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navigatrixnarrations · 4 years ago

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Sometimes Always Part 4: Thieving Magpie

Warnings: canon-typical violence and profanity; teenage Vane being a little creep; sailing jargon

Catch up on Parts 1-3 here.

“Are you working tonight? Or prizefighting?” Margaret asks Vane by way of greeting as she lays two parcels on the table in front of him, one containing their breakfast and the other containing a fine pair of pistols, used but well-cared for.

“No.”

“I have a meeting with a smuggler boss. He used to be a privateer” -- she sneers as she says the word -- “and I’d appreciate it if you’d join me and watch my back. He intends to fuck me, in all senses of the word.” Margaret’s face is a mask of disgust. “He won’t succeed in any way, but he’s going to make his best effort. The pistols are for you.”

Had this been Nassau, where Charles Vane of the Ranger is famed and feared, he’d have made it known that he would take it personally if anyone was to bother her. If only Margaret had seen him there in his glory, though he realizes the impossibility of the wish: she left Nassau because he forced her to. What would have been, if he’d seen the truth of the situation with Eleanor, if he’d told Margaret how he felt about her, if he hadn’t driven her away? If she’d chosen him over Sully? But here they are, and the past can’t be changed, and Vane has to admit there’s a sort of poetic justice in his current situation, in being wanted and on the run, unable to use his own name and pretending to be Margaret’s hired muscle.

At the rough tavern beside the shipyard, Vane walks directly behind Margaret and stares down anyone who dares comment on her presence, letting the grip of one of the pistols barely peek out from beneath his coat. He takes an immediate dislike to Margaret’s contact, a Mr. Ballard, a ridiculous puffed-up peacock of a man with soft hands and a haughty air. Though she takes a seat across from Ballard, Vane opts to remain standing, so that he’s always in Ballard’s line of sight.

Even though she’s in a dress with her hair pinned up, what Vane has come to think of as her proper lady disguise, Margaret manages to look piratical with her deadpan expression and alert eyes and the lamplight glinting off the silver rings in her ears and brass buttons of her sea coat.

Ballard’s bloodshot eyes flicker from Maragaret to Vane and back. “I see the Adventure is registered to a M. Sullivan.”

Margaret’s face is mildly amused. “Correct. I’m Margaret Sullivan.”

“How did a woman --”

She cuts Ballard off. “With difficulty.”

“And why would you be seeking two long nines, Miss Sullivan?”

“Mrs. Not Miss.”

“Very well, then, why would you be seeking two long nines, Mrs. Sullivan?”

Margaret spreads her hands in a broad gesture. “It’s a dangerous life at sea, Mr. Ballard, full of smugglers and pirates and all manner of cutthroats. The Adventure needs to be able to defend herself.” Vane quickly hides his smirk by lighting a cigar using the candle on the table..

“Surely, Mrs. Sullivan, you know such cannons command a premium.”

Margaret frowns slightly at the rather inflated price Ballard names. She begins to rise from her chair. “I regret that we’ve wasted one another’s time, Mr. Ballard.”

“Just so you’re aware, I used to sail with William Kidd. You should always know who you’re doing business with, Mrs. Sullivan.” Smug bastard. Vane wants to punch the self-satisfied leer off his pompous face.

Margaret regards Ballard dispassionately. “In that case, I propose we race for this deal. Skiffs. Shipyard to Red Hook and back, through Buttermilk Channel both ways.”

“Mrs. Sullivan, I realize you’re fairly new to the area, so I must warn you that the currents in Buttermilk Channel are --”

“An opportunity to demonstrate skill,” she finishes for him, voice calm.

Vane turns his head so Ballard won’t see him barely suppress a seawolf’s smile. Margaret used to make extra spending money by racing skiffs in Nassau Harbour against newly-arrived sailors. Getting beaten by Margaret Teach was something of a rite of passage for would-be pirates.

“You’re challenging me to race your, ah,” Ballard’s eyes slide over to Vane, who blows a perfect smoke ring and otherwise keeps his face stoic, “associate?”

“No.” Margaret leans in slightly. “I’m challenging you to race me.”

“And what are your terms?”

“If you win, I’ll pay your asking price plus an additional ten guineas. If I win, you give me the two guns. For free.”

Vane sees the man’s greed and pride plain on his face; he’ll take pleasure in watching Ballard lose. They troop down the pier to a pair of skiffs. Margaret and Ballard each row to the middle of the river and raise their sails. One of Ballard’s men fires a powder charge from a pistol to mark the start, and they’re off. Vane can imagine the keen, hungry look on Margaret’s face, one he’s seen so many times when in pursuit of a prize. Crouched low with one hand on the lines and the other on the tiller, she heels the little skiff as hard as she can without capsizing it to pick up speed, maneuvering so that she’s on a beam reach with the sail halfway out. Ballard is far more cautious; he leans his skiff far less, and more than once he eases the sheets for a smoother ride.

Vane leans on the railing of the pier, watching and smoking as Margaret rounds the northern tip of Nutten Island into Buttermilk Channel and her sail goes out of sight. The winter constellations wheel overhead in a suddenly clear sky; the wind is shifting. Between the changeable gusts, the currents in this tidal strait, and the cold, he almost pities Ballard. He doesn’t trust the bastard not to try to pull some dirty trick out on the water, and he wishes he had a spyglass. It’s not long before Margaret is back in sight on the return, beating to windward in a series of quick tacks and trailed at some distance by Ballard whose tacks are not nearly so precise and whose sail he allows to luff too soon. Margaret has docked and is back on the pier by the time Ballard starts rowing back in. She heads directly to Vane, her eyes shining and the grimness temporarily gone from her face, and the knot in his chest eases, the weight in the pit of his stomach lessens. He takes his position at her back as Ballard walks up, winded from his exertions.

“Where did you learn to sail like that?”

“My father taught me.” Margaret’s gaze is direct, and Vane thinks the man finally shows enough sense to look abashed. “I trust that you’ll uphold your end of our bargain post-haste.”

“Just so you’re aware,” Vane growls over her shoulder, “her maiden name was Teach.” He watches recognition of the name -- and fear of it -- dawn in the man’s eyes. Good. “You should always know who you’re doing business with, Mr. Ballard.”

He wonders briefly if Margaret will be angry at him for intervening, but no. She looks back at him and grins triumphantly. Ballard all but stammers out orders to his men to move the guns to the Adventure immediately, then takes his leave.

Margaret and Vane stand side by side at the dry dock, watching Ballard’s men hoist the two cannons aboard.

“Bow chaser and stern chaser?” Vane asks. That’s what he would do with the new guns. For pirates and smugglers, it’s crucial to be able to slow down an enemy ship when the Adventure's small broadside can’t be brought to bear.

Margaret nods. “Just so.” After the race, she is almost lighthearted for the first time since they’ve been reunited, a spring back in her step and the strain around her eyes and mouth relaxed. “The old girl might not be in dry dock now if she’d had them when I was fetching you.”

“Or if you hadn’t fetched me.” He intends to sound jocular, but it comes out defensive.

She fixes him with a look that he can’t read. “Martyrs don’t have to answer for their deeds.” There is no venom in her voice. “And they are absolutely no fucking assistance at sailing.”

“We worked well together,” he offers, trying to ignore the sting of her words.

“We still do.” Is that a hint of wistfulness he detects? “Thank you for accompanying me tonight.”

“Always, Magpie.”

Margaret was surrounded by pirates from another crew, who were accusing her of stealing from them and shouting to “hold the bloody little bitch down.” She was fighting hard. Her shirt was torn, her cheek was gashed, and there was a wild terror in her eyes that he’d never seen there before, that he never wanted to see there again. She’d shot two of them and stabbed a third by the time Vane and Sully ran to her aid. Together, they dispatched three more. The remaining two, now that they were outnumbered, fled. He and Sully exchanged a dark look: we will make them pay for this. They walked her back to the Revenge camp, one on either side of her, then went on the hunt. They dragged the two who’d escaped back, and dropped their bloodied, barely-conscious bodies in the sand by the bonfire. Margaret hadn’t been nearly as grateful as they thought she’d have been. No, she was resentful about it. When asked what she wanted done with those last two attackers, she simply pulled a knife from her belt, slit their throats, then stalked off. Vane found her sitting a ways down the beach, elbows on her knees, blood-splattered, staring out to sea.

He sat beside her. “It bothers you that it bothers you. Them coming after you as they did. Needing help.”

She looked startled that he understood. “Yes.” She bit her lower lip, thinking, and finally said “Thank you for helping me tonight.”

“Always, Magpie.”

And then he was drawing her closer and her hands were tangling in his hair and his lips were on hers and he wasn’t sure whether it was her pulse he felt throbbing or his own. Strange that she should have begun to tremble then, once the danger had passed and she was safe in his arms.

Later, Sully told Vane that those shits weren’t entirely wrong about her, and Vane was going to fight him for insulting her, until Sully explained that their thieving Magpie had stolen them both and didn’t even seem to realize what she’d done.

Did she edge nearer? She edged nearer. He realizes that they’ve been looking into each other’s eyes without speaking for a long moment, and he’s about gathered the nerve to put his arms ‘round her when she shakes her head as if clearing it of whatever thoughts she’s having. She waves a hand at the Adventure.

“Our names will be on the manifest as Margaret and Charles Sullivan to get out of port.” At Vane’s raised brow she adds “As you pointed out, you can’t very well use your own name. I’m sure Sully would have found this hilarious.”

“Did you call him Sully while you were married to him?”

Margaret snorts.“Of course I did. He hated being called Michael.”

“Not as much as he hated being called Mick.”

The corners of Margaret’s lips turn up slightly as she reminisces. “That’s what I’d call him when I wanted to annoy him.” The way her face softens when she thinks of Sully, Vane thinks he’d been right to stand aside; no reason at all to think of the many times she gave him a similarly gentle smile.

“The only time I called him Mick, he called me Charlie-Boy and we ended up brawling. I don’t even remember who threw the first punch. You dumped a bucket of water on us and told us to stop being fucking idiots. You looked about to spit nails.”

Margaret tilts her head up and shrugs. “Fucking idiots or not, I didn’t want the two people I loved most to fight each other.”

The two people she loved most. Yes, there’s that gentle smile again.

They begin the walk back to Thieves’ Alley just as a snow squall blows in off the harbor.

“It’s pretty,” she sighs, “even if it delays us being able to get the hell out of here.” Repairs to the Adventure had come to a halt on account of the weather. She glances sidelong at him. “It’s crossed my mind that you might try to take my ship and leave without me.”

Vane winces. He can’t blame her for being gun-shy, but he feels gut-punched nonetheless. “I wouldn’t do that, Magpie. Not to you.” He would not willingly lose her a second time. Surely she knows that.

“I want to believe you.” Her voice is soft and a little sad, her eyes large and serious.

He steps in front of her, facing her, hands on her shoulders, and forces his own voice to be steady. “Betraying you was the worst mistake of my life. I give you my word that the only way I’ll fuck off without you is if you tell me to.”

She responds by resting a hand on his chest, close to his fast-beating heart. “I’m trying to believe you, Charles,” she says heavily into the small space between them. “I don’t know if I can, but I’m trying.”

“That’s more than fair.” Magpie, sweetheart, it all went so wrong, he wants to tell her. I want to mend this broken thing but I don’t know how. But the words are blockaded by the lump in his throat.

She turns her head slightly, and he follows her gaze. The Puritans on the third floor are watching out the window, pinch-faced and disapproving. Margaret gives them a jaunty wave, bringing forth a chuckle from Vane. Funny how she still has that ability, even when his heart feels like grapeshot and his stomach like ballast.

“I’m sure we’ll be waylaid with a speech about hellfire the next time either of us takes the stairs, but at least neither of us are going through life with mouths pursed like a cat’s arsehole,” he tells her. “Rooftop?”

They pick their way across the slippery roofs, past chimneys and over gables to their garrett, Margaret with her skirts hiked up, blithely ignoring the hand that Vane holds out to assist her. He opens the shutters and swings his way inside; she follows, this time taking Vane’s offered hand. She holds it a moment longer, perhaps, than necessary.

“The only invention worse than a dress,” she informs him as she yanks out the pins holding up her hair, “are stays. I don’t know how civilized women tolerate these things every day.”

He bites back the urge to offer to help her out of it and do some uncivilized things with her. Instead, he sets about building up the fire while she goes to change into trousers. He dares not even cast a glance at the shut door to her room; bad enough that she’d given him a wry half-grin at his widening eyes when she hiked up her skirts to scale a drainpipe.

He shouldn’t have been watching her. The gap between the boards in the bulkhead wall of her small cabin, where she moved when Teach decided she had become too much of a temptation to the men, was just wide enough for him to see through, and he told himself he was keeping watch so that none of the crew would see what he was seeing. She was bathing herself as best as she could on the ship, with a cloth and a basin of seawater, and he couldn’t pry his eyes away as she stretched a wiry arm overhead, the muscles of her back stretching and flexing, to wash her underarm. Life at sea is one of physical labor, and her body was sleekly muscled, feminine as a lioness. He longed to run his hands over the hard sinews and soft curves of her, the swell of her hips and the hollow of her waist. She turned to wash under her other arm, and the lantern light caught her sweet, round breasts. It was slightly chilly, and her nipples, dear god, her nipples, were hard. By this time, he’d been to the brothel numerous times with the men, who decided he was due. Yet somehow the effect she had on him was entirely different than anything he ever experienced there. She wasn’t performing; she wasn’t seducing.

He knew he shouldn’t have been watching her, but he wanted to delight her. He wanted to take those delicious peaks in his palms and his mouth then move lower, run his fingers and tongue across the bullet scars on her ribcage from where she saved his life, then lower still, through that cloud of curls at her cleft. He found himself wondering how she would taste, what noises she would make, what kind of touch would make her melt. He knew she was still a maiden, that nobody had ever touched her there... He inhaled sharply at the thought and she must have heard him because she tensed and grabbed a knife as she checked that the door was bolted. The image of her naked body coiling in preparation to fight seared itself into his memory, replayed countless times in the intervening years. He willed himself to be silent and after a moment she seemed to decide it was a false alarm. She pulled on a clean shirt and breeches then sat down on one hip, legs curled to the side, and unplaited her hair to comb it. He thought she looked like a mermaid luring sailors to their doom, and he’d have gladly drowned if she beckoned him. The next day while she was working abovedecks, he caulked the gap in the boards.

Tag list: @whenimaunicorn, @n3rdybird

#sometimes always fic #charles vane x oc #black sails fic #charles vane fic

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