#someone told me to get in XIV so maybe?? perhaps?? afterwards?? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

truxi-twice · 6 years

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Ok, so...I was watch XIV last night, and I basically had to stop shortly after Billy and Dufresne’s showdown (specifically after Eleanor and Vane’s showdown but...yeah). So all day I’m waiting to get home and watch the rest. But I had to run errands...and in the car my brain just started...doing that thing. Where fic happens.

So, not even knowing how that episode ends, I wrote a FIC OF FEEEEEELS. Like, just...sat down, thought I’d write an hour then go to sketchgroup, but one hour turned into two. Turned into three. And so on.

It needs, like, so much cleaning up. I’m sure there’s oodles of redundant bits, and things that could be massaged to have a better flow or a better impact (not to mention needing to double-check numbers and I also just straight up made up a first name for Dufresne without checking because the wiki will give me spoilers), but honestly, I can’t remember the last time I finished a fic, even a one-shot, so Imma just post it here for now, and maybe clean it up for ao3 later, because I would like to make it nice (I can’t even think of a title, which to me means that I failed to find a good, strong thread and work it through but oh well, it’s a rough draft).

Bear in mind, I’m always picturing Dufresne as season 1 Dufresne and that I have literally no knowledge of anything that happens after the midway point of XIV.

HERE HAVE A BLACK SAILS ONE-SHOT FANFIC

Angsty Dufresne + light Billy/Dufresne

"Leave the bottle."

"For just yeself? It's lonely, drinkin' for one." The girl slid into the chair next to him, casually arching her back to show off her barely covered assets.

Dufresne flicked his eyes over to her, then back to his glass.

"It's fine," he bit out. Then-- "Wait."

The girl, still in her seat, tilted her head, giving every impression that she was desperately eagerly waiting on his next request. He squinted at nothing, doing a quick mental tally.

"Do you have scotch?"

She blinked and quickly recovered, giving him an accomodating smile.

"I'll go check. Should be something good in the back." She rose with her hand on his shoulder, then slowly ran it down his arm. He frowned. "Back in a jiff."

She left the bottle.

Throwing back the overly-sweet rum and pouring himself another, Dufresne reflected that "something good in the back" almost certainly meant "expensive." Rum was as common as water, and ale very much the same. He knew, down to the ha'penny, how much money was in the grouchbag around his neck. It was more than most men coming off a shipwreck and two unsuccessful hunts would have--he was careful with his pennies, both the spending and the keeping of them. But with the change in the winds, it might have to last a while.

He took another drink, almost choking in his haste to chase down thoughts of tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Who knew how the cards would fall at this point. The only thing that was for certain was that he had no ship. No crew. No home. Perhaps when the dust settled, he could see about securing himself a new place with a new crew. Hornigold might have him--the man was reasonable and cultured, and knew first hand the worth of a good clerk. And of Flint's treachery. He'd not hold Dufresne's mutiny against him. Either of them.

Or perhaps Hornigold would be dead. Perhaps Flint would. Perhaps whoever came out on top, there would be no pirate ship that felt the need to employ a skilled clerk who was only a moderately abled seaman. Perhaps he could even find his way to some mainland--not England, too risky. But the Colonies. Perhaps...

The idea of going back to land though. To sitting in a counting house, whose ground stayed firm and steady, whose lanterns never swayed, tallying numbers for a master, with only the guttering of lamps and the smell of paper and ink rather than the creaking of timbers, the snapping of the sails, and the ever-present salt. Of sleeping each night on a bed, not a bunk, with no sound but his own breathing. It was foreign. It required another drink. The Edmund Dufresne who had once had those things, who had lived that life and longed for nothing more was a stranger. A man whose hands had never blistered on the line, who had never worn a shipknife on his leg, who had never sat in a whorehouse drinking rum. Who had never even had rum. A man who had never chewed another man's throat out, choking on the thick blood and still gnawing.

He drained the last of his rum and grimaced. The mug was made of copper. Or maybe it was only pewter, and his mind was providing him the phantom taste. He would have to see if they had a glass.

"I have not seen you here before, I do not think." A voice stopped his hand as he reached again for the bottle. "At least, not in this part of the house."

He looked up to see a dark-haired woman standing over him. She was a beauty, he supposed. The one Vane's men had taken, the one Ms. Gutherie had gone to war over. The one who ran the whorehouse now. His eyes slid away and he shrugged. She put an empty glass down in front of him.

"You are one of Flint's men, are you not?"

"No." His voice rasped in his throat, as dry as if the rum were only a distant memory.

"No? Ah well." She didn't believe him, he knew. Whores had all the best gossip, and a bespectacled clerk who bit through men’s throats like a dog and became quartermaster to the most contentious man on or near the island would not remain an unknown. "When you are here, I suppose it does not matter." She was holding a bottle, he saw now. He glanced at it, then back at the new glass. She smile and poured three fingers of a scotch so potent all he could smell was fire on wet wood. Eyeing her, he lifted it to his lips and sipped. It burned.

"Shall I leave the bottle?"

He shook his head. "No. The rum, though."

"Very well, Mr. Dufresne." She smiled over her shoulder as she turned away. The girl from before was just behind her. "And do not forget. We have more than just drink to soothe that ache." She whispered something to the girl and left. Dufresne frowned. He knew what the game was, the same reason Flint had forbidden his men from coming to the tavern in the first place. There wasn't much more Rackham's whores could glean from his drunken ramblings, were he prone to them. The gold was now common knowledge, as was its loss.

The girl sat next to him again, one hand gentle on his knee under the table. He ignored her and took another sip. When he had been a clerk, his master had given him a glass of scotch with a toast the night before he had been sent aboard the Radiant to see to his master's holdings in Barbados. For weeks afterwards, he had remembered the warm feeling of it sliding down his throat, liquid fire, burning out the cold and the fear and leaving only a warm, fuzzy sort of peace.

He'd dearly pay for some peace tonight.

"It's Maggie," the girl said, leading him into the room. "Though you can call me what you like." He nodded. She shut the door and locked it, then turned to find him still standing in the middle of the room, bottle in his hand. "Ain't you never done this before?"

"I...not here. Not like..." The truth was, he had only done this once before. He had received the same introductory hazing most men aboard the Walrus got, and he remembered very little of it except for hands, mouths, limbs, long hair and sweat and wanting it to stop. He took a long drink, straight from the bottle. Maggie smiled and guided him to the bed by his shoulders, pushing him down gently.

"Right, so. We can do most anything you like, and if not, then I can find someone who will. It's five for hands, seven if you want me to use my mouth. If you want to put it in me, that's ten--"

She continued speaking, rubbing his shoulders and grinding lightly on one knee. The sound of her words washed over him like a litany of wounded and dead after a hunt. He couldn't think...didn't want to think about any of it.

He extracted himself from her arms and reached into his grouchbag to pull out a small handful of coins. Glancing at them to make sure he wasn't about to hand her a truly foolish amount he mumbled, "Do something for this. Something nice."

She smiled and made the coins vanish into a pocket somewhere. "Aye, luv, somethin' nice. I can do that. You just lie back and let Maggie take care of you." He took another shaky drink and put the bottle on the nightstand as he complied. Her hands were nimble on his belt, his trousers, on him. Then came her mouth, hot and wet and unexpected and he would have started if the rum and scotch hadn't already made his head so fuzzy. So warm.

He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be letting his guard down like this. Not when he had no brothers to watch his back, no crew. Not when Billy...

Billy.

He clenched his fists, his eyes squeezed shut. His breath came in gasps as Maggie worked on him, and he couldn't tell if it was from her tongue or from his own hollow, screaming rage that threatened to eat a hole right out of his chest. He clenched his teeth, feeling again the memory of flesh and cartilage tearing, of hot, thick blood. And with that feeling a wish, two wishes so vile that he couldn't say which was the worst.

He came with a gasp that may have been a name or a scream. It was not a relief.

He lay there, panting and sickened, head swimming from rum and sex. Maggie was mumbling and touching him, cleaning him up, some part of him realized, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He tried to speak, failed, licked his lips, and tried again.

"How much...how much for the night?"

"Liked it did you?"

He started to shake his head, then stopped himself, eyes fixed on the canopy above him. "I just...want to stay here. With or without your company. How much for the night."

She told him. He paid. She left, murmuring that she would be back to see if he "needed anything else." He rolled over, buried his face in a pillow, and screamed.

It wasn't dawn, but it was that sickening grey-blue, damp-smelling hour before dawn. Usually Dufresne enjoyed the quite peace and anticipation of the hour. He groaned, found an empty pan by the bed, and vomited in it. Then he reached for the half empty bottle of rum, took a long swig and cursed.

This had been a mistake.

He should be on the beach, with the men, trying to make some kind of plan, to salvage something for them from this mess before Flint got them all killed for his own ends. He should be...he should be... he should be nowhere. Nowhere for him to be. The crew was Flint's and he could never be Flint's man again. Even the eight others--brothers that he had tried to save, and hadn't that been an agonizing decision, weighing the lives of his brothers, knowing two-thirds would be condemned. He couldn't face them again. For all he knew, they thought he had been party to Billy's treachery.

Billy.

He drank.

He had no illusions about what was left to him. Hangovers rarely brought with them clarity, but now he saw the corner he had trapped himself in. There was no going back to his old life, even if he could secure a pardon or hide his three years of piracy. It would be like donning a coat from his childhood--once it had fit him, but now he would burst right through it, or it would strangle him.

Nor could he find work on the sea, either as a pirate or an honest sailor. He was a fair hand on deck, but that's all he was--fair. And no ship had room for a sailor who was only fair. It was Captain Flint, singular and infuriating man that he was, who had seen the value in having aboard a clerk to keep accounts on and off-ship, and who had convinced his men of that value.

He remembered that day, trembling and pleading, desperate to show some worth to save his own life. He remembered the days afterwards, having Flint's ear, first timidly, and then as he grew more and more sure of himself and his role, with confidence. Flint, in turn, kept him from the fray, listened to his advice, made him feel like a man, not a mere clerk. Sometimes, when the Captain had been struck by a mood, they would discuss Homer and Euripides. Dufresne knew his classics, could read in Latin and, with some effort, a little Greek. But he had not the Captain's gift for literary analysis, preferring the satisfying surety of numbers. Arithmetic he was good at.

Fifty men minus three in the taking of the Andromache Leaves forty-seven men minus Mr. Gates. Minus fifteen in the sinking of the Walrus. Leaves thirty-one. Minus the five in the failed raid. Leaves twenty-six. Plus thirty of Hornigold's men. Minus Logan. Plus Billy.

Plus Billy.

The bottle shattered against the wall. He clutched at his shorn hair and rocked forward, pressing his grief and rage into a choked sob.

Dimly he was aware of the door behind him open and shut. It's fine, just dropped the bottle, I'll pay for it, he wanted to say. But all he could choke out was:

"Why?"

The girl behind him said nothing as she moved toward the broken glass.

"Why him? Why me? Why did you pick me, you fucking bastard," he hissed, head still in his hands. The mattress dipped.

"I'm sorry."

Dufresne bolted up as if stabbed.

"You." He wondered that the venom didn't burn his own tongue. Billy met his eyes, looking unhappy, but determined. Dufresne felt his chest tighten, breath coming in gasps. This was it, this was it.

"What are you--" He broke off, glancing at the knife in Billy's hand. "Ah. Right. The display on the beach was for the men. But you can't have a loose end, can you."

"Dufresne--"

"Do you know," he started, and huffed out a bitter laugh. "When you asked me. When you asked me first. I thought...I thought it was because you-- I thought it was because we were friends."

"We were."

"Funny way of showing it."

"Dufresne--" Billy started. Stopped. Sighed and looked down at the knife in his hands.

"Just...why me? If we were friends, why did you use me for this, knowing what it would mean. Knowing it would come to this?" He gestured at Billy's knife.

"You know why. Out of all the men...you...you were the one who hated him most."

"He killed you," Dufresne half-screamed through clenched teeth. Billy blinked and something....something confusing passed over his face. Dufresne shook his head and looked away. "He killed Singleton. He killed Gates in cold blood, and then as good as killed half our men for his own ends, and didn't blink. You think he cares about the lives of any of his men? He's mad, Billy. Like a dog that needs to be put down."

"Dufresne." Billy reached up, almost as if he were going to cup his cheek, before dropping his hand onto Dufresne shoulder. A cold shock went through the put of his stomach at the touch, but he couldn't bring himself to wrench away. He could only go still, like a horse gentled by a calm hand. After a moment, he raised a hand to touch his mouth, again tasting phantom blood. It was almost funny.

He dropped his hand to his lap, looking at the wall.

"You're going to get them killed."

"Better killed than what the King's men will do to them."

"You get to make that choice for them? You sound like him."

"Someone has to make that choice. You don't--" He stopped, licked his lips and swallowed. "You don't know what it's like. What it does to you. I couldn't let that happen to...to anyone." Billy's hand slid up, to the crook of Dufresne's neck, and squeezed. He'll hold me there, Dufresne thought, with a distant clarity, hold me there like that and slide the knife in. Move his hand up to cover my mouth. And he'll be sorry. He'll be sorry to do it.

"You would break," Billy murmured, not looking at him. Dufresne set his jaw.

"I didn't break," he said fiercely. He may have nothing left, not even an hour more on this earth, but he had pride, newly won. A week ago, he had been a pirate in name only, terrified and shaking at the sounds of fighting. Since then he had killed a man with only his teeth, stood up to and shot Captain Flint, led an attack on a Spanish man-of-war, and led a hunting raid. And maybe he had failed, but he had done it. He hadn't broke.

Billy glanced up at him and breathed out something like a laugh, a weak smile stretching his cracked lips. He squeezed again.

"No. I suppose you didn't."

They stared at each other.

Dufresne closed his eyes and sighed.

"I want you to know something."

"Hm?"

"If you had...if you had just asked me to. I would have supported Flint. For this. Just for this. Because you asked."

Billy's mouth parted, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

"I...I did ask you."

"No. You gave me another option. You told me a story. You used me. You never wanted me to support Flint--you just wanted me to flush out dissent."

"I knew you wouldn't--"

"I hate the man, alright? He's not to be trusted, Billy, and I know you've got some fancy that he's the Messiah who will somehow save us all, but it's only his own self that he cares about and the rest of us can go hang, don't you see that?"

He stopped, chest heaving and blinking furiously. His eyes were wet. "But if you had just played straight with me. If you hadn't tried to convince me that there was something better for us--for some of us," he amended quickly. "I'll never follow Flint again, but I would have followed you."

Billy stared at him, open-mouthed, looking for all the world as though it were Dufresne who held the knife.

"Why?" he breathed.

Dufresne could only look at him helplessly. Billy blinked a few times, his mouth working for a moment until his face cleared.

"Oh."

They sat in silence. Then Billy lifted his hand from Dufresne's shoulder, letting it hover just above his collar before gently, carefully sliding it around to cup the back of Dufrense's head and pulling him forward. Dufrense stiffened, waiting for the knife in his gut. Instead, he found his head pressed against Billy's chest, and in its own way, that was so much worse. His hands lifted of their own accord to clutch at the lapels of Billy's shirt and he felt a dry, racking sob shake his frame as Billy cradled him, one-handed, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." into his short hair.

He felt Billy's other arm move. Oh, this is it. He closed his eyes tight, so tired of it all. So tired of betrayals and treachery and longing for the days of good honest piracy, or even the simplicity of a life of lawful dullness. Longing to stay here, in this room, in this bed, in his arms, and let Flint tear himself apart on the rocks of fortune.

The knife made muffled sound, falling to the thin rug by the bed.

Billy held him.

Sunlight woke him, bright and piercing. He could hear canon fire in the distance. The fort, maybe, or the ships. There was no screaming nearby beyond the usual sort, and so he felt no urgency. He felt very little except for a throbbing headache and a riled stomach. His chest felt strangely still, like a rag, all wrung out. From the dampness on his face, he suspected he had been crying.

He sat up slowly, collecting his bearings in a methodical, detached manner. There was no one else in the room. The broken glass was still on the floor. His glasses...

He patted his face, his vest, his pockets, almost frantic, before turning and finding them neatly folded on the nightstand.

He didn't remember putting them there.

#black sails #dufresne #billy bones #fanfic #im sorry i had a thing and writing happened it's been a while #this is so horribly self-indulgent #also i kinda headcanon both of them as pretty ace?#tbh it's kind of a miracle that i didn't somehow work a sea shanty into it #since i've been listening to them for two days straight #and wrote this whole thing with 'john riley' stuck in my head #this is their sad story #also just realized this is at least the third 'drunken navel gaze' story i've written #and at least two involved pirates #...i don't navel gaze when i'm drunk i just go to sleep #please somebody please scream about these two bbs with me

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