Chapter Text
There was something particular about Bilgewater’s finest. First of which being that those considered the finest in Bilgewater were not considered very fine anywhere else. They were often murderers, always thieves, and occasionally just kinda mean. Among the Bilgewater seascum that rose to the top was Sarah Fortune: Bilgewater’s Pirate Lord, captain of The Syren, slayer of Reaver King Gangplank, and — apparently now, babysitter. Sarah was, for the past twenty-four hours, housing the bump on a driftwood log named Malcolm Graves — another of Bilgewater’s finest. He was a most ungracious guest. Predictably so. He grumbled at her girls, shooed off Rafen, and cut her dirty looks whenever she came by.
It would be more annoying if it weren’t so funny.
He still licked his wounds from her little set-up when she took down the Jagged Hooks. And his wounds from when she had nearly given him and Fate to a sea witch. And his wounds when she had nearly won his beloved shotgun, Destiny II, in a Krakenhand game (she always knew she could treat that babe better than Graves could). And yet here he was in her manor because his man wouldn’t have him — and neither would anyone else in this town.
At least, that’s what he seemed to keep mumbling about. Sarah never knew for exact sure just what those two’s deal was at any time of day. Sometimes it seemed like they were partners in crime as per the last whatever-decades they’d been together, sometimes it seemed like they were going at it like rodents behind closed doors, and sometimes — like this time — they just seemed like jaded exes. She finally got some kinda information out of him when he told her, “Tobias has got some nerve if he thinks I’ll keep crawlin’ back to him when he’s actin’ like a flea-bitten son of a — ” and then some other things she didn’t hear because he already had his mouth around the bottle of rum materialized for the occasion. She sure hoped it wasn’t one of her own stocks, but knowing her company, it was probably Rafen’s. Some kind of collateral blackmail for quote-unquote “saving his life”.
Nevertheless, Graves was on her couch, and he wouldn’t leave. Sure, she could threaten him, but — aw, the guy had a gruff, deeply pathetic charm when he was upset, not unlike a feral pup. And so, she decided, the only way to get him out of her house was to find his fella and make them make up.
They were both uniquely difficult and uniquely easy gentlemen to talk to. Sometimes she preferred Graves for his simple and blunt conversation. Or when she needed to get out some aggression by fruitlessly threatening someone, or drinking with someone, or drinking and then threatening someone. Fate was different. He required a more careful touch, because unlike Graves, he could make deductions. Sometimes simple, but sometimes impressive. It was a wonder how he could figure it all out. Unfortunately for him, Sarah was smarter. She was always smarter, and would always be one step ahead. That’s why she liked him. If he thought he could beat your hand, he was blind to everything else. Plus, it was nice to talk to someone with some verbiage for once.
If she had to throw a dart to where Fate was hiding right about now, it would hit two spots on the board. Either a shockingly sanitary locale frequented by Bilge tourists — the rich lot that don’t know what that man could swindle them out of — or a bar where the occult-friendly like to patronize down in Rat Town. The latter was not usually one of her own haunts. Nothing against mages, they were useful for many purposes. But as frequent friends … they got kinda weird. A little messy. Nobody wants that kind of baggage when they got enough bags to carry.
Well, except Graves, obviously.
Sarah held out hope that Fate was in the middle of a scandalous game of Krakenhand in a high-end tavern— one where the unfortunate suckers across the table would be down to their skivvies and desolate, but there was never such luck. Down the lifts, then.
When she did finally find that adorned gambler, he looked like he was trying to make himself small and inconspicuous in a corner — two things that were both counter to his flamboyant nature, and counter to his dandy appearance. Unfortunately for him, Pirate Lord Fortune was a sight to behold down here, and so when she went toward him, so did all of the eyes in the place.
He did not look up from neither his cup nor his hat as he played a game of solitaire on the table.
“Fate,” Sarah greeted.
“Fortune,” Fate greeted.
“Sorry to interrupt your little staycation, and, uh — ” she looked at his drink when he set it down. Ale so pale it could honestly just be discolored water. “ — revelry. But I happen to have a mangy dog up in the manor, and he’s about half a day away from starting to mark his territory and chew through my furniture.”
“You should know better than to feed the strays, darlin’.”
“Cute, but he’s not a stray. He’s yours.”
Fate’s lips tightened at the corners as he glanced up at her. He looked tired, more than usual. The kind of tired that you can’t scrub away with the fancy soaps or pretend away with expensive powders. “Sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Cut the crap, Fate. Why’re you fighting now? ”
“We ain’t.”
“Bullshit.” She cocked a hand on her hip, thumb curling around her belt. “But, if you insist, can you let Graves know that so he can get out of my house?”
Fate pulled a card and purposefully placed it on one of the lines he was making. He was quiet for so long, Sarah considered snatching either the card or his hat — but she wasn’t in the mood for the dramatic repercussions thereafter. Just yet.
Right before she opens her mouth, he asks, “He’s that upset?”
It throws her for one hell of a loop. He sounded a modicum more like a feeling person than usual. Still, she was feeling more impatient than compassionate. “He’s pretty damn upset, yeah. What did it this time, huh? Another uneven bounty split, or did he say your new shoes didn’t match your eyes?”
“He didn’t do nothin’.”
Another surprising admission from the top ropes. Twisted Fate not immediately shirking responsibility onto another? Sarah ended up taking a seat, deciding that this was going to require a different touch than her first intention. “Alright, tell me.”
“There’s nothin’ to —”
“Fate.”
Fate looked up again, brows furrowing, jaw shifting. He seemed an initial mix of confused and affronted, insulted she would try to break past his hardened defenses. After a moment, though, he sighed and stopped guarding forward, leaning back against his chair’s rest. “Honest to the Gods, Sarah,” he said in a tone of levity, arms up. “You always gotta stick your nose in others’ business.”
“Honey. You two make your business all of Bilgewater’s business.”
“You wouldn’t know nothin’ about all that, huh?”
Sarah laughed, stealing his cup with a finger around the handle. “Touche, I guess. Still, I would like him to stop stinking up my parlor. I already made him take a bath to stick around. By now it’s just regular man-stink.”
“Mmmm.” Fate drew a card and studied its face for far too long. “I could talk to him.”
The ace went down to the table, completing a suited line. Sarah took a sip from the cup. She nearly recoiled at the unexpected taste — or rather, lack thereof. It really was just water. Fate wasn’t much of a drinker to her knowledge, but … “Great, then talk to him,” she said.
“Fact is, I think he’s gonna end up mopin’ around either way. ‘Cuz once I do talk to him, he’ll want nothin’ to do with me anymore.”
The matter-of-factness that came with that sentence gave Sarah pause. She was under the current impression that they’d kissed and made up already. Several times, and nightly. “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
Fate shrugged, snagging back his cup. “You met him?”
He had a point there. “Fine, fine. So he’s gonna hate you and burn down the city again, and all of us in it, and declare vengeance. Again. Before we both die, though, can you fill me in on what the hell all this is about?”
“Oh, right before we die? You got it, sugar.”
“Twisted Fate.”
The full use of his stage name had him grimacing. “Okay,” he hissed. “Listen, it really ain’t none of your concern. Things’ve just … changed. For better or worse, I guess.” He collected his cards and replaced them with a silver serpent for the barmaid in one swipe, then stood. Sarah took the cue to stand with him. She also couldn’t help but notice the small pinch between his brows when his feet settled on the heels of his boots — the kind made for style over comfort.
“Why don’t I ever get to go on your little blue card rides, huh?” She asked as they exited the establishment. “It sounds preferable to walking.”
“Graves complains that it gives him a migraine. Think you could handle it?” He used that vaguely flirtatious tone he likes to do, the kind that means nothing at all. She was quite familiar because it happened to be just like her own. They were kindred that way.
“I think I could handle it better than you can handle a long stroll.”
“Beggin’ your pardon. My calves are exquisite.”
“Not talkin’ about your calves, T.F.”
Fate glanced at her as they boarded the elevator. His look was sharp, studious, like he was figuring out exactly what she figured out. For a moment, she could see the candlelight flickering on in his eyes. Then he looked back out at the shrinking buildings as they rose up the cliffs.
“Congratulations,” Sarah offered after the silence.
Fate’s lips curved down at a severe peak. “Congratulations to the damn mud.”
“It would do well for you both, in my opinion. Retire somewhere nice, do good, stay out of my hair for once. Live an ordinary, boring life.” It was meant to be a joke, but it was clear a little too late that the time for jokes was well past. She couldn’t see Fate’s face anymore between the brim of his hat and the pop of his collar.
“Livin’ is the concern.”
This time their silence was elongated.
There was no release from the heavy lull as the lift’s chains ricketed on and on. No reprieve until they’d well reached the top.
Fate held out a hand for her to go first. He followed after her grateful nod.
“Fate,” Sarah said quietly as they approached her estate and paused at the entrance. “If you ever need anything —”
“‘Preciate it, Cap’n,” he interrupted, tone bearing the fake levity of before. “Maybe keep yourself from lettin’ Bilgewater blow itself to high heaven for the next eighteen years, huh?”
It took Sarah off-guard momentarily, though soon she smiled. “No promises. Maybe get yourself a blast-proof baby?"