DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

SPOILERS! Takes place towards the end of S2E3, right after the lovemaking scene between Eleanor & Vane after he kills Low for her.

Nassau – 1715

The night air was heavy and humid inside the fort, everything had gone very still and quiet. The only sounds whispering around in the shadows were sounds of insects chirping in the dark. If he listened closer and slowed his breathing, he could hear the soft breath of the woman laying next to him.

She lay naked and half sprawled across his chest, her head nestled against his shoulder and her hand resting just over his heart. One of her long legs was haphazardly thrown over and tangled with one of his. Her hair was a glorious golden mess that spilled across his shoulder and down her back as his fingers absently toyed with one of the loosened curls.

It had been ages since he'd felt so calm. Usually, everything between them was somewhat rough in demeanour. Not uncaring, but most assuredly not of a gentle nature. Almost every interaction they shared was one spurred by an unspoken need to assert some measure of control over the situation or one another. They fought, loved and fucked all within those same aggressive undertones. And it suited them. They were too much alike, too stubborn, selfish and strong willed to be content with soft whispers and romantic notions of eternal affection. Such antics were intended for children and fools.

Charles Vane and Eleanor Guthrie were neither.

But in these quiet moments, with her body draped across his and her breath sliding across his skin, he thought he could understand how some fools might fall victim to such notions. He would never admit it of course, but he was well aware of the fact that this woman elicited a certain amount of weakness from him, simply by existing in his proximity. Weakness was not something he handled well.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons they fought each other so hard, pressed one another to the brink on a regular basis. Neither of them wanted to bend. Bending was weakness, and weakness was something neither of them tolerated. Weakness was a death sentence here in Nassau.

They'd both fought tooth and nail to achieve what they had in life. Both had raged against the very fabric of society to become something beyond the positions they'd been born into. She, to prove her sex was not a hindrance, but an advantage. That she could take a struggling business investment wrought with thieves and killers, and turn it into a thriving and legitimate commercial venture. That she, the Queen of Thieves, could rule it all. He, who had started out a street urchin and by six been sold into slavery, had fought and clawed his way out of chains and into piracy, into captaincy. Through blood and violence he had finally attained some measure of command of both himself and those around him. Men cowered at the sound of his very name, and he would never bow again. His will would remain his own.

They had both worked too hard to allow petty affection to cloud their judgements, to risk everything.

Yet here they were.

He'd killed Low for her. A risk that had had the potential to ruin him, though he'd done it anyway. It wasn't the first risk he'd taken in her name, and he doubted it would be the last. Simply being around her was a risk.

She made him weak.

He often wondered if she felt the same of him. Did he weaken her in a similar fashion? He hoped to hell he did, because the idea of granting her such a pronounced upper hand grated at him.

Their relationship would never be wholly amicable or beautifully serene. It would always be torrid and messy and complicated. But it served them both well enough. They understood each other, even if neither of them was terribly eager to acknowledge it openly.

She stirred in his arms, shifting slightly so that she could trace her fingertips over the brand burned into the flesh above his heart.

His fingers stilled in her hair and his body tensed. It was only for a fraction of an instant, then his body relaxed and his fingers resumed their aimless motion. But she had noticed it.

She craned her neck up slightly to try and see his face, a question etched in her features, but he didn't look down. He simply continued to play with her hair, his eyes remaining fixed on the ceiling. She watched him for a moment, waiting to see if he'd yield and meet her eyes.

When he didn't, she instead lay her head back down on his shoulder and continued tracing circles against his skin.

When she finally spoke, it was softly.

"What you did today... with Low..." She paused and the silence was heavy. He suspected neither of them was confident she intended to finish the sentence. He tried to look down at her face, but from the angle they were laying, all he could see was the top of her head and the fingers that were still absently tracing his branding.

Finally she finished her thought, and it occurred to him that they were probably both surprised she had. "Thank you..."

He smirked. It was a rare thing to hear from the mouth of Eleanor Guthrie, almost as rare as apologies or admissions of guilt. Rarer still that such gratitude had been aimed in his direction. And he would concede that the inner conflict this admission had undoubtedly caused her, did indeed bring him a certain degree of satisfaction.

As such, he couldn't resist antagonizing her a little for it. He pulled her a little closer against him and stated calmly "I didn't do it for you."

She scoffed and he could feel her smirk against his chest. "Yes, so you mentioned earlier."

It was a lie, and they both knew it was. She had suggested Vane prove his concern for her was genuine. He had done so with the murder and public staging of Ned Low, a man who'd publicly threatened to violate and butcher her.

Low's head was still poised on a pike in the middle of town, an attached note reading 'I angered Charles Vane'.

Odd that the decapitation and public presentation of her enemy was, in a manner of speaking, essentially a love letter. One that had genuinely moved her, caused her to seek him out and enthusiastically express her sentiments on the matter.

Their affections had never been of a conventional nature, and neither was fond of tender words or lengthy speeches. So, the lie was a lie that suited and endured.

"I have something for you." Vane said glancing down at her.

She lifted her head and shifted so that she could prop her head on her elbow and see his face. He was watching her with an expression somewhere between amusement and utter lasciviousness. It was difficult not to grin back at him. Though she made a valiant, albeit unsuccessful effort to remain straight faced. "What, you mean something other than the decapitated remains of the man you didn't kill for me?" She teased.

He snickered and shook his head. "As a matter of fact..." He sat up and leaned over the edge of the makeshift bed to dig in a pile of his discarded clothes. When he rolled back over he presented her with a dirty and bulky looking ring. "It was his... Low's."

She arched a brow and scoffed, she couldn't help it. "Low's?..." She questioned. When he simply nodded impatiently and held the ring out toward her, she frowned. "And what exactly am I supposed to do with that?" She asked incredulously.

"It's a ring. People generally wear them." He stated nonchalantly.

She sat up and he followed suit. "Don't get cute with me Charles." She warned.

He rolled his eyes and reached out to grasp one of her hands. No doubt a preemptive measure to prevent her departure. She tried to pull her hand out of his but he held firm. Knowing the effort to remove his hand was likely futile, her struggle was mostly just to spite him.

"Would you just relax?" He hissed "It's not a bloody proposal, I'm not a Goddamned idiot."

She did stop struggling then. But she continued to frown at him, her face ablaze with irritation and suspicion. "What is it then?"

He shrugged, did his best to appear impassive and unconcerned. To be the picture of indifference "Just thought you might like it."

Now this she found intriguing,if unlikely. "You just thought," She paused for clarity. "That I might like to have the ring of a man who's head you impaled on a pike in my square?" Exasperated, she waved the hand that wasn't still trapped in his. "You would, what, have me wear it around as an advertizement of what you didn't do for me?"

He tilted his head and eyed her up and down, watching for any ques as to what was going through her head. She only continued to look flustered and annoyed.

"Perhaps I would..." he spat, his face as blank as he could manage.

For a moment she said nothing, simply stared at him with that dubious and irksome expression. He could practically hear the gears turning in her head. It was a look that he found both vexing and charming all at once, as was often the case with Eleanor.

She was a difficult person to care for, but then again, so was he.

As he watched her mull it over, her expression shifted slightly. As she contemplated his twisted little gift and his reasoning for it's offering, she came to consider that perhaps the idea held some appeal for her after all. He had killed for her, displayed his victim like a prize at her feet, and risked everything he had in doing so. It had touched her, moved her more than any common romantic trifle could have. And now he offered her a trophy, a morbid token of his affection and a reminder of what he'd done for her.

Of why he'd done it.

They were not an openly sentimental pair, sentiment was usually buried under whatever excuses they could find. Yet it rarely went unnoticed. This was simply their way.

As if sensing she'd come to her conclusion, he gave a gentle tug on the hand he was still holding. For a second she pulled against him. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she allowed herself to be pulled back down onto the bed with him. "Very well, I accept your ghastly little bauble."

The corner of his mouth twitched up."Ghastly, is it?" he purred as he lifted their intertwined hands and spread her fingers so he could slip the tawdry thing onto her thumb, which was the only finger on which it would fit.

"I'm afraid so." She said, barely smothering a grinning. "You should consider yourself privileged, that I would agree to engage in such a foolishly saccharine display."

Smirking, he brushed some hair away from her face and shook his head. "Why is nothing ever simple with you? Do you not grow tired of fighting me?" He questioned easily, seemingly unbothered by her accusation of poorly veiled sentimentality on his part.

She studied his face for a moment, gauging the relevance and honesty of the question. Seemingly satisfied, she laid down completely and pulled herself against him. Adjusting herself to fit comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, her arm came to rest across his chest. Her fore finger toyed with the newly acquired bauble. His arm lifted to rest over her hip so he could run his thumb across her skin.

She spoke quietly and with only a hint of her former audaciousness. "No... And I suspect neither do you. I've long believed that you actually garner a great deal of satisfaction simply from being a pain in my ass."

He laughed then. He could hardly deny there was truth to that statement. He did enjoy watching her fluster. It was far too easy to rile her, and he took advantage of it when he could. He was certain she was as guilty of this offence as he was.

"I suppose that's true..." He said as he shifted and flipped them so that he had her pinned beneath him with her arms above her head. She made a small surprised sound that shot straight to his groin and made him grin down at her, lecherous intent clear in his features. "Though pain is hardly what I've in mind at this particular moment..."

Never missing a beat, she hooked her legs up around his waist, pressing herself against him and arching slightly. "Oh?" She questioned, a challenge clear in her tone.

He loved this game, this never ending battle of wills. A struggle for dominance, for the other to succumb first. She never made it easy, and neither did he. But it always ended in a glorious tangle of sweaty limbs and satisfied bodies. Why any man would settle for a woman made up of obedience and docility was beyond him. This woman was wild and unbroken, shamelessly brazen and intoxicating. She was the opposite of everything a man was encouraged to look for in a woman. She was the very epitome of what any smart man would steer clear of, lest she lead him to destruction.

And she was Goddamned perfect.

When it was over and they finally lay exhausted and contented, he contrived to tell her of the prize he'd liberated from the Fancy's hull. Of the girl he currently had chained in the fort's cellar, and of his plans to ransom her back to Lord Peter Ashe. He would tell her not because he sought her approval or permission, but because he did not wish to lie to her. He wanted her to trust him.

Even as he thought it, he knew it was foolish. That it was simply his weakness for her rearing it's ugly head. Telling her of his plans could ruin everything.

But knowing this did little to quell the desire.

He allowed himself to entertain the idea that it was possible she may place enough trust in him, in what they shared, as not to interfere. He hoped to God he was right.

For when she woke, he would tell her everything.

He'd been watching her doze for quite some time. He found it curious that one so full of fire and fight, could look so serene and unencumbered in sleep. Even curiouser, that he derived a measure of warmth from having born witness to the contrast. He was almost certain no good would come of this unwelcome bout of tenderness.

He feared he was already lost.

When she finally opened her eyes to find him watching her, she craned her neck to meet his eyes. To question his thoughts.

"What is it?" She asked softly.

Resolved, he spoke plainly. "There's something I need to show you..."