Page 97 of Rears & Vices

“That’s not what I mean. He isn’t… he’s not crew! He’s… mine!” Everard’s voice broke abruptly.

Vitaliy gave up on the knitting, setting it aside.

There was a long silence, wherein Everard wrung out the washcloth in the basin, and re-laid it upon D’Arcy’s forehead. He’d reject it in a moment as he turned onto the swollen planes of his face, and jerked away onto the other; and then the cycle would begin again. But Everard could do this for him, so he would.

“I understand,” Vitaliy said at last. “You want blood, and want me to order it using authority you feel I possess. I won’t do that. I cannot. I am a figurehead, not an autocrat. Much less a despot.”

“I’m not asking for that. I mean, I might want blood,” Everard admitted. “Only look at him. I want the world to burn, and whoever did this to him, also. But you needn’t reach all the way to despotism.”

“Not for the world to burn?” Vitaliy challenged. “Or you wish me to put to pyre a handful of my own crew?”

“N-no,” Everard stammered. “But, Vee—they—someone did this to get to you. Through me. Through Preston. Don’t you see?”

“No. What you want,” Vitaliy said, infuriatingly calm, “what you are ultimately asking me for, is rank. Preference. Elevation. You and he are maybe accustomed to this, but this is not the Navy,” he emphasised. “No pirate—none—has the status of untouchable. Nor should anyone. The crew elected me to provide them a service. A private vendetta—because this is private, it has nothing to do with me—is not that service.”

“The hell it isn’t! Fighting is supposedly disallowed! You’re a pirate with a code of bloody reciprocal violence! If it were anyone else lying here—León—Stephan—René⁠—”

Me? Everard thought, despairingly. “—would you do the same?”

Vitaliy shook his head. “You are still all ideal, no practice, Everard.”

“Well—yes!” Everard exclaimed. Beside him, D’Arcy stirred, and he lowered his voice to a hiss. “I am! To be frank, I don’t think I will ever not be, if this is what’s required of practice⁠—”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot help you,” Vitaliy said coolly. “It is Milly’s place if he will seek compensation for the damage. I cannot undermine her.”

“I will never—but she’s the one who’s done this! All of this! Don’t you see that?”

Vitaliy closed his eyes, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Don’t.”

Absolutely beyond, Everard stood and threw the rag. It landed on the rug with a damp splat.

“On this you will heed me,” he seethed. “There’s no one else. She despises me, wants me gone, wants you supplanted. What better way than to send an irrefutable message that you cannot protect your own?”

Vitaliy placed both hands flat on the arms of his chair.

“Milly is my own,” he said quietly. “You dislike her because you have had few enough interactions with women in your lifetime that you see baseless fault in one who doesn’t fit within your narrow view of how one should be. Or,” Vitaliy added, “you are jealous. Either is ridiculous. I trust her, the crew trusts her, and that is all you need to know.”

“Oh, dear God.” Everard threw up his hands. “Now you will admit authority! In the name of blind trust! Trust her because you do! Well, I cannot. Not in this nor anything else. Certainly not to negotiate the justice of aught she made with her own bloodied hands. No.”

Vitaliy stood: slowly; nonthreatening; weary.

“I’ll leave you.”

“Vee—”

“I would tell you to bring these insults to her face,” Vitaliy said, “but I think Milly would kill you as a matter of honor. She had no hand in this. And if you will not accept my judgment on it—if you do not trust me—I can do nothing else to convince you.”

He strode over to the door, opened it with careful, stiff movements.

“But,” he said hesitantly, “I can… I will ask her what she plans to do in regards to what the lieutenant suffered today. It won’t be blood, or justice; but she can make it known it isn’t conducive to the goals of the fleet. I believe she will agree to this.”

Thus deflated, Everard sank down onto the cot. He was careful not to disturb D’Arcy more than he had already.

If you don’t trust me…

How could he, when Vitaliy was choosing her? Choosing another?

And so have I, he thought, pushing damp curls from D’Arcy’s forehead. Look how neither of us is choosing the other.