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The quiet moments were the hardest, with the gentle lapping of waves and sand between his toes - and far less comfortable places, which, weeks ago, Jack would've heartily complained about, but he was already walking on thin ice with Anne as of late, and they had far greater things to worry about. Jack craved the roar of the sea, the clap of thunder, the smell of gunpowder… anything to drown out the voice in his head; the voice that kept him awake at night; the voice that reminded him each night that it was his fault.
He took a breath, shaky and strained, as he looked out at the vast blue before him. She is a cruel mistress, but all the best ones are , Charles has once said, a smirk on his lips and light in his eyes. When Charles looked upon the sea, it was with awe, admiration, and a respect he granted to few. You could see it, the love ( damn you Charles, only you could fall in love with the damned sea!) and the sheer awe he felt, but beneath that, there was something else - belonging.
When Jack Rackham looked upon the sea, he found no such belonging, felt no such love and awe, not anymore. No, when Jack Rackham looked upon the sea, there on that beach, sand cutting into his skin as he gripped it hard enough to sting; hard enough to feel something, he only saw Charles. The sea was Charles Vane, the glimmer of his eyes, his ferocity in battle, the calmness before the storm. He wanted a name for himself, wanted his name upon the lips of strangers - Captain Jack Rackham, a feared pirate! - but how could he ever sail those seas with this anchor in his chest. You’d sink, and she’d swallow you whole. You'll thrash and she'll swallow your screams too, but she'll warm you, claim you, comfort you, and she'll deliver you straight to him, straight to those vibrant eyes, straight to that infuriating smirk, straight to-
“You're doing it again,” Anne spoke, a surprising softness in her voice. Jack couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, afraid of what he’d find there. Those eyes had a way of piercing through his skin, through muscle and bone, straight to his very core. She knew him too well. He startled at the touch of her hand atop his own, sand still tight in his grip. “Come back.”
He released the sand along with his breath, head thumping back against the rock behind him, his eyes blurred with salt. Anne’s touch was warm, always warm. She was home. She was all he had left. There was a time when that touch would be enough for them both, when that touch would lead to something more, but that time had passed. They weren't the same people anymore, Nassau had seen to that. They had loved, and they had both lost.