Work Text:
There's an itch in her skin. She runs her fingernails over the fragile inside of her wrist and listens to the governess dictate flower arrangements, and the worst thing is this isn't anything extraordinary. No skeleton pirates to fight against - just a bride-to-be trapped in everything that takes to-be to bride.
It's nothing to do with Will - she would marry him tomorrow, with just a deck under her feet and a tricorn instead of a veil, if she could. The problem is everything else.
Elizabeth has read enough stories that start like this. Perhaps that's the entire reason she decides to go.
---
She borrows a shirt from Will and a hat from her father and barters her way onto a ship headed for Tortuga. She lies and lies with all the ease of a pirate - tells both that she's headed to San Juan to find the perfect silk for her wedding dress, that she's taking an escort, that she will be fine, thank you, and back in two weeks, maybe three.
The trick is to leave before anyone can think to stop you.
Tortuga sits in a natural harbour, sheltered from the rolling seas as the town spills up the slope of the island, and there's a late afternoon storm settling in as the ship makes port. Elizabeth steps onto the dock and is more surprised than she should be to feel it sway underneath her, three days at sea and already she's found the balance of it like a sword, the natural shift of a parry that sits easy in her bones.
Rain hits the back of her neck despite the width of her hat (she had pulled off the feathers one by one and let them flutter, dropped off the side of ship like breadcrumbs, swallowed by the sea before anyone could think to follow them) and she wraps her arms around herself for all of a second before dropping them to her side, one hand finding the hilt of her sword (Will's, of course). Thinks of Jack, unbidden but, yes, that'll work - and lifts her chin and sets off with a swagger she can feel in her muscles but not in her bones.
Elizabeth strides to the end of the dock and keeps going, stepping on the mud-slick land with her shoulders back and her jaw set. She is, if she's honest, not entirely sure what to do next. Adventure is a grand idea by itself but last time had a definite sense of narrative to it, and now she's strolling without aim through a town full of scoundrels and thieves, eyeing up each tavern and person and stall without stopping.
A boat, she thinks. And a captain.
The sky crackles, the violent bruise-blue cloud splattering down in huge, heavy drops and Elizabeth makes a decision - stops long enough to run her eye over every tavern in the cobbled sprawl of streets, and then, with her head held high, strides into the one that looks busiest.
Smoke stings her eyes and she blinks against the gloom. There are not enough candles to make up for the grime clouding the windows, and the size of the windows are not enough to make up for the middling grey light pouring down with the rain. There's music coming from somewhere, off-key and broken and out of sight, like someone's fallen asleep on top of a piano.
The tavern isn't as exciting as she supposed - it's loud and heaving and full of people drinking at the tables and by the bar, either hunched up or sprawled out, but maybe it's too early for the kind of tales Will told her. She has to push her way through to the bar, keeping one hand stuffed in the pocket with her coin purse until she pulls out enough for a tankard of ale.
For someone who's spent a childhood obsessed with pirates, she's oddly unprepared for the reality of them. She takes a sip of her ale, musty-smelling and dark in the metal - and hides the face she pulls behind the rim, sucks at her teeth to clear the taste. Elizabeth stares down at the tankard, swirling it slowly. There's a twitch of a grimace in her lips before she takes another sip and leans back against the bar, one elbow on the stained wood and trying to look for all the world like she's just there to enjoy the view.
She had dreamt of the adventure and freedom and the open ocean - she finds instead the smell and the noise of so many bodies packed in together, the lingering scent of animals, the stumbling drunks that knock past her elbow and wordlessly growl at her when she pulls away, and if there's a rhythm to any of it she has no interest in learning it.
A waitress sets down her tray to light more candles, stuffing them into holders already thick with dripping wax, and Elizabeth watches her with absent interest, her trail the only purposeful movement in the whole tavern - and then Elizabeth jolts, as she makes eye contact with a woman sitting across the room, watching her from underneath a wide-brimmed hat.
There's something infuriatingly familiar about her, in the split-second Elizabeth allows herself to look back before her gaze darts away. Her gaze finds the waitress again and follows her until she disappears up the stairs, and then Elizabeth steels her shoulders, and chances a look back across the room.
The woman - because surely she must be, despite the shapeless clothes covering her from her neck to her knuckles and the rest of her hidden under the table, with the thin hands and the slope of her shoulders and the mouth that doesn't quite smile or scowl - the woman is still looking at her, and they stare at each other long enough that Elizabeth realises the recognition must be mutual.
She takes a step forward, and it clicks.
"You left with the Pearl," Elizabeth says, pushing her way through the crush as the woman just watches, unflinching.
"Aye," the woman says, and runs her eyes from Elizabeth's face down to the join of her shirt, the top two buttons undone with calculated carelessness. Narrows her eyes, and doesn't say anything else.
"Is it here?" Elizabeth asks, not waiting for an answer before she's darting her gaze across the room, looking for that hair or that smirk or that walk. She blinks away the surge of something hot and rolling when of course there's nothing, no one outstanding - she would have noticed him before, if he was here.
"No," the woman says, frowning now, and Elizabeth presses her tongue against her teeth as she stares at her and searches for her name - she can remember every minute from the first moment she saw cannon fire in Port Royal, the pinsharp recall of adrenaline, and even in the few hours she spent on the Interceptor she must have heard it enough times to -
"Anamaria!" Elizabeth says, and the woman tilts her chin up as she leans back, considering her. "It's Anamaria, isn't it?
Anamaria's lips tighten. Elizabeth ignores the warning and pulls an empty chair towards her, not caring when there's a thump and a yell behind her. "Why aren't you with the Pearl?"
"I got my own boat," Anamaria says, and Elizabeth thinks all rushed and breathless, yes. She bites her lip and leans forward - they're not exactly alone but the table is empty apart from the two of them, Anamaria sitting without company before Elizabeth joined her, and everything about this feels like destiny.
"Do you need crew?"
Anamaria raises an eyebrow, her mouth skewing to the side, and Elizabeth finds herself sitting taller and squarer as Anamaria looks her over, this time all the way down to her boots (those, at least, her own: flat-soled and still new enough to pinch her toes).
"Crew, yes. Tourists, no," Anamaria says, and looks past her.
"I can fight," Elizabeth says, truthfully, and then, "I know my way around a ship," and that's the lie - she can walk the deck in a storm and knows every mad strategy that has turned the tide of a battle, shallow drafts and reefs, but she knows enough about sails and topmasts to know to bite her tongue and hope.
That gets Anamaria's attention back, at least. For a moment Elizabeth considers offering to pay, but that would hardly convince anyone she isn't just cargo, and the twitch-tight way Anamaria's considering her makes her want to snarl right back.
"Prove it," Anamaria says, suddenly, and when she stands up her hand is wrapped around the hilt of the sword at her hip.
"Here?" There's a slurred roar somewhere behind her, and the resistance of someone standing too close when Elizabeth stands up and shoves the chair away. She doesn't turn to look.
Anamaria flicks her eyes to the ceiling, and pushes past. "Follow me."
She shoves their path through the bar and leads them out the rear door, stepping out into the cobbled back streets. The storm has passed but night has fallen swiftly, and the rain hasn't done anything for the mud or the smell but it snatches up the light and deepens the shadows, capturing everything in sharp relief.
It's never exactly quiet in Tortuga, but there's a lull in the singing and hollering and pistol shots, like they've turned a corner and found themselves stepped out of the world.
"Well?" Anamaria says, when Elizabeth just looks at her, a few clear feet and a shining puddle between them. "Do you always fight without your sword drawn?"
"I try not to make a habit of it," Elizabeth says, and the metal sings as she pulls it from the sheath. Anamaria doesn't move, or speak, just watching her with her chin lowered and so Elizabeth takes the time to set her stance; her arm long and her body a narrow target, and holds for the breath it takes before Anamaria lunges forward without a word.
Elizabeth had assumed Anamaria was pragmatic rather than murderous, even when she held a pistol to her head, but the ferocity of her attack still takes her by surprise. She's forced back two steps as she blocks it and then feints to the side, slipping close enough scrape their blades together low before she crosses back and readies her sword.
Another cut and thrust and then Anamaria makes a jab that would have gutted her if she hadn't spun to the side - and the thrill in her veins is everything she's been dreaming of, the first time in a months she's crossed blades with anyone other than Will. The challenge sings all the way down to her bones, sending everything pinsharp and alive.
"I need to know if you can fight, not dance," Anamaria snarls, and, oh, how silly of her. She was still playing by an imagined set of rules, not wanting to harm the potential of her ephemeral escape and so holding back in a way she never does with Will, because she knows he can defend himself.
Ah, Elizabeth thinks. She rocks back on her heel, sword up and ready between them as she considers Anamaria's stance (her weight is on her front foot, her shoulders wide and forward) - and then she tries to kill her.
Anamaria blocks her but it's close, her riposte cut short as Elizabeth blocks it and swipes high enough to drive her back and doesn't pause for breath as she attacks again. It's quick and close and dangerous, the edges flashing bright enough to send spots blinking in front of her eyes and Anamaria's blade slips so close to her neck that she drops to avoid it, kicking out as she falls to knock Anamaria's leg away.
They're both back on their feet in moments, palms slick with mud and still tight around their grips, and Anamaria launches forward with a shout. Elizabeth parries and slips through, suddenly close enough to grab Anamaria's wrist and force her sword away, and then she darts forward with a muscle-deep familiarity and presses a kiss over her mouth - a reflex, her favourite method of distraction before she retreats back and readies her defence.
"Habit," Elizabeth protests, suddenly two steps away and holding her sword up between them. She chews at her lip, biting at the tingle.
"Interesting habit," Anamaria says, but her expression is the closest to a smile that Elizabeth's ever seen. It's more of a smirk than anything, crooked and dark, and she looks exactly the same as always - terrifying, and beautiful, and everything Elizabeth has ever wanted to be.
"My fiancé taught me how to handle a sword," Elizabeth says, and Anamaria's lip curls.
"I bet he did," she says, and whips her sword up as Elizabeth charges. Their blades meet with a screech and it's faster, each step and thrust quick as Anamaria snarls and tries to cut close. Every hit is aimed to hurt and every clash near the hilt shivers horribly, sinking down into Elizabeth's bones, but despite it all she has to grit her teeth to stop herself from grinning.
This is what she's good at. Another side-step, another riposte and then Elizabeth meets her sword and circles until it spins out of Anamaria's hand, flashing off into the darkness. Anamaria feints to the side but Elizabeth flicks her sword up to her neck, the point inches from her skin, and there's nowhere for her to go.
"Do you yield?" she asks, breathless and teeth bared, caught between a smile and a snarl.
Anamaria heaves a breath, chin raised and regarding her carefully as her hands sink slowly to her sides. "Aye," she says.
There's a single, lowly cheer from somewhere behind her, and when Elizabeth lowers her sword and looks around there's a man leaning against a post by the tavern, pissing into the shadows as he watches them. He raises the hand that isn't occupied in a wandering salute, and grins toothlessly.
"Urgh," Elizabeth says, pulling a face.
"You'll have to get used to that, if you plan on sailing with my crew," Anamaria says, and when Elizabeth turns to her in surprise she's found her sword and is wiping the mud off on her trousers. Elizabeth tenses, ready, but Anamaria just checks the shine of it and then slides it back into its sheath.
"That's it?"
"You proved it," Anamaria says, and despite the frown etched into her brows there's something like a smile in the twist of her lips.
---
Anamaria's ship is smaller than the Black Pearl but sturdy with its single mast, moored at the far end of the dock and crewed by seven men with grey in their beards and one boy that looks younger than her, at this distance.
"They're better sailors than fighters," Anamaria says, as their footsteps echo along the planks. The lanterns strung up on posts cast puddles of gold over the wood, but they've been swallowed by a long stretch of shadow as Anamaria glances at her.
"How much do you know about sailing, really?" she asks, and Elizabeth draws in a breath to answer. Hesitates.
"Enough," she hedges, and even in the darkness she can see the way Anamaria looks to the stars for strength. "I can follow orders," she adds, slowing as Anamaria does, and tightens her grip on her sword like a lifeline.
Anamaria sighs. "I hope so," she says, and keeps walking. She doesn't react when Elizabeth jogs the few steps to catch up and falls into pace at her side.
"You're still letting me onboard?"
"If we're lucky, we won't need you. If we're not, we have one more sword on our side," Anamaria says, striding through a bubble of light that sets her skin glowing and the angle of her jaw hard. "Either way, you can learn to make yourself useful," she says, and strides up the gangplank.
Her crew are ferrying cargo up to the deck, rope and barrels and crates that rattle when they're set down, and Anamaria shouts orders with such sudden ferocity that Elizabeth rocks back on her heel; considers, suddenly, the intelligence of this plan.
"What do you do?" Elizabeth asks, clearing the gangplank in a few long strides and setting her feet on the deck.
Anamaria lifts her chin. "Transportation," she says.
---
They set off after dawn, as the shadows cut long across the water. Elizabeth woke at the first slash of sun peeking over the horizon - she had slept on deck, propped up against the side of the ship and covered in a single blanket that she threw off halfway through the night. The waves lapping at the hull kept her in an easy sleep.
"Take the lines!" Anamaria yells from the helm, and Elizabeth flinches out of the way as the rope is whipped up on board. The sails unfurl and catch the wind and they're off, the sloop cutting through the water easy as they slip out of the harbour and away.
Elizabeth makes a point of being a quick learner - the voyage to the far side of the Virgin Islands and back ("Deliverin' cargo," Anamaria had said, and nothing more) will take as long as Elizabeth has allowed herself, the short few weeks before she has to be back in Port Royal to save the British Navy from being forced to find her, and she throws herself into her duties with an enthusiasm that Anamaria just raises an eyebrow at.
She tars the wood and swabs the deck and climbs the rigging, learns to do it quick and not look down unless both hands are tight on the rope. She's shown how to weigh the anchor and check the sails by one of the crew, Jolson, a man who bites out instructions and wrenches the rope away when she ties the knot wrong, but he doesn't look at her any different from the rest, and Elizabeth finds herself learning the sway of living on the ocean.
There's dried salt under her fingernails and tangled in her hair, her forearms and cheekbones and the dip of her collarbone darkening in the warm sun and roughening in the brisk wind. She gets used to the creak of the ship, the splintering wood and the roughness under her palms - learns to live with the unforgiving angles of the ship as she stumbles, the bruises and blisters blooming in her skin.
But, at least, she falls asleep quickly each night, even if she wakes to everything hurting with a vigorous determination that she's not remotely used to. It gets easier every day, and she catches Anamaria watching her with a narrow-eyed sort of consideration before she turns her eye to the horizon.
The crew, Elizabeth realises, are all so careful in their deference to Anamaria it's almost like they're scared of her. She tells herself not to be so silly, but then she can't stop noticing how they never stand within the reach of her sword, and jolt quick to follow her orders - and even when Elizabeth decides that's just the way they treat their captain, she realises they regard her with the same kind of cautious respect.
It irritates her in a way she can't quite put into words. Elizabeth knows she should be grateful for the distance they keep, but she has done nothing to deserve it.
Perhaps that's the problem. She's already had a lifetime of other people's expectations.
"I 'eard she once burnt down an entire town because the guv'nor tried to put her in irons," Elizabeth overhears, as they tack across the wind. The rope bites at her palms but she holds fast, and glances up to where Anamaria stands at the wheel.
She's too far away to study but Elizabeth's starting to learn the details of her - the callouses on her hands, the burn-like scar she can see when Anamaria rolls her sleeves above her elbow, the flecks of amber like fire in her eyes. Anamaria doesn't talk about her past but she wears it in the way she stands with her feet wide and steady, the way her fingers itch and flex when they're not wrapped around a helm or a sword or a rope. She never smiles, Elizabeth has noticed. She spends more time looking at her lips than she would care to think about.
Anamaria catches her gaze, and frowns. "Reef the sails! Split-quick, skivvies!"
"I 'eard she once gutted a man just for smiling at her," another says, muttered under his breath but the wind catches it up and carries it, and Elizabeth rolls her eyes, and makes sure the sail doesn't slip.
The hard work continues, and doesn't let up. Elizabeth learns the constant effort it takes just to keep the ship fit and steady and moving in the right direction, the way the crew read the wind and the distant clouds and the superstitions.
The wind roars in her ears as she stands at the bow, swaying with the ship as it cuts over the waves, and she finds herself almost hoping for black sails on the horizon because she knows that - repeated kidnappings and one naval battle and and she can still remember the kick of the rifle in her hands, the ship quaking under her soles as the canons fired, the thrill as every book she'd ever read about pirates bloomed and splintered all around her.
She catches Anamaria watching her again, and isn't surprised at all when she sucks in a breath and orders her up the rigging.
---
They pass island after island and, sometimes, draw close to the shallows and throw nets into the glittering water. They catch nothing, but when Elizabeth looks back to the open ocean there are tall ships flying the British flag, passing them way out in the depths and not stopping.
A day or so out from Virgin Gorda, the weather is fine enough that Anamaria hands over the helm to her first mate (the young boy, Elizabeth realises, fine cheekbones and long eyelashes, and she doesn't even know his name) and stands in the middle of the deck, beckoning her over with a jerk of her head.
"We may be needing that sword of yours soon," Anamaria says, drawing her own. "I need to know if you can fight on deck."
Elizabeth thinks of the Pearl. Almost barks out a laugh, and chews the side of her lip for a moment instead. "Of course," she says, and lets the blade ring as she unsheathes it.
They have an audience, and Elizabeth catches herself holding back - dancing away when she should be engaging, parrying each attack without immediately returning. The smile that Anamaria flashes when she stops that and fights is breathtaking.
A breathless, furious minute in and Elizabeth realises that Anamaria is watching her, learning the way she steps and feints and the flick of her wrist as she tries to disarm her. She finds she doesn't mind at all - even when Anamaria forces her back against the mast and trips her up, sending her sprawling back with a cry.
"Try again," Anamaria says, and barely gives her the moment to find her feet before she attacks. Elizabeth wins in the next minute, jumping up onto the side of the ship to kick Anamaria's sword away and press the tip of her own over Anamaria's chest.
"Again?" she suggests, and jumps out of the way of Anamaria's swipe. They spar their way across the deck - Anamaria has the advantage of familiarity but Elizabeth is a quick learner and stronger than she ever thought, and Anamaria looks pleased, at least, when she finally decides that's enough. She grabs onto Elizabeth's elbow to haul her to her feet.
"You'll do," she says, and there's almost a smile in the curl of her mouth.
---
In The Valley Elizabeth watches Anamaria negotiate their way out of a double-cross. Their cargo is lining the docks, Elizabeth told to stay on board with the rest of the crew while Anamaria stands at the far end of the pier and discusses something quietly with a man in a grey wig.
Elizabeth thinks, guilty, of her father, and then Port Royal, and then Will. It's been over a week and it's not that she hasn't been thinking of them, really - it's just that she's been forcing herself not to, distant duties making her feel more seasick than rough tides. The boat dips gently in the swell of the sea and the breeze picks up, gusting hard along the deck as the sun slips behind a cloud, and it all seems fine until suddenly Anamaria has her pistol up and aimed squarely at the man's forehead.
Everyone starts yelling, and Elizabeth can see Anamaria's lips moving but she's too far away to hear. Help her is her only coherent thought, one hand wrapping around the hilt of her sword and she gets all of a step towards the gangplank before a hand slams down on her shoulder She whirls around snarling as she shoves it away, and finds Jolson grimacing at her.
"Captain's orders," he says, grabbing her forearm instead, and when Elizabeth tries to shake him off he holds fast. "Yer not to leave the ship. She said ye rush in where yer not wanted."
Elizabeth's lip curls. "Did she," she grits out, and then in one quick move she's twisted out of his grip and is dashing away, makes it across the deck - only to find herself nose to nose with Anamaria. She's standing at the top of the gangplank, blocking the way.
"Weigh anchor! Hoist the sails!" Anamaria shouts, stepping past her, but she has her pistol in one hand and a bag of coin in the other, and Elizabeth doesn't quite know what to do with the surge of relief that washes over her, strangely out of place with the anger thrumming in her veins.
---
Their run of fine weather lasts until it doesn't, half a week into the journey back and a storm weighs heavy on the horizon. They head for the shelter of an island to drop anchor until it passes, and Elizabeth stays out in the pouring rain to furl the sails and tie down the deck, pitching in the waves - she's not alone but the rain drums down so fast and heavy she can't hear anything but the sound of it hitting the deck, like endless rounds of gunfire, and she's soaked down to the bone and still she can't stop smiling.
Night has fallen by the time the worst of it has passed, and Anamaria makes the call to stay there the night instead of setting off in the darkness. The deck is soaked slick, the odd spot of rain still pebbling down, and the space where Elizabeth sleeps is a puddle.
The rest of the crew are below. There's the the odd shout, muffled in the hold as they play cards, and Elizabeth leans her elbows on the rail and watches the storm slink off into the distance. She can feel her shirt sticking to her back, everything sodden and clinging, but
she's been wearing the same clothes for two weeks and it's almost nice to think they're slightly cleaner.
Light suddenly spills across the deck, the door to the captain's cabin flying open with a crack.
"Get in," Anamaria says, her mouth tight as she holds it open, and Elizabeth hesitates only for a second before she ducks under her arm and into shelter.
Elizabeth has glimpsed her cabin but never been inside, and for a moment she's stunned by how bare it is. She wonders, suddenly and not for the first time, where Anamaria from. A pirate's backstory is the least interesting thing about them, Elizabeth has always thought - drudgery and servitude or expectations and proposals, and what they escape to is a far better story than what they escape from, but Anamaria wears her past in the angle of her bones like a challenge.
"You can rest here for the night," Anamaria says, before she can ask, and turns to study the map spread across her table.
Elizabeth watches her back, the shift of her shoulders under the cotton. "You didn't need my sword at all, did you?"
"We might have," Anamaria shrugs, not turning around. "The extra hand on deck was more of a use, though."
On deck she spits her accent between her teeth like acid, but in quieter moments there's a softness to it, sweet and inviting. It's the closest she's ever got to complimenting her.
Elizabeth plucks at the collar of her shirt, her puddles of footprints trailing across the cabin as she walks across to the window, small and tightly barred. Outside is nothing but shadows.
"I need to be back in Port Royal soon," Elizabeth admits. Anamaria glances up, brows twitched a fraction higher.
"So you're not running away to the sea for good, then?" she says. It's more mocking than surprised, and Elizabeth only looks at her for a moment - sees the loose shirt and the pistol at her side, the belt and the fixed line of her mouth and the deliberate way every angle of her says pirate in one voice and don't fucking touch me in another, and has the strange, desperate urge to stay - before she turns back to the window.
"No, I just needed -" Elizabeth tries, but if she's honest the only thing she needed was a chance to escape, and she isn't quite sure what she's found. "- one last adventure, before I'm married," she says.
For a moment, it looks like Anamaria might say something. Her tongue presses against the edge of her teeth, but then there's the jerk of her head like she's shaking something off, oddly private, and when she looks up again her eyes rake over Elizabeth with detached interest; lingering on her waist and then her hands, shining wet and still raw from the rope.
Elizabeth shifts without thinking - lifts her jaw and digs her fingers into her hip, because even when she's dripping onto the wood she doesn't need to be pitied.
"There's blankets in there," Anamaria says, nodding towards the chest at the foot of her bunk, and focuses on her map.
On the other hand, she's certainly not going to miss the chance to be dry again. There are no screens to change behind, and nothing for her to change into - Elizabeth stands facing the cabin door and furiously wills it to not open as she kicks off her boots and unclips her sword, peels off her shirt and trousers and lets them hit the planks with a wet slop. The blanket is thick, and itchy, but she pulls it tight around her shoulders and slings her clothes over the back of a chair, spread out to dry as best they can.
"Is that it, then?" Elizabeth asks, perching on the side of the bunk and not caring when the blanket spills high over her thighs. Anamaria tilts her head. "Back to Tortuga?"
"Aye," Anamaria says. "But," she adds, after a moment, and Elizabeth can see the long line of her neck as she looks to the ceiling, mouth curling into a snarl before it slips, "We could go by way of Port Royal."
"Truly?" Elizabeth asks, jumping to her feet without thinking. Her bare foot finds a puddle, and she leaves damp footprints across the floor as she goes to stand hip to hip at her side. The map on the table is a chart, she realises, safe depths and hidden reefs.
"Wouldn't want to miss getting you back to your masters on time," Anamaria says, and her voice is nothing but edges, inviting her to cut herself.
Elizabeth bites the inside of her cheek and rocks back of her heel, like she's making space for her blade. How silly of her. For a moment there, it almost felt like she was part of the crew.
"I'm not owned by anyone," Elizabeth says, and this is too close to the rocks, bracing herself for the lurch as the keel is punched through -
"Prove it," Anamaria says, finally turning to face her, and Elizabeth knows she's being baited, and she knows exactly what she's doing, when she kisses her.
Anamaria tastes like like sour salt and storms, like adventure, like everything she's ever wanted, and she slings an arm around Elizabeth's waist and hauls her closer. It feels a lot like she's smiling against her mouth, but Elizabeth has no interest in pulling away to find out.
Elizabeth is the one to steer them towards the bunk, stepping backwards in her own footsteps as she plucks at Anamaria's shirt - because if she's having this then she will have all of it, sate every curiosity with breathless satisfaction, and she wants nothing more than to trace the map of Anamaria's skin with her hands and her mouth and her tongue.
Take what you want and give nothing back, she thinks, breathless and laughing, but maybe that doesn't quite apply as Anamaria grabs a fistful of her hair and guides a hand between her legs.
---
It's more a stretching of her morals that's required to be a pirate, she finds, and doesn't let herself consider it a revelation. The hard work and the long voyages are just texture - it's the longing for freedom that sits in her bones, even as she lets Anamaria pin her wrists to her bed, that makes her want to sail to every edge of the ocean.
Anamaria just scoffs at her, when she makes the slightest noise about staying.
"And do what? A ship has no need for two captains," she says, and nothing more. She'd let her stay if she wanted, Elizabeth thinks, but the duties she has back on land aren't really duties at all, and she's beginning to realise that not every kiss has to mean forever. The ocean will always be there, if she needs it.
Port Royal looms, and Anamaria drops her off with just a rowboat and a look that feels a lot like a kiss goodbye, lingering and indecent and with a considerable promise of more.
Elizabeth takes the oars, and rows for home.