Preferably gruesomely.

But Charles isn't looking so much like a killer right now as he flirts with lobby security. Or at least Mary thinks it's flirting? It's vaguely menacing but there seems to be quite a lot of sensuality going on for it to be entirely threatening. Just lots of intense eye-contact and smoldering happening.

But whatever the fuck all that was works and the handsome Spanish security guard lets them through the little turnstyle barricade and Charles saunters towards the elevators, with Anne and then Mary following.

Charles grins and he can see in the mirrored door of the elevator that it's more of a snarl. He hadn't been lying to Anne when he'd said he didn't mind Jack leading them. But it feels good to be on the hunt again, with a crew – a crew he trusts - at his back. An adversary in front of him (or behind him, at this point, though Charles can also see the way the security guard's eyes stay on him, piercing) who understands who they both are – who sees and recognizes who Charles is, just as Charles recognizes him.

And then the elevator doors open to deposit a blonde woman in a skirt suit and Charles, Anne, and Mary disappear into the heart of the building, rocketing towards the thirty-eighth floor and the man they've come to threaten. It's too late to stop them. Too late to raise the alarm. Too late to do anything about their presence but wish them happy hunting.

It's not that Jack doesn't like running the crew. He'd been gunning for that position since before Charles ran away. Not to replace Charles, you understand, but to be on equal footing with him. To be seen by him, respected by him as an equal.

And then Charles had gone away for that two-stretch and there had been something of a power vacuum. One which Jack was all too ready and able to exploit. He'd been running Charles's former crew within a month and just sort of kept on running it even after Charles got out of prison.

Because he'd done a good job of running the crew. It's not boasting, it's just fact.

But then the whole Flint versus Eleanor debacle had happened. And now there's another power vacuum to fill – an even larger one, what with one of the richest men in London's extensive crime empire and one of the best street-level bosses out of the game. And Jack would be an idiot not to exploit that fact, even without Max and Mr. Scott there to convince him into it.

But it's so different to what he's done before, to what he knows.

He agrees with Max's end goal, of course. Integrating themselves into the existing power structure so thoroughly that they can get away with all the crimes the ruling class gets away with by dint of their name or lineage or wealth. And maybe make some of those fuckers pay their due along the way.

But that doesn't make it easy, leaving behind everything he's ever known for this scam. And it's even more difficult to know if he's plotting the right course. If he's doing right by his crew, who are his responsibility now.

The books never really prepare you for the harsh realities of leadership and glory and renown. Probably because the people writing them don't actually give half a shit about the people who got them there.

Like Flint, who both reviled and needed his crew and fell short of his goals because he underestimated them.

Like Eleanor, who refused to listen to anyone about anything and it cost her everything.

Jack refuses to be like either of them. Refuses to fall the way they did. If he's going to fail, it's going to be as Jack Rackham – and no one else.

Feeling much better after his strange, reverse-psychology internal monologue, Jack gets out of the bath to dry off and perhaps luxuriate in a robe on one of his many tasteful divans. Because really, there's no point in pretending to be a rich gay drama queen if he can't have an excessive number of divans in his home.

Unfortunately, his plans are ruined by the return of Charles, Anne, and Mary, back from- wherever they were. Probably up to no good, if the rather bloodthirsty smiles they're sporting is any indication. But Charles knows better than to cross Max – and Anne wouldn't unless there was a very, very good reason. And they come bearing take away. So it's probably nothing to worry about.

Everything's going to be fine.

Probably.