[he feels sick. jack may have more reason to be upset than he does, but anne was one of his people too. someone he'll never see again without this place harboring both of them. it might as well be a death. that's what it feels like.]
[ It may well be. The way Anne had described the circumstances after she woke from her coma, the injuries she'd had. He made the decision then and there that it was too likely of an outcome to try to return to. He's not brave enough to roll those dice.
[no other response as he makes his way straight there; he doesn't expect to be stopped, but god help anyone who tries. when he reaches the beach house, he lets himself in, and makes his way straight to the bedroom when it becomes clear that jack is fully sequestered with his grief.
but he pauses in the doorway, with something respectful in the distance between them. he doesn't even know what to say.]
[ He figures, once he doesn't hear back, that Charles is on his way here. Jack wants to tell him not to come, because he doesn't want to be seen like this, buried at the bottom of a bottle with a myriad of compounded crises, a miserable wreck that would be more at home at the wrecks back in Nassau, with the men wasting away from addiction and disease, than here in a nice place built with love, and hope for his own future in this place. A symbol of foolish optimism that seems like just another humiliation, now. ]
You can come in.
[ Hardly above a whisper. He doesn't want to see anyone, he's already insisted that John leave to tend to the Neptune, since he's in no state to. But if anyone could understand how lost and alone he's feeling right now, it would be Charles. He was there for almost all of it, watching their bond grow so strong that they became one. ]
[he enters, when permitted, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, within reach but not yet doing so, leaning forward on his knees with head bowed and hands folded. not so unlike their conversation in the fort with piles of gold at their backs, wondering how they got here, and what the future will look like now.
vane has never been the type to say he's sorry. for one thing, it's rarely true (he can't even recall a time when it was) and at a time like this, it's simply too fucking inadequate. anne was with him for as long as jack was. they all came from a time when loss was common, and often a lot uglier than this whisper of a thing, but none of them are so heartless as to be steeled against the worst kind. he won't say he's sorry that anne is gone as though jack is the only one who'll mourn.]
She fucking hated it here.
[that's the one thing he can take comfort in. even knowing what she was facing when she went back, he doesn't believe that scared her as much as it scares jack still.]
[ If, perhaps, in a week or two, Charles were to say the same thing, he might get a smile out of him, or a huff of commiserating amusement. Right now, it's still so raw that he's barely wrapped his head around it. Jack's simply quiet, for a while. He remains laying on his side, staring off into the middle distance for several long moments, as if Charles weren't there at all. ]
She was alive.
[ His voice is hoarse, scratchy from too much rum and emotion and not enough water. ]
[the fact that it might not be, that there's every chance anne pulls through her wounds back there and that she and jack are reunited in health and good fortune, doesn't actually mean much. certainly not while jack is stuck here without her. and even if it were true, how long would it last? the life they chose doesn't end at home in bed with your socks on.
he glances over.]
She could still come back. [like he did. like others have. dead or otherwise. he doesn't imagine that's much of a comfort either, but it's worth remembering.]
[ He feels the other man's weight shift on the bed, to turn to look at him. And like a coward, his eyes fall closed, ashamed to look back, afraid to be seen so vulnerable. His insides feel like lead, a poison eating away at him that he can't purge, lest he accidentally let loose the parts of him that are Anne with them. It's the best he can do not to crawl into the other's lap like a child and let the tears fall. ]
[they both know it. too long, is what he hears, even if jack wouldn't say it, might not even be thinking it, but it's true regardless.]
But that's not the same.
[he's never envied what jack and anne have with each other. that kind of codependency would suck the life out of him. but it was undeniably the reason for their survival, and the two of them have always been stronger together than they ever could be apart. most people here just have to accept it as fact, but he's been there for the things that made them who they are, both separately and together. jack has never had to remind him of that, no matter what he might think.]
You're the names that everyone knows. Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny. Remember that book, Jack - if there was one truth out of all those fucking lies, it's that you and Anne are at the end of it. Together.
[ Losing Charles was hard, and Jack took it poorly. He screamed at the sky, he lashed out, acted a fool, rebounded. But somehow, in that storm of self-destruction, he found a way to survive, to pick himself up, as he always does, in the end, finding a path in the swirling chaos. Right now, Jack doesn't want to do any of that. Even considering a way through this seems like a betrayal to him.
Any length of time would be too long, to have her a world away from him. Probably bleeding out in the hold of the governor's ship. ]
There, sure.
[ It's a nicer platitude than 'I'm sorry,' and he knows that Charles means it, but for once, Jack isn't thinking about the story it'll make, or how they'll be seen. He's thinking about right here, and right now, where Anne is gone and very likely out of mind, to all but the two of them. ]
If she's gone for a year, [ he starts, sniffing and taking a breath halfway through, steeling himself to look up at Charles. ] I don't know what I'll do. Keep playing house, only halfway here?
[he doesn't look away, not even with jack's misery plain on his face. jack's seen him in less dignified states. with a wound this deep, it would be chilling if jack wasn't on the edge of falling apart. he can hold space for this. there's not much else he's good for when it comes to comfort, but he can do that.]
Yes.
[he just nods, clear, without judgment.]
Why wouldn't you? You haven't lost what you've built. You haven't even lost her, really. None of it goes away until you do.
[if it sounds like he's spent a lot of time thinking about this, it's because he has. most of his time, honestly. perspective is the only reason he's not fully insane.]
Even if you wanted to choose between your life here and the one you left behind, the one that might well end when you think it does, you can't. None of us get that choice. The city makes it for us. So you keep building something here, and make sure her side of the bed stays open, or whatever the fuck arrangement you had. Either she'll be back to fill it someday, or... [he shrugs a little. if anything, he only sounds resigned.] ...it won't fucking matter.
[ On the edge of falling apart. How heartening, that even at his lowest, Charles thinks more of him than Jack himself does. Wiping the palm of his hand over his face, he looks up at the other (better, stronger, and at least right now, smarter) man, dead behind the eyes. ]
I have lost her. She's gone.
[ It comes out like a snap, a growl from a wounded animal. If he starts on any bullshit about her memory remaining, Jack will scream. ]
I am...fully, violently aware, that I can only play with the cards I am dealt. But it's a shit hand, Charles. A shit hand.
[ His bed goes unaddressed, because it hasn't been Anne's for some time. They were found out, and punished severely, not long after Charles' disappearance. Jack will (would) sneak in often enough, to the side of her bed that is open for him, but as for his own...well, he adapted better. There's a Submissive that occupies that spot now. In this moment, he isn't sure if that's something that he should regret, for taking away from what was, in the end, limited time with Anne, or if he should be grateful for someone else to cling to.
[he doesn't take any offense to jack snapping at him, well aware that there's really nothing he can say to make this any easier. if he thought of it that way, he wouldn't know where to start. mostly he just wants to relieve jack of some of the guilt that might come from dealing with this however he ends up dealing with it. just a little, eventually, would be enough.
but he's sure as fuck not going to make memory the centerpiece of this effort. memory is exactly what makes shit like this hurt so fucking bad. it's why it feels like a death now, instead of the temporary separation that it really is, by the very nature of this place. neither one of them can say how long jack will have to go through his life without anne beside him, and that wound will never fully heal.
belaboring the point he's awkwardly trying to make won't do either of them any good. he's not here to be right about something. maybe to emphasize that, he reaches out for the nearest part of jack he can touch, gripping firmly.]
[ In the moment he feels the hand on his shoulder, he tenses. Part of him doesn't want to be touched ever again, to just be left here to rot, but another part of him craves it. He wants to be left alone, but can't stand to fill the silence with his own thoughts. Always a man of contradictions.
Jack shifts just the tiniest bit closer. Permission. Or a plea. ]
[that's lucky - he has no fucking idea what else he even could say, and no plans to do so, but he's also not going to leave unless jack starts throwing things. that little shift closer is enough to make him sure of it. jack doesn't need to do anything with his presence, or engage with him at all.
except for one thing, maybe.
he takes jack's arm and pulls him up, quick and deliberate to undercut any obligatory protest jack might feel the need to make. he's not going to say anything, but he is going to fold his arms around the other man and hug him, very tightly.]
[ Jack's dead weight in his arms, but he doesn't protest. Another thing that makes him feel pathetic, that he's too weak and distraught to even carry himself, just subject to Charles and his whims. That his only desire is to comfort him is only a small consolation, but he leans into it, letting him support his weight, wishing he could take in the musky, leathery scent of him, but his nose is too clogged to let it in.
He buries his face in his neck and just breathes. Slow and steady. ]
[it's a good thing jack told him he doesn't need to say anything, because he's completely run out of things to say. the only thing he can do, or wants to do, is exactly this: he keeps his arms folded tightly around jack, not an embrace of brothers saying goodbye but of two souls gripping each other through a terrible storm. the best he can do is make sure that jack isn't alone with it, even the parts that he could never truly share, because no one else will understand it as well as he does. he has a responsibility to someone important to him.
he turns his head a little, face pressed to jack's hair, so that they're just a little bit more tucked against each other. he knows, from experience, that the pain will pass; with time it will become bearable, though it may never stop hurting completely. jack will carry a scar from the loss of a piece of himself until that piece is returned. but he's strong enough to get through the worst of it... even if it doesn't feel like that right now.
none of this would matter much if said out loud. it isn't the kind of thing that helps when the blood still flows. but if nothing else, he wants jack to know he's here. that's really all he can offer. he can, and does, hold on tight - and will do so, until jack's decided he's had as much as he can stand.]
[ That's what they always say. The pain will pass. It passed after his father died, or at least, became bearable. It passed after the many brothers lost in battles in his many years at sea (their years at sea, since the overwhelming majority of that time belongs to he and Charles both). It passed when Charles left. If only just.
None of that felt the way he does now. He can't properly mourn, he can't take solace in the fact that she'd rather be back there, because he doesn't know the outcome. Gone, with no answers, and as long as he's here, he probably won't get them. ]
[his hold loosens as soon as jack says that, grip shifting so he can more or less lower the other man back down to the bed without simply letting him drop there, especially if there's any kind of risk of him throwing up all over himself.
instead of joining him, however, he stands up, and briefly disappears from the room; there's some distant banging around (which jack may well not even notice, given the state he's in), but in short order charles returns with two practical items: a bucket, and a bottle of water. the bucket he places on the floor by jack's side of the bed, the bottle on jack's nightstand. he's not great at emotional comfort, but he's been in more pathetic states than this and he knows what small actions can help. if jack doesn't need them, or chooses not to use them, that's up to him.
he still doesn't say anything. there's not really anything to say. but once he's done this small service, he tugs his boots off, and climbs into the bed behind jack. one hand slips across his arm, charles glancing briefly at his face. if jack doesn't protest, he'll lie down behind him and draw him in close, tucked against his back, silent. there's nothing else to do for now but this.]
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text; pre-march event
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what
are you sure
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[ At home now, in his bed, he's nearly catatonic. But since it's text, he can take as much time as he needs to sound normal. ]
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where are you
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But what now? ]
home.
action.
but he pauses in the doorway, with something respectful in the distance between them. he doesn't even know what to say.]
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You can come in.
[ Hardly above a whisper. He doesn't want to see anyone, he's already insisted that John leave to tend to the Neptune, since he's in no state to. But if anyone could understand how lost and alone he's feeling right now, it would be Charles. He was there for almost all of it, watching their bond grow so strong that they became one. ]
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vane has never been the type to say he's sorry. for one thing, it's rarely true (he can't even recall a time when it was) and at a time like this, it's simply too fucking inadequate. anne was with him for as long as jack was. they all came from a time when loss was common, and often a lot uglier than this whisper of a thing, but none of them are so heartless as to be steeled against the worst kind. he won't say he's sorry that anne is gone as though jack is the only one who'll mourn.]
She fucking hated it here.
[that's the one thing he can take comfort in. even knowing what she was facing when she went back, he doesn't believe that scared her as much as it scares jack still.]
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She was alive.
[ His voice is hoarse, scratchy from too much rum and emotion and not enough water. ]
It's fucked, Charles. It's over. Back there.
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[the fact that it might not be, that there's every chance anne pulls through her wounds back there and that she and jack are reunited in health and good fortune, doesn't actually mean much. certainly not while jack is stuck here without her. and even if it were true, how long would it last? the life they chose doesn't end at home in bed with your socks on.
he glances over.]
She could still come back. [like he did. like others have. dead or otherwise. he doesn't imagine that's much of a comfort either, but it's worth remembering.]
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She could.
[ Anything's possible. ]
You were gone for a long time, Charles.
[ Don't they both know it? ]
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[they both know it. too long, is what he hears, even if jack wouldn't say it, might not even be thinking it, but it's true regardless.]
But that's not the same.
[he's never envied what jack and anne have with each other. that kind of codependency would suck the life out of him. but it was undeniably the reason for their survival, and the two of them have always been stronger together than they ever could be apart. most people here just have to accept it as fact, but he's been there for the things that made them who they are, both separately and together. jack has never had to remind him of that, no matter what he might think.]
You're the names that everyone knows. Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny. Remember that book, Jack - if there was one truth out of all those fucking lies, it's that you and Anne are at the end of it. Together.
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Any length of time would be too long, to have her a world away from him. Probably bleeding out in the hold of the governor's ship. ]
There, sure.
[ It's a nicer platitude than 'I'm sorry,' and he knows that Charles means it, but for once, Jack isn't thinking about the story it'll make, or how they'll be seen. He's thinking about right here, and right now, where Anne is gone and very likely out of mind, to all but the two of them. ]
If she's gone for a year, [ he starts, sniffing and taking a breath halfway through, steeling himself to look up at Charles. ] I don't know what I'll do. Keep playing house, only halfway here?
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Yes.
[he just nods, clear, without judgment.]
Why wouldn't you? You haven't lost what you've built. You haven't even lost her, really. None of it goes away until you do.
[if it sounds like he's spent a lot of time thinking about this, it's because he has. most of his time, honestly. perspective is the only reason he's not fully insane.]
Even if you wanted to choose between your life here and the one you left behind, the one that might well end when you think it does, you can't. None of us get that choice. The city makes it for us. So you keep building something here, and make sure her side of the bed stays open, or whatever the fuck arrangement you had. Either she'll be back to fill it someday, or... [he shrugs a little. if anything, he only sounds resigned.] ...it won't fucking matter.
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I have lost her. She's gone.
[ It comes out like a snap, a growl from a wounded animal. If he starts on any bullshit about her memory remaining, Jack will scream. ]
I am...fully, violently aware, that I can only play with the cards I am dealt. But it's a shit hand, Charles. A shit hand.
[ His bed goes unaddressed, because it hasn't been Anne's for some time. They were found out, and punished severely, not long after Charles' disappearance. Jack will (would) sneak in often enough, to the side of her bed that is open for him, but as for his own...well, he adapted better. There's a Submissive that occupies that spot now. In this moment, he isn't sure if that's something that he should regret, for taking away from what was, in the end, limited time with Anne, or if he should be grateful for someone else to cling to.
It'll take some time for him to decide. ]
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but he's sure as fuck not going to make memory the centerpiece of this effort. memory is exactly what makes shit like this hurt so fucking bad. it's why it feels like a death now, instead of the temporary separation that it really is, by the very nature of this place. neither one of them can say how long jack will have to go through his life without anne beside him, and that wound will never fully heal.
belaboring the point he's awkwardly trying to make won't do either of them any good. he's not here to be right about something. maybe to emphasize that, he reaches out for the nearest part of jack he can touch, gripping firmly.]
Yeah. I know.
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Jack shifts just the tiniest bit closer. Permission. Or a plea. ]
You can stay. You don't need to say anything.
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except for one thing, maybe.
he takes jack's arm and pulls him up, quick and deliberate to undercut any obligatory protest jack might feel the need to make. he's not going to say anything, but he is going to fold his arms around the other man and hug him, very tightly.]
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He buries his face in his neck and just breathes. Slow and steady. ]
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he turns his head a little, face pressed to jack's hair, so that they're just a little bit more tucked against each other. he knows, from experience, that the pain will pass; with time it will become bearable, though it may never stop hurting completely. jack will carry a scar from the loss of a piece of himself until that piece is returned. but he's strong enough to get through the worst of it... even if it doesn't feel like that right now.
none of this would matter much if said out loud. it isn't the kind of thing that helps when the blood still flows. but if nothing else, he wants jack to know he's here. that's really all he can offer. he can, and does, hold on tight - and will do so, until jack's decided he's had as much as he can stand.]
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None of that felt the way he does now. He can't properly mourn, he can't take solace in the fact that she'd rather be back there, because he doesn't know the outcome. Gone, with no answers, and as long as he's here, he probably won't get them. ]
I've got to lay down, or I'll be sick.
[ Charles can join, though. ]
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instead of joining him, however, he stands up, and briefly disappears from the room; there's some distant banging around (which jack may well not even notice, given the state he's in), but in short order charles returns with two practical items: a bucket, and a bottle of water. the bucket he places on the floor by jack's side of the bed, the bottle on jack's nightstand. he's not great at emotional comfort, but he's been in more pathetic states than this and he knows what small actions can help. if jack doesn't need them, or chooses not to use them, that's up to him.
he still doesn't say anything. there's not really anything to say. but once he's done this small service, he tugs his boots off, and climbs into the bed behind jack. one hand slips across his arm, charles glancing briefly at his face. if jack doesn't protest, he'll lie down behind him and draw him in close, tucked against his back, silent. there's nothing else to do for now but this.]