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I was literally looking for a claim number (yeah it's that time again lads someone fucked up my car) and I found this unfinished WIP I wrote in 2017. I have read three words and I know what it is: Can't Go Wrong With Rigger's Black, a VaneEleanor fic I started planning in my head in 2015 when I was helping refit the Leeuwin II. (Rigger's Black is probably not what the stuff used to tar standing rigging (unmoving rigging, the ones that support the masts) was called in the 18th century but sailor's jargon is REALLY hard to lock down and besides I am using it because I want to. The clothes I wore that day still smell of rigger's black. It's potent stuff
Anyway this won't be getting an update any time soon as my head and heart are filled with Cowboy & Hellcat but one day you mark my words I'll write this fic
Wait, no, I read a bit more and it's a reply in an RP I wrote with @bornofsuchdarkthings one million years ago on @oftheranger, which also I think inspired what I wanted to write in the dedicated fic about young Vane & Eleanor
Oh my pirates I will always love you
Can't Go Wrong With Rigger's Black - WIP
Despite his baiting, he’s surprised when Abigail’s cheeks flush such a clear, abashed pink. As he watches emotions chase each other across the young woman’s face, it strikes him just how much of a girl she is. A girl with gumption, it was true - her conduct in Charleston had impressed the captain, else he wouldn’t deign to sit with her - but a girl, innocent and unguarded, nonetheless. That she could return his laugh with a smile of easy friendship, with the things she had to know he’d done - not least his own capture of her - as she did only underlined these qualities, by his reckoning. As she takes another careful, dainty sip of the ship’s grog he downs another mouthful himself, reassessing that last thought with a quirk of lip hidden by the tankard. Innocent by his definition, perhaps, but likely not by her own estimation.
Charles had no doubts about whom his dark-haired companion was daydreaming - lost in thought as she was, blushing and smiling beside him. He staunchly refused to allow himself to draw any comparisons between Abigail and the only other teenaged girl he’d known, but that was a struggle, and by the time she’s speaking again, his cup is empty, and he’d failed.
The way her cheeks had flushed the first time he’d spoken to her had not been bashful in the least. There had been no hidden emotions or quiet longings chasing across that pale face, and her sunlit hair was not permitted to sweep over eyes, to hide her. No - the blush had been in anger. The indignation of a well-bred lady, offended by the way he’d noticed her staring at him, irate at the audacity he displayed in taking action upon it.
“If you’re going to stare at me all day,” he’d looked up from his futile effort to dislodge some of the stubborn rigger’s black that stained his hands, grinning roguishly at her as he’d walked to where she stood in the shade, “you can at least make yourself useful and help me move this line to the drying rack.”
The grin didn’t shift as he waited for her response, as pleased by the cool of the shade as he was by the way her eyes kept drifting from his own to his bare chest. He had never expected her to roll up her sleeves - silk, most likely - adjust her belt, and actually help him. But that’s what she’d done, glaring defiantly at the young captain all through the process, not once complaining at the viscous black tar that transferred from the new shroud to her dainty fingers.
That had been a long time ago.
Abigail’s voice pulls him from his unbidden reverie, and he looks at the curious patterns she’d drawn with her finger on the table. Not letters, but nothing he recognised, either.
I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.
Now, there were some curious words to hear on a pirate vessel, and his eyebrows arch in disbelief that is only mostly mocking. But the corners of his mouth twitch again, unbidden. Her words were true, to a point. Humming wisely as his cup is refilled by some underdog deckhand of Flint’s, the light expression he wears with Abigail settles into something altogether less benign as he glances at the man. Despite the refill, he found him distasteful - as distasteful as any of Flint’s crew, his patience with their strange lodgings growing thin. If the smaller man thought anything about the rival captain, it wisely didn’t register on his face, and he left.
A long, deep draught is taken from the fresh beverage as cold pale eyes watch the sailor’s retreating back, and the captain is silent. He’d needed time to think of how to respond to that, surprised as he was by the utterly unexpected resistance he felt to the idea of allowing that to happen. The thought would be kept to himself, naturally, but the idea of any one of Flint’s crew visiting harm upon the girl - well. By this point he really only needed the barest of reasons to kill any one of them.
“It’s true,” he rumbles after a pause that had grown too long. “But you’re handy with that knife, or near enough.” He remembered the first time a crewman had tried something on Anne, when she’d been green. While it was true that Anne had always been more vicious than the girl now seated beside him, she hadn’t always been as good with a blade. “Throat, thigh, gut, Abigail.” His voice is thick with liquor, but his meaning is clear enough. “Doubtful it’d come to that,” he adds as she scowls and swipes away her symbols.
Even knowing full well who it was that brought such colour to her cheeks, the proof spreads a grin across his lips, and teeth flash whitely at the accidental admission. Her horrified expression only draws the captain in closer, to whisper in her ear his own secret. His breath bears the heavy scent of spiced rum. “Dont fret, lass. I already knew.” The movement alerts the captain to just how much liquor he’s imbibed - a moment of dizziness, a second’s unsteadiness as the ship sways.
Stretching as he draws back to look at the girl, his grin is as wickedly pleased as his voice is low and clandestine. “Besides, should his crew reject him, there’s room for him on mine.”
Billy, unsurprisingly, had remained tight-lipped in regard to Vane’s earlier offer, but Charles could be surprisingly patient in matters of ship politics, and he’d been watching the dynamics of the rival crew with keen eyes for the duration of their bizarre shared voyage. He’d wait - he had naught else to do.
His eyes snap back to Abigail as he realises he’d been staring out at the sea, lost in thought. The gaze takes on an assessing tone, and he continues in a voice that strains with quietness - as though it were not made for it. “Room for you, too, though you’d have to find something more practical to wear.”
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From across an ocean, it is hard to know what the New World is. All I knew were the stories I was told of monsters and valiant men sworn to slay them. But now that I’ve nearly traversed the ocean that separates New World from old, I fear that the stories I’ve heard may have clouded the truth more than clarified it.
