marlowemuses | Make a space for my body, dead or whole

Flint sneered down at Vane. Once a worthy (and fierce) rival, now merely a shell of the captain he was. Flint scanned his naked form. Vane had retained his physical prowess through his fall into listless debauchery, but Flint needed a Charles Vane who had proper fire in his veins, not dying embers drowning in rum. Flint remained in the door, holding the curtain aside and letting in the morning light to illuminate the pathetic state within.

"Charles Vane. I came here looking for a notorious pirate, and instead I find a feeble drunkard."

He'd heard the stories. He knew what he'd find here. Whether Vane would stay this way was the question.

"One and the same," Vane drawled, squinting unappreciatively at the bright sunlight piercing into his domain. Filth and hangovers were both so much more tolerable in shadows. He held up a hand to block the sunlight over his face.

The blow to his pride was only glancing. Vane had long since learned not to rise to petty insults, and teaching some scruffy glory-seeker a lesson was so much less appealing than resuming his nap. "What sort of notoriety will you have? If you'd like me to ventilate your torso, you're going to have to step closer."

"As if you could best me right now."

If Vane were a member of his crew, found in this condition, Flint might have given him a sharp kick in the side to encourage some alacrity. But Vane isn't a member of his crew, and so Flint will give him a chance to get his shit together on his own first.

"Get up and look at me. And put some fucking clothes on."

"Is that Flint?" Vane asked, equal parts incredulous and delighted as he recognized the voice and adjusted to the glaring sunlight enough to confirm it with the visual.

No more inclined to follow orders than he was a few moments before, Vane rolled up on his side, gracing Flint with the sight of his full frontal nudity in open defiance of the command to put some clothes on. "Really, I'm flattered. Did you get bored out there without anyone giving you a challenge?"

Vane was comfortable in his nakedness in a way that Flint never had been. He was like Adam before the apple, but, Flint thought, it wasn't that he was ignorant of the shame, he simply didn't give a shit. Flint kept his eyes fixed on Vane's face, concerned about where they might drift if he didn't. Vane would likely not notice, silhouetted as Flint was against the sunlight, but it wouldn't do to let himself be distracted from the matter at hand.

The corner of his lip twitched in something almost a smile when Vane asked if he was bored, having been left without competition in these waters. This next prize he sought was certainly going to be a challenge.

"I came here to talk to you about the Isla de Azotes. The stories say that you've been there."

Vane's whole demeanor sharpened at the mention of the island. He was accustomed to being asked about the island, as it was one of his more outrageous legends--easily dismissed as impossible except for the amount of people who would attest to it. He'd gone with a ship and a crew, and returned with a ruined ghost ship and a bag of the rarest pearls in the Carribean.

Flint finally managed to touch Vane's pride by minimizing the legend, because washed up though he was now, Vane still traded upon his legends, and that one was among the greatest of them.

Though they had never been close, Vane understood his counterpart-rival well enough to know that Flint would not ask idly, and that Flint would have asked enough to be certain of the truth of the legend before he sought out Vane's version of it.

"There are easier ways to kill off your entire crew," Vane said at last, gaze intent now that he was curious about Flint's game.

"But none that offer such rewards if we're successful, and I intend to succeed."

Flint was prepared for losses in the course of the endeavor. If even only half the stories were true, the danger was immense. But those who survived would possess a prize of such value as they'd never seen before. Hope and greed would drive his crew forward.

"I intend to have an advantage you lacked."

Vane took offense at that for a split second, the idea that Flint had any advantage that Vane lacked. Flint could not be better prepared than Vane was, because whatever stories he had heard--and Vane had gone searching, too, for stories, speaking to natives and learning the old legends of the place--he could not know what awaited him. No one had seen the island and lived in generations, except Vane.

"A guide," he concluded, still sharp and on edge, not yet willing to even think of cooperating.

He'd toyed with the idea now and then, when he was tight on money and his crew needed to be fed. He knew the island now, knew how to avoid the lizards, knew the route through the rocks. It would be easier a second time. But no crew would follow him to a destination that had killed every last man of his crew before, and Vane wouldn't risk any crew loyal enough to try.

Flint didn't bother to confirm Vane's conclusion, not when the answer was so obvious.

"Join my crew and you stand to gain not only a share of the prize, but the restoration of your name and reputation. Instead of mockery and pity, you'll have respect. With your reputation mended, you'll be able to acquire a ship and a crew. I offer you not just wealth, but also a way to regain your captaincy. Come with me, and when we return from this quest, you will have all of that and more."

Vane snorted. "Without me, you don't stand any chance of your prize, but you're offering me no more than a bunk and a single share? My name and reputation are intact. Here you stand, asking me to lead you to a legend and a treasure, because you believe in it." The ship and the crew, though, those he needs. His reputation alone isn't enough anymore, not after his recent humiliations.

But with Flint taking on all the risks of the island, a bag of pearls is a tempting draw. If they fail, it's Flint's reputation that suffers, and Flint's crew that dies. Vane's reputation will remain as it is for surviving the island twice.

"Any man who steps foot on that island earns a double share of the treasure," Vane states, laying out his terms. He sits up, interested enough to bargain, though he doesn't bother to put on clothes just yet, sitting on the edge of the bed with thighs wide and arms resting on them. "If you don't have a pearl diver other than me who survives to the rock lagoon, I'll have a third share."

That Vane is discussing terms means that he's interested. And Flint's plan has taken one step closer to success. On principle he refuses to simply roll over and accept Vane's terms, however.

"Share and a half for those who disembark on the island." Flint watches Vane move, sitting shamelessly exposed. Despite his best efforts, his gaze drifts down.

"And an extra half share for pearl divers, which, depending on who survives the journey, you may or may not be one. As our guide, however, I will grant you a guarantee of a further half share."

Vane's gaze holds steady as he does the math. Two either way, two and a half if he dives. Almost the same terms he offered, with only the decrease for the other men going to the island, and Vane's not about to argue the point for the benefit of Flint's men. "What's your share?" he asks, because he absolutely isn't going to accept for less than what Flint's taking.

He does get up, though, and begins to dress. His head is pounding, and it causes him to wobble a little despite his efforts to maintain control of himself. He knows that he still holds most of the power in this negotiation. His desire for glory and danger is a significant weight in Flint's favor, but they both know that if Vane decides it's not worth it, he can simply go back to bed and nurse his headache.

"Standard double share."

There's more to it than that, funds he intends to divert for other purposes, but that's not for Vane--or anyone--to know about and it's not, strictly speaking, part of Flint's personal share of the haul.

"Are the terms agreeable?"

Flint watches as Vane clothes himself, the glow of the morning light illuminating the play of muscle as he moved.

Vane's certain there's more to it than Flint's sharing, but Flint hasn't shared much, after all, and there's always more to it, even with lesser manipulators than Flint. "Three shares," he says, pulling his shirt over his head and then flashing Flint the grin he shows his friends--warm and playful, but with a dangerous predatory edge. "And a double ration of rum."

He strides toward the tent flap, expecting that Flint will move. Most people move when Charles Vane heads toward them at full stride, and even though he wouldn't normally try it with Flint, he expects that Flint will move because they have places to be and Vane is coming with him.

Flint's pride will not allow him to make way for the likes of Charles Vane, or any man in Nassau. Yes, he needs Vane, but Vane needs him as well, and it's important that it be clear that Flint will not jump aside merely because Vane wants a path forward.

And so he plants his feet even as Vane comes chest to chest with him. They'll leave this place when he decides, not Vane.

Vane does come chest to chest with him, and gives him a smile that’s all heat and challenge. He has an inch on Flint, which is more marked when they’re so close, and it doesn’t bother him in the least to be pressed up against Flint.

He’s two days unwashed, but no more, which might be surprising given his state and circumstances. Vain as his name suggests, Vane has a penchant for swimming, which he considers an important survival skill, and it’s not difficult to bring along a bar of soap when he goes. Even living in his own filth and drunkenness, Vane smells better than the average pirate. “Did you prefer to stay?” He purrs, intentionally putting an erotic slant on the invitation. “I’m sure we can find some way to pass the time, if there’s no hurry.”

Flint's eyes flick down to Vane's lips and the curve of a smile on them. He doesn't move away from the door or Vane.

"I prefer you grow accustomed to following my lead if you're to sail on my ship."

"Only James Flint would seek a guide and not want him to lead the way," Vane replies. He cannot help but notice how nice the chest is that he's pressed against. Flint always was more than just his mind; a formidable opponent, and one of the few that Vane truly respected, knowing that a win was not guaranteed if he set himself against Flint.

He was surprised how appealing the idea of cooperating with Flint might be, resistant though he was to the idea of following someone else's lead.

Flint's lips twitch in what was almost a smile at Vane's observation. He wasn't wrong, although he can't be seen to concede it openly.

"Just remember who's captain."

He's made his point now, and can move from the door, but he hesitates a few seconds more. He tells himself that drawing out the moment will better hammer his point home, but the truth has more to do with the feeling of a hard body against his own.

Vane held his eyes and tipped his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. "Yes, sir," he said, mostly flirtation and mockery, but there was a hint of genuine deference in there.

Flint had earned his title, and carried it better than most. He had a good ship and a good crew, and Vane respected all those accomplishments.

He also didn't mind the delay, though he was aware that in another few moments his body might give Flint cause to notice in just what manner he was enjoying this.

At Vane's acknowledgement, Flint had what he needed and there was no excuse left for him to remain blocking the doorway. He stepped away, back out onto the sand, and pushed away the curl of disappointment that tingled in his cock.

"We set sail tomorrow. Come to the boat launch at dawn."

Vane hesitated at that dismissal. He didn’t need or want the time. None of his affairs needed settling, they’d all been thoroughly burned. He wanted something to do, and he didn’t want to go back to his nap now that they were agreed.

“I’ll look over your preparations,” he said, staying by Flint’s side. “You’ll want flintlock pistols on anyone who goes ashore—fast, short-range guns. Have you already got your diver?”

Flint bristled for a moment, nearly snarled that he needed no one to supervise his preparations of his own ship. But Vane knew what they would be facing better than anyone, and might advise on something that Flint hadn't considered. And so he answered Vane's question as they walked towards the launch.

"I do. I signed on two new crewmen, both experienced pearl divers. Considering the danger of the voyage, it seemed prudent to have more than one."

Flint fully expected high casualties in pursuit of this prize, and planned accordingly. Mr. Gates had called it ghoulish, but Flint considered it merely practical.

Vane nodded, asking a couple more quiet questions and then falling silent until they reached the ship. He wandered around making himself at home and learning the ship, the men, and the preparations, and kept his observations to himself while he was around Vane's men.

His confidence was undiminished, and that combined with his reputation and physical presence meant that the sailors instinctively obeyed his authority. Vane had a place here as their guide, and showed little overt interest in becoming more than that, so he settled in quickly.

When he was satisfied with his observations, he sought out Flint, nodding once to him to indicate that he wanted to talk but otherwise hanging back and waiting for Flint to finish what he was doing and take him somewhere private that they could talk. He was aware and attentive of Flint's authority, and didn't want to undermine it as long as their goals were aligned.

Flint caught Vane's eye, saw him nod, and returned it to indicate that he understood. Nevertheless, he lingered a little longer than necessary finishing his work, simply to demonstrate that he would not be summoned. A needless show of authority, perhaps, but Flint was cautious.

Vane surprised Flint with how well he was behaving on the ship, how well and how quickly he integrated with the crew, and how he had done nothing whatsoever to challenge Flint's authority so far, but Flint's mistrustful nature had saved him more than once and he wasn't about to be credulous now.

Vane had little issue with waiting, and once Flint was free, he jerked his chin briefly toward the captain's cabin in order to assure privacy.

But once he had that privacy, he didn't take the opportunity to start any important conversations. Instead, he took the measure of the room, looking it over with satisfaction, and finally setting down his sack of possessions here, by the bed, rather than below decks with the sailor's bunks.

Then he helped himself to Flint's bed, lounging back across it with a pleased rumble. "Oh, this is nice," he purred, stretching across the relatively luxurious mattress. Nicer by far than the straw and sackcloth thing he'd been sleeping on lately.

"Don't get too comfortable," Flint growled. This was the captain's cabin, and therefore not Vane's. ...And yet the sight of Vane shamelessly sprawled across his bed, clothes tight over sleek muscles, turned Flint's mouth dry and made his heart beat faster. An image suddenly and painfully burst into his mind of himself climbing on top of Vane and pressing him into the mattress. He dismissed the thought with an irritated blink of his eyes.

"What did you want to talk about, or did you just come here to indulge in the pleasures of my bed?"

“Mostly the latter,” Vane flirted. He’d heard almost nothing about Flint’s sexuality, apart from the rumors of Mrs. Barlow, but Vane was mostly enjoying the pleasure of flirting at stiff, formal Flint, and knowing he was one of very few who could get away with it. “But the topic is related.”

Propping himself up on one elbow in order to have a relatively serious conversation, Vane nonetheless helped himself to enjoying being scowled at by a handsome man whose bed he was currently occupying. “I’m not bunking belowdecks, and I won’t be taking shifts.” These are all statements, not questions, but Vane doesn’t think these things will be a surprise. He’s been hired as a guide, not a sailor. “I’ll make an effort not to disrupt your chain of authority, but unless you have a spare stateroom to provide...”

He lets that trail off, leaving it to Flint to suggest a solution or assume that Vane will just be staying here. In his bed. Giving him a challenging smirk that’s unabashedly sexual.

"You know I don't."

His eyes continued to betray him, scanning up and down Vane's sleekly muscular form. God, it'd been years since he'd had a man in his bed, years since he'd wanted one, and it vexed Flint that he was having this reaction now to this arrogant bastard.

"I'll have a spare hammock brought up." Left unsaid is whether Vane was expected to use the hammock or whether Flint would be ceding his bed and making a tactical retreat. He wanted neither, but if he wanted to retain what was left of his good sense, he had to keep his distance or else he'd be lost.

"Do you have any other demands?"

Vane’s surprised that he gives ground on this, allowing him to remain in the captain’s quarters. He’s already a dangerous figure to allow on a ship. As a legend, an authority figure, a rebel, and a fighter, Vane’s a powder keg of a man in any situation, and allowing him the symbolic gesture of remaining in the captain’s quarters is a massive concession.

He sits up, putting elbows on knees and giving Flint a pleased smirk. The posture makes him seem immediately more cooperative, and he looks up at Flint in a way that’s as deferential as Vane gets. Flint gave him his demand, and that’s earned the best measure of cooperation that Vane can give, for as long as he can manage. Probably no more than an hour or two.

“That’s all. I’ll leave it to you to decide how to warm your officers not to expect me to obey orders, unless it’s an all-hands situation.”

With that, Vane stood, intending to head for the door, though he came very close to Flint as he passed, and paused near him for a second. Chin down, Vane flicked a glance up at him with a flirtatious smirk. He’d seen Flint’s eyes stray, he was sure of it. But whether Flint had ever or would ever act on such desires was impossible to guess. Flint might not even consciously realize it, even if he knew it was common below decks.

Vane could very well find his entertainment elsewhere, if needed, but oh, he did want to taste Flint. “Captain,” he murmured, making it a devastatingly flirtatious rumble.

Then, if unhindered, he’ll be heading out the door.

Vane was close enough that Flint could reach out and stop him, and he wanted to. And he did want to. In the end, however, he kept his hands by his sides, fingers curling restlessly as he watched Vane leave.

Flint had expected bringing Vane on his ship to present certain challenges. He expected his authority to be tested, his patience to be strained. He had not expected this, however. He did not predict this.

Hours later, after supper and after the sun had set, sitting at his desk with an oil lamp lit and a bottle of wine at hand, he still hadn't found a solution to the unsettled feelings Vane provoked in him.

Contrary to his clear warnings that he wasn't to be given work or relied upon to follow orders, Vane spent the day making himself useful.

When there was something to be carried, he carried. When there was rope to be secured, he knotted. When there was a line to be run up the rigging, he made it into a race with the sailor whose job it was, and won, to the cheers and laughter of a gathered crowd on the deck below. Vane never took on the brunt of the work and was never first to the task, but he consistently helped out and raised the spirits of the men he was working with, so that by the end of supper half the ship was singing--literally--the praises of Charles Vane.

After supper, Charles made his way to the captain's quarters. He did knock first, rapping his knuckles lightly against the wood, but then he let himself in without waiting for permission. He'd already been given permission, the way he saw it. He belonged in the captain's quarters.

The quarters came with the dual benefits of Flint and a bottle of wine, so Vane invited himself into Flint's space and took a seat on the edge of his desk. There was no second cup provided, unsurprisingly, as Vane was still more of an irritant than a guest, so Vane took up the bottle and drank from it directly.

"Shall I advise upon whatever conundrum has that furrow on your brow?" he offered, voice low and demeanor still more cooperative than challenging. Like a tamed tiger offering its head to be patted. This was his role, after all, as he saw it. Guide, but more than that. Confidante. Adviser. Accepted among the crew and answering to none but the captain. If he was going to have a place on a ship as anything less than its captain, it would be this, a position of his own making. He did not expect that Flint would trust him with any delicate secrets, but he thought that Flint might like the opportunity to make use of Vane's strategic mind as a tool laid to his hand.

As the day progressed and Flint observed Vane among the men, his unease grew. Flint held his men's loyalty because he put money in their pockets, nothing more. Aside from Mr. Gates, there wasn't a man among them who felt personal affection for their captain. Flint could too easily envision a future where the crew decided that their aloof and secretive captain could be replaced by one who more readily bonded with them. And Vane, too, had a reputation for being a successful hunter of rich merchant ships.

And so by evening, Flint was feeling tense and ill-mannered. He wasn't sure if it was better or more vexing that Vane didn't appear to be trying to seduce his crew away. Vane's nature drew them in. The pull Vane exerted was undeniable. Even Flint himself felt it.

"My conundrum is morale," Flint lied. "We're certain to lose a lot of men on this endeavor and there will undoubtedly be a moment between loss and victory that the crew will begin to wonder if the rewards are worth the cost."

Vane considered, as requested, tipping his head for a few moments in thought. He took his time to turn the matter over, because there was no hurry and Flint would be better served by a calculated answer rather than a quick solution. As he thought, he helped himself to another couple of pulls of wine.

Flint naming morale as his issue is a surprise. Vane hadn't noticed any particular issue with it. There was some surliness in the crew, certainly. They weren't a naturally cheerful bunch, but Vane had secured spirits quickly enough. And perhaps that was the concern here, after all.

"It's not a problem," he says at last. "What you have is the opposite of a problem. You're sailing to a treasure of pirate legend, with a figure of pirate legend. They will fall over themselves to be involved, to be the first to volunteer. The right to brag I survived the Isla de Azotes, at the side of Charles Vane."

Maybe if Charles weren't here, there would be a problem. Morale would drop if the crew didn't believe they could succeed. But the lack of a morale issue was a little too obvious, unless Flint's ability to read his crew was truly dismal. There wasn't a morale issue unless the entire problem was that Vane's presence swayed morale.

It had certainly crossed Vane's mind that he could win the crew and take the ship. He'd run a mutiny successfully before, and Flint's ship was very nice. Maybe it was because the thought was already close to the front of his mind that he made the connection so easily. He hesitated before bringing it up, because if he offered Flint a solution, he handicapped his own chances. But he liked Flint seeking his counsel, and he was still feeling cooperative.

"You're worried I bring a little too much morale. And me without a ship." Shifting, Vane sat cross-legged on the desk, resting his arms on his knees and locking eyes with Flint as he unraveled his perspective. "Listen. A mutiny rises when a majority of the crew wants a different objective than the captain's objective. Like an easier, safer, prize. And when you have a charismatic leader figure who represents that alternate objective. Which I'll grant we can't rule out." Vane shrugged. Maybe he'd get bored and start suggesting that they abandon the suicide mission in favor of some reliable piracy. "But what you have is a charismatic leader figure who represents your objective. I am the legendary embodiment of your stated goal. All of my charisma, all of the morale I bring, is directly credited to you as long as they see me as your creature."

He smirked at that, taking another swig. "By now the entire crew knows that I'm sleeping in your cabin. They'll be speculating right now as to us fucking, which they will decide is a given, because the speculation is more interesting if they imagine us fucking. The speculation will quickly advance to which of us is the, ah, penetrative party. They're going to decide it's you." Vane's lip curled very briefly at that, because to some degree it was a loss for him. In these imagined calculations and imagined rumors, Flint would be seen as the 'winner'. Vane was sure of it. When it came down to it, what would matter was that Flint was the captain and Vane was here at his whim, yielding to Flint's conviction. When it came down to it, the men would believe that Vane would yield before Flint would. "What a legend for you. The one man known to have fucked Charles Vane."

Flint's breaths grew more fast and shallow, almost imperceptibly so, as he imagined the story Vane spun being reality.

"Does that sting your pride, to have the crew gossiping that I've made you my woman?"

To Flint himself, the issue of whether one was fucking or fucked was a matter of pleasure, not power, and both could be very pleasurable. He knew, however, that most men didn't see it that way. The crew would not see it that way. They would speculate, just as Vane said, and their conclusions would reflect their perception of the hierarchy.

He was also not as convinced as Vane was that, as matters stood right now, the crew would definitively conclude that the stronger man was their current captain. They both had reputations, Vane and Flint, names that inspired a fearful respect. What the crew might see on deck during this voyage could tilt their conclusions towards one in favor of the other. If Vane was correct, then Flint had to ensure that speculation remained tilted in his own favor.

Vane's eyes narrowed at the question, displeased. Never mind that it had been his suggestion: he didn't like the way Flint reframed it.

"It stings my pride to be on your damn ship," Charles said, with a savage rumble in his throat, that brutal willingness to fight showing itself from under his barely civilized veneer.

All this thinking. Vane would have been happy with drinking and charming--either Flint or his men, whichever could be had--but Flint challenged him, made him bristle, made him sharpen his strategic mind and contemplate outcomes. He supposed they were damn well going to have to play chess.

"If I'm only your guide," Vane explains, practically a growl, "then I'm a passenger, and barely a seaman at all. If I'm not a passenger, then I'm crew, which puts me subject to the heirarchy, and either you must upset half your ship to give me a respectably permanent position, or I must obey the authority of your mates. Putting forth the impression of matelotage gives me an exception, and authority, and I will not hear shame of it."

He's still sitting cross-legged, not in any posture to fight, though he's irritable enough for it, so he tips his head, goading. Maybe he can get Flint to throw a punch at him so he can have the fight he now wants. "Not that anyone will believe that a prickless prude like you could manage it."

Flint shoves his chair back and surges forward in anger at the accusation. He doesn't raise his fists to attack, however, but rather grasps the front of Vane's shirt, twisting the fabric under his fingers, and pulls him into a violent kiss. There's nothing affectionate in it, but like hell is Flint going to allow Vane to claim that he's lacking in mortal passions.

Vane's surprised but pleased that his goading got such a visceral reaction. So Flint does have some passion in him, after all. Vane's caught at a disadvantage now that Flint's standing and Vane's still sitting on his desk, forced to tip his head up into the kiss.

Kissing back viciously, Vane grips him by the hair in return, parting his lips and sliding his tongue against Flint's teeth to challenge him to do yet more.

Make a space for my body, dead or whole

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