Salt and Liquor
A little something for my Black Sails fans ⚓︎⚓︎⚓︎
In the lawless dark of a Nassau tavern, Captain James Flint is a man drowning in more than just rum. When Eleanor Guthrie finds him unsteady, unmasked, and dangerously vulnerable she doesn't leave him to the sharks. A long walk to the Walrus and a desperate, uncalculated kiss in the quiet of his cabin change the gravity of their alliance. By morning, the scent of orange blossoms remains, but in a world built on power and perception, can they afford the cost of being seen?
CW: Nothing, just fluff and yearning
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The air in the tavern was thick with the scent of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and the low, guttering smoke of cheap tallow candles. It was well past the hour when any respectable merchant would be seen here, but Eleanor Guthrie had never been particularly concerned with respectability.
Pirates filled every nook and cranny of the place, belching, drinking, and eating like starved men. She paid their lewd comments no mind as she hastily collected half-empty mugs, pouring them into a jug to be used the following night.
It was getting heavy; she'd need to fetch a fresh one soon.
She rounded the corner, checking the booths for any of the ladies still waiting for custom.
Empty.
Thank the Gods.
She headed into the shadows of the tables beyond the booths, where a single candle lit the space.
She stopped short as she heard a mug hit the table.
"This area is closed, head back to..."
The figure gave a humourless chuckle and she cursed under her breath.
Flint sat in a shadowed corner, slumped over a table that had seen better days. He wasn't the terrifying pirate king of the Walrus tonight; he was a man drowning in a bottle of dark, cheap rum.
"Captain," she said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise.
Flint didn't look up, but he shifted, his hand tightening around the neck of the bottle. "Go away, Eleanor. Nassau has already taken enough from me today."
She took in the sea of bottles around him and her stomach dropped.
"If I leave you here, Captain, you’ll be gutted by a rival before dawn just for the gold in your pockets," she snapped, grabbing his arm. "Stand up. Now."
It took a surprising amount of effort to get him to his feet. Flint was a heavy man, built of muscle and stubbornness, and the rum had made him uncharacteristically clumsy. He leaned on her, his shoulder pressing against hers, his breath hot and smelling of molasses. He raised his right arm to swig from the bottle, but she swiped it out of his grip, letting the liquour spill across the floor.
"Eleanor..." He growled.
"Shut it. You're in no state to argue."
He fell silent as they moved through the darkened streets of Nassau, a pair of ghosts weaving between the crates and the sleeping dogs. Eleanor felt the weight of him, not just the physical mass, but the sheer, exhausting gravity of this ambitious, powerful man.
"You're a fool," she whispered as they reached the pier.
"I am but a man." He said, so softly it was barely a whisper.
The watch on the Walrus knew better than to question the lady of the island. They gave her a wide berth as she hauled the Captain up the gangway and into the sanctuary of the Great Cabin.
The room was filled with the usual clutter of a man obsessed: charts, sextants, and the heavy, leather-bound books that felt like remnants of a life he had long since burned. She steered him toward the cot in the corner, but as she tried to pull away, Flint’s hand shot out, catching her wrist.
He didn't pull her closer, not at first. He just looked at her. His eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, were clouded and desperately tired.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because our plan needs you," she said, though the words felt hollow even to her.
"The plan," he spat. He stood, swaying slightly, his face inches from hers. The candlelight caught the red in his beard and the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "Always the island. Always the gold. Is there ever a moment where you aren't calculating, Eleanor?"
"Is there ever a moment where you aren't warring with the world?"
He ran a hand over his face, peering at the shelves of books behind his desk.
She followed his gaze, her expression softening.
"When was the last time you simply sat and read something?"
Flint scoffed at that, shaking his head. "A lifetime ago."
Eleanor traced a finger along the spines of the numerous volumes, the titles scratching something in the back of her mind. Of a time when she was a proud student, learning languages and history and science.
Her finger stopped on the spine of a thick volume, worn with age: The Odyssey.
"Of all the creatures that breathe and move upon the earth..." She recited softly. "...nothing is bred that is feebler than man."
Flint's gaze lifted, and she felt her skin prickle at the sudden attention.
"A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time." He slurred in response, and she smiled softly, approaching his cot. She sat next to him, heart and mind softening.
She reached out to gently lift his chin with a finger, daring him to meet her gaze. "Even a fool learns something once it hits him."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with years of unspoken alliances and betrayals. It was Flint who moved first, closing the remaining distance. It wasn't the kiss of a lover; it was a collision, hard, desperate, and tasting of salt and liquor.
Eleanor met it with a fervor that surprised her. For a heartbeat, the politics of Nassau, the Spanish gold, and the looming shadow of the British Navy didn't exist. There was only the rough press of his coat against her palms and the terrifying, shared understanding that they were the only two people on this godforsaken sandbar who truly understood the cost of power.
She was the one to break it. She pushed back, her breathing ragged, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I am at your knees, O queen." He recited, his words slurring more than ever. "Are you a goddess, or a mortal?"
She smiled despite herself.
"Sleep it off, James," she whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she kissed his forehead.
Flint collapsed back onto the cot, the fire in his eyes fading as the drink reclaimed him. Eleanor didn't look back as she stepped out into the humid night air, her lips still stinging from the salt of him. She had a harbor to run, and the Captain had a war to fight, even if they both knew they were already losing it.
The morning after in Nassau is rarely kind, especially when viewed through the lens of a rum-induced haze.
The sun was a physical assault. It pierced through the stern windows of the Walrus, reflecting off the water in jagged, rhythmic flashes that felt like needles against Flint’s retinas.
Christ.
He groaned, the sound catching in a throat that felt like it had been lined with dry sand. He didn’t remember the climb up the gangway. He didn’t remember the walk through the shantytown. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was the bottom of a bottle at the The Flying Dutchman and a crushing sense of isolation.
But as he rolled onto his side, his face pressing into the rough wool of his pillow, he didn't smell the usual scent of damp canvas and gunpowder.
He smelt clove and orange blossoms.
It was faint. A ghost of a scent clinging to the fabric of his cot, but it was unmistakable.
Eleanor.
It wasn't just a dream born of fever; she had been here. The memory of the kiss hit him then, not as a romantic sentiment, but as a sharp, sudden ache in his chest. It had been desperate, a collision of two drowning people catching a single breath of air.
Flint didn't wait to find his boots. He shoved his feet into them, ignored the protest of his pounding head, and threw on his coat. On deck, the crew moved with practiced silence, sensing the Captain’s foul mood, but he didn't spare them a glance.
He went over the side and into a skiff, rowing himself toward the Guthrie compound with a frantic, steady pull. The harbor was already waking up, the shouts of merchants, the creak of rigging, the smell of drying fish, but Flint saw none of it. He was navigating by that lingering scent of orange blossoms.
He found her on the balcony of her office, overlooking the bay. She was perfectly composed, a contrast to his dishevelled state. Her hair was pinned back tight, and she held a ledger in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
She didn't turn when he stepped onto the wood planks, his heavy tread announcing him.
"You're awake," she said, her voice cool and professional. "I expected you'd sleep until noon."
"You brought me back," Flint said, stopping a few feet behind her. He didn't thank her; they didn't trade in gratitudes. "And you stayed."
Eleanor finally turned. The morning light was unforgiving, showing the dark circles under her eyes that suggested she hadn't slept much better than he had. She looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes, her expression unreadable.
"I brought a valuable asset back to his post," she replied, though the grip on her tea cup tightened. "The 'moment' was a lapse in judgment. One I'm sure we've both already accounted for."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Flint stepped closer, into her space, forcing her to look up. The salt air between them was charged again, the ghost of the previous night's desperation hovering over the ledger. "An accounting error?"
Eleanor didn't flinch. She set the cup down on the railing and stepped toward him, her finger pressing into the center of his chest, right over his heart.
"In this town, James, we are what people perceive us to be. Last night, we were two fools. This morning, you are Captain, and I am Queen of this bay. Don't let the lines blur again. It's too expensive a mistake for either of us to make."
But for all her cold words, she didn't pull her hand away.
"There's a line from the old books, Eleanor. About two people being 'one in thought.' I used to think it was a poet’s lie. But standing here… I think it might just be the most dangerous thing in the world."
"Stop it with the poetics." She chided, but he saw the flicker of something more in those dangerous eyes. The sight was enough to sober him up.
Plenty of time. He promised himself.
"I am at your knees, O queen." He recited as he turned on his heels back to the harbous. He had the satisfaction of hearing her choke on her tea as he walked away.