Chapter 2
Pirates were filthy, loud and disgustingly crass; their crude jokes and leers with an edge that made a shiver crawl up his spine put even the boys in the Navy to shame. Steve was no blushing virgin by any means, but he was damn uncomfortable with his recently acquired company.
Pirates. If he never saw one again it'd be too soon. (Scum of the earth, his Pa used to say, and Steve had never found any evidence to dispute his rigid prejudice (one that Steve had long since adopted); his Pa also used to snarl that ‘not every criminal is a pirate, but every pirate is a criminal. Mark my words boy, there ain't a single good un out there. Every pirate has a coward’s ‘eart.’ Steve wasn't surprised to find that he was correct.)
There was something off about them, about how they were barely disciplined (he’d only seen one man get flogged, and that was just fifteen lashes for thievery) and yet they were… organised. There was no better word for it; they got up, did their chores (all the while singing shanties somehow even bawdier and filthier than what the lads in the Navy used to sing with him, which surprised him, even when he knew it probably shouldn’t; roughians with no class couldn’t be expected to behave any differently after all) and work, and then, if they had free time, relaxed with ale and bawdy tunes.
He stepped out of the shared sleeping quarters, pulling a shirt over his head and making his way towards the helm, where the ‘captain’ was stood next to his Helmsman, arms folded and eyes narrowed against the morning sun. “Ar, we'll be pullin’ inter the ‘arbour now, Laddie.” The Captain offered with a nod in lieu of a greeting, eyes firmly locked onto the horizon.
Steve grunted, jaw clenched and lips pursed. Natasha was his last (and dreaded) option at finding Bucky. If she found herself unable to find the information he needed, then no soul alive could. He scowled at the thought, his usual optimism clouded by his increasing failures; he'd used every connection he had gained in the Navy after being discharged (his search for Bucky had become ‘obsessive’ and too consuming and they couldn’t condone it) to locate the ship he’d been taken by, but none of them had come through. All he’d heard was that it had been sent to the bottom of the ocean by some mysterious ship captained by a heroic, slave-liberating pirate.
It’s name was whispered amongst the lands. The Vendicatore. Hopefully Natasha would be able to find it for him; if anyone knew where Bucky was, Steve was placing his money on the pirate Captain.
Steve always felt nervous during the trek from the harbour to the small, unremarkable building used as the headquarters of the secretive organisation Natasha worked for. He had met her whilst on one of his rare periods of leave from the Navy, and they had struck up a deal; a trade of information. He hoped desperately that she would take pity on him and Bucky.
“Captain Rogers to see Lady Natasha.” His curt identification to the doorman earned him a raised eyebrow, but the slight man, wisely, remained silent as he gestured for Steve to step inside, motioning to another servant in eyesight to fetch Natasha.
Taking his seat in one of the plush armchairs, Steve ran his hands along his pants, restless. Nervous energy manifested in fidgeting, and soon he was plucking at the material, leg bobbing and eyes darting across the entrance room. He felt unsettled to his core, sat here waiting while Bucky could be anywhere going through several kinds of Hell. A faint sickness settled in his stomach at the thought; he had never felt as hopelessly desperate, so melancholy, as he did in that moment.
He was pulled from the swirling darkness of his mind, the heaviness of his inexplicable guilt by the curt: “Lady Natasha to see you, Captain.” His head snapped up as he stood to attention.
The voice, coloured by a stiff accent of the Northern part of the continent that reminded Steve painfully of his superiors in the Navy, of what he had lost by leaving the small family his crew had become, brought his eyes snapping to the speaker located at the doorway, accompanied by Natasha herself.
She struck a striking figure, as she always did. Tall, slender and graceful, she was the perfect image of regality. The neckline of her bright and flowing dress, the colour of rubies, precious and rare, dipping low across her clavicle to expose a delicate throat, did nothing to hide her unnatural ease as she glided over to him. The danger she exhibited just by breathing. She had suffered greatly as a child, and from that suffering was borne this cold, unyielding woman who was just as capable of stealing your last breath as she was to seduce. There was an edge to her, a way to her movements that reminded him of some kind of jungle cat that Sam had one told stories of when the nights were wet and cold, their only source of warmth the single fire they all huddled around. She was almost angelic in her beauty. Almost. “Steven.” Her smile was warm and welcoming; maybe even genuine. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Her voice was calm and soothing as he greeted her, pressing a kiss to each cheek and grasping her gloved hand.
“Natasha,” he managed, sorrow thick in his throat. “Natasha, please, you have to help me.”
She raised a slender, perfect eyebrow, lips pursed into a thin line. “Follow me.” It must be a grave issue indeed if the proud Captain was reduced to begging.
Dread curled low in Natasha’s gut; a serpent writhing within her, churning the very pits of her stomach, chilling the very blood that ran through her veins. What would bring the Captain to her door in such a terrible state in such she had never seen him before? What cruel act had God seen fit to punish him with, she wondered as she led him away from prying eyes, desperate for information. The suspense, the lack of information, a situation she rarely found herself in, unsettled her, thrummed within her brain, feeding her anxieties.
He looked like somebody had died.
He looked truly awful; hair filthy with dirt and grease, and smelling like he hadn’t bathed in far too long. His clothes weren’t faring too much better, either; torn and filthy, they made him look like he had just come off the street, or perhaps more like a raggedy pirate than a naval Captain. And he had called her Natasha, something he only did in private, when they could be themselves, just Natasha and Steve, and had practically clung to her. It was unsettling.
Having led him upstairs to a more private room, she shut the door before turning to him, crossing her arms. “Tell me everything,” she demanded, gaze sharp.
Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking lost. ‘Nat, I… I can’t find him, I can’t. I thought I did, but he was gone and I’m so scared because I lost him again and I-” He broke off with a sob, sinking to his knees. Shining eyes met hers as she stepped closer, bringing his head to her stomach and running a hand through his hair, trying to offer him comfort.
Ah. James, then. She’d heard whispers of his kidnapping, but had hoped that they were born on a falsehood, nothing more than simple rumours.
“Shhh, we’ll find him, I promise.”
He buried his head into her stomach, chest heaving with his sobs. “I need your help, Nat. I need you to find him.”
She frowned, her hand slowing to a stop. “Steve?”
He looked up at her, eyes wide and hopeful. “I heard about this ship, The Vendicatore, and how it liberates slaves. Saves them, but nobody can find it. I can’t find it, but you can!” He was almost frantic now. “If anyone can, you can, I know it.”
She bit her lip absently, considering. “It’s a legend, Steve,” she said gently, sighing when he shook his head, frowning.
“Please. Please, Nat, I’ll do anything.”
She sighed again, hand resuming its motions. “I’ll look into it,” she promised.
His smile was almost as bright as the stars she used to wish upon as a child. “Thank you, Nat, thank you.”
Steve stayed with Natasha while she searched for the information on the ship, mostly silent and vacant. It was like he had become a mere husk of himself since suffering the double-loss of losing Bucky twice.
Natasha just searched harder, her methods becoming increasingly violent as Steve became increasingly hopeless. She couldn’t stand to see her friend- perhaps her only friend- like this. Not when she had the power to do something about it.
It was two weeks before she found anything worthwhile.
“The Southern Continent?” She tilted her head to the side, ever the predator, lips pursed in thought as the man gurgled, head tilted back over the back of the chair he was tied to, slowly choking on his blood. Her sharp gaze pinned him, more painful than any of the torture she’d bestowed upon him. “Can you take me there?”
The man sobbed, snot and blood streaming down his face, dropping to the floor in clumps. Her lips curled in disgust as he remained otherwise silent. “Well that’s a shame,” she sighed, almost regretfully as she raised her blade, prompting him to splutter and cry out. “Wait!” She raised an eyebrow, stilling. “I know where she will be.” When she remained silent, he swallowed, his few remaining fingers twitching. “There’s two slave-traders headed to the Slave Continent, from England.” His tongue darted out to whet his lips as he continued. “He'll intercept them on their journey, probably near the Middle Passage, in two and a half month’s time.”
Natasha smiled, a cruel, satisfied thing that promised pain. It didn't falter, not even as she drew her blade across his throat, ending it all as swift as she'd ensnared him with a simple, suggestive smile.
“The good Captain will be most pleased to hear that,” she told his cooling corpse. “Most pleased indeed.” Her bared teeth glinted in the darkness of the room, a truly terrifying sight.
Steve cried at the news, and didn’t release Natasha from his embrace until long after it became improper and awkward. His tears stained her dress, which irritated her, but she graciously ignored it in favour of patting his back consolingly. “Natasha, thank you,” he breathed, squeezing her tightly as if to convey his gratitude through constricting her like those long, slender beasts she’d come across whilst in the Slave Continent.
“Yes, well, I promised after all.” Clearing her throat, she stepped out of his hold, shifting uncomfortably. “He is my friend, too, after all,” she added, not meeting his gaze.
Steve laughed once, a wet, joyful thing. “Indeed, and how grateful I am of that fact.”
“Yes, well. Come, now. We have a ship and crew to gather.”