Romance & comedy short. A quartermaster works up the nerve to finally mount a seduction on their accountant.
Rated M, M/M, 4.5k. Dark humour and biting banter throughout, between an exceedingly cautious and paranoid accountant and the quartermaster who’s finally worked up the courage to ask him out. Adapted from a TweetFic.
Ross Forthright had always been a bit — painfully — enchanted by the nasty little accountant at the island office. More than enchanted. Bewitched, maybe. Enamoured by.
In love with.
Quartermaster for the Feathered Bird, Ross liked to think he knew how to handle money and who to trust it with, and that was true enough: he took sharp and focused care of the crew’s shares in this and that endeavour, always made sure men had their retirement or leaving funds squared away, and the accountant, whose name was Vermeer, was part of that being squared away.
Whenever they made port on the island, it was to the little bank office that Ross went, and to the section therein that was Vermeer’s domain.
It was just a few small offices, and Vermeer was small himself: he was a severe little man, always in his proper made-up vest and well-shone shoes, no matter that the heat and the humidity were agonising, that all his counterparts dressed like any other pirate, just with fewer blood stains on their shirt. The thing that really set him apart was how high he wore his shirt collar, not with an actual jabot, but with lacing that brought it up so high the top of it kissed the underside of his jaw whenever he was looking down, and it went a long way to keeping his neck stiff and his head high.
He didn’t much look like pirate material, but he spat whenever someone mentioned the king (regardless of which king it was), and he was known to sneer at ex-navymen.
Ross was almost too shy to talk when he went in the first time, overpowered by the rapid bustle of the pirate office and its constant movement, but the accountant was always brisk and direct, asking what income he could report, what dues he wanted paying, what crew needed to withdraw their shares or add to them or marry them together, and occasionally serious discussions about what ventures Ross would sign off for Vermeer to invest in on their behalf.
He was very good at investment, and Ross almost couldn’t believe that anyone went with the other men instead of Vermeer when Vermeer was known to make a crew as much money as he did, always seeming to know which investments to avoid and which were worth it, which expeditions would lead to good returns when funded, and which would go to naught, but Vermeer was overpowering, intimidating, and known to be insane. Ross supposed that put a lot of people off.
It was easy to answer Vermeer’s business questions, of course, and for all it spoke to his own lacking self-preservation, Ross wanted to talk to him more, even with the intimidation, insanity, and overpowering nature taken into account.
He wanted to invite him to come out with him after, offer to buy him a drink, but he got tongue-tied whenever they got to anything but numbers.
Today, after establishing that Barder was going to withdraw in three months’ time, that they’d had two new additions to the crew, that he was pleased to invest in the Autumn venture if Vermeer thought she was a good ship, Vermeer stared at him and demanded, “What else?”
Business had been concluded, and Ross was lingering.
He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t make the words come, so he left.
The next time he went in was three months later. It was the hottest day he could remember, the world outside burning with humid heat and the skies soon to break into a tempest.
The air was thick and heavy, and Ross was soaked with sweat. Vermeer was sweating too, and on his bare skin, Ross could see tattooed sea serpents curled around his forearms. They disappeared up under the shirt, and Ross’ mouth was dry, wanting to follow them further up.
Business, first.
And then: “You… I… There’s a storm coming.”
Vermeer looked up from the piece of paper he’d just savagely shoved down onto a spike, and stared at Ross, scrutinising him, as though inside his head, he was stripping off the outer layer of Ross’ skin, so that he could get a good look at whatever was underneath.
“Soon to be, yes,” he agreed.
“What are you,” started Ross, then swallowed around the dryness in his throat, felt as though he’d been gargling saw shavings, “what are you going to do?”
Vermeer, who had turned away to look back to his paperwork, slowly turned his head back. His gaze was more severe than ever, and so cold that Ross almost stopped feeling the heat.
Vermeer’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to account a storm out of existence, sir?” he asked, making the final word sound like the most unimaginable slur. “Expect me to have it pay its dues at port, perhaps?”
Nervously, Ross laughed.
Vermeer didn’t.
“I just meant, that is to say, I… Where will you… go?”
“Where will I go?” repeated Vermeer.
“In a… in a tavern? Maybe? Or a, or a rest house?”
Ross’ voice had begun to squeak and go hoarse at the edges, which Vermeer looked to disapprove of most of all. He was looking at Ross with such apparent hatred now that Ross wished the ground would swallow him whole.
“Because I…” Ross almost felt dizzy. “I’d, I’d like…”
“You’d like?”
“You,” Ross managed.
The accountant’s eyes, already narrowed, became slits, and he scowled very deeply as he prowled forward, around his desk. Ross stepped back but the other man advanced on him, and the wind was knocked out of him as Vermeer shoved him back.
Looking down at Vermeer, Ross was experiencing a rising panic.
“Do I look like a bedwarmer to you?” asked Vermeer coldly.
There was a glint of shining metal in one of his sleeves that Ross tried not to look at directly, as though not looking at a man’s knife would save you in the way not looking at a tiger’s eyes might.
“No, no, no,” said Ross hurriedly. “It’s very hot, I’m sure no one needs one.”
Vermeer’s eyes flashed with fury.
“But that’s not the point!” Ross managed to say. “I don’t want you for your, your, um, I’m sure you don’t have anything.”
“You’re sure I don’t have anything?” repeated Vermeer.
“You’re lovely,” Ross choked out.
Vermeer actually recoiled, the knife disappearing, and he looked Ross up and down now as if he was some sort of strange creature or curiosity on exhibition, not quite comprehending who or what he was looking at.
“This is a strange trick,” he said.
“Trick?”
“You believe I’d let you fuck me?” asked Vermeer, in so unpleasant and nasty a tone that Ross crumpled somewhat, waning back against the wall.
“I wasn’t expecting a fuck in this heat,” he said. “Just talk is all.”
“Talk with me?” asked Vermeer sceptically. “Why?”
“I’m sorry,” said Ross. “Of course you don’t want, I mean, you’re very — Compared to the likes of me, obviously, I can’t co — Sorry. Sorry. I’ll just, I’ll go — ”
Vermeer’s hand whipped out so fast Ross didn’t even see it move. His fingers couldn’t even remotely curl around the whole of Ross’ wrist, but despite the accountant’s small size, his grip was supremely strong. Vermeer looked up at him, frowning deeply, and then took a slow, deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Ross.
“Yes, I heard you,” Vermeer muttered, impatient. Ross got the impression that having never given an apology, he didn’t much see the point of other people giving them to him. “A drink, you say?”
Ross nodded furiously. Vermeer’s lips moved as he bit the inside of his lower lip.
After some moments had passed, he asked, “Why?”
“You’re lovely.”
“I’m not,” said Vermeer. “I’m cold as anything, as well you know.”
“That’s not just for work?” asked Ross.
“That’s me to my core.”
“You look lovely,” said Ross. “And — and always… stressed.”
“You want to relieve me of my stress?”
“I’d like to make you smile,” said Ross.
“Fool’s errand.”
“Alright,” mumbled Ross, looking down at the floor.
Vermeer, very slowly, released Ross’ wrist and drew back his hand. As though he were setting a business appointment, he said in crisp, clear tones: “The Hung King. Eight o’clock.”
Ross stumbled out in a haze.
The tavern was busy, but Vermeer was given a more than respectful berth as he entered the room. He sat himself at a table to the edge of the bar, alone — as Ross made his way across the room, shouldering past the crowd that had parted like a wave to let Vermeer through, he saw two different men stop to speak to him, then go.
Each of them was smiling and looked surprised when they first said hello, and Vermeer swiftly disarmed them of that.
They stayed standing and a distance away, as though frightened to be within touching distance of Vermeer, and Ross almost wondered if he was making a mistake to go as close as he was with his two tankards of beer.
Vermeer, who was drinking out of a dark glass bottle that didn’t smell of rum, said, “I hope those are both for you.”
Ross swallowed. “Well, they are now, if you won’t take one.”
Vermeer poured a measure from his bottle into a little metal cup and took a sip.
“You prefer spirits, I s’pose?” asked Ross.
“What do you want?” was Vermeer’s business-like response.
Ross faltered. “Well, your company, I suppose,” he said.
“You have it,” said Vermeer. “What next?”
“Idle talk?”
“This isn’t sufficiently idle for your liking?”
“Not unless you relax a bit.”
“I’m not a relaxed man.”
“Maybe time’s are I could change that,” suggested Ross, although he said it cautiously, not knowing how explosive the response would be. Luckily, this statement didn’t appear to set alight Vermeer’s temper.
He blinked, leaning back ever so slightly, and peered at Ross with great suspicion writ on his face, but no rage. “And how would you benefit from such a thing? Might you defraud our office, if I’m relaxed?”
Ross laughed. “You’re right suspicious, aren’t you?”
“You’re a pirate. You think perhaps I should afford you a preponderance of trust?”
“Been coming to you for some years — can’t you trust me by now?”
“Perhaps the only reason I could trust your lack of fraud is because of my lack of relaxation.”
Ross laughed again. He did it out of shock and powerlessness and bafflement all at once, and not anything individual.
Vermeer disapproved of this the most so far.
“You trust me more than you’d trust a navy sailor, don’t you?”
“Why do you ask?” demanded Vermeer, voice brittle. “Did you serve in a navy before you were a pirate?”
“No, sir. I was born in Tortuga — been a pirate all my life.”
“Hmph,” said Vermeer. His expression was all suspicion, but his body seemed slightly to relax, as he poured himself another drink.
“You’re… French?” hazarded Ross.
“You don’t know already?”
“I can hear your accent.”
“Why does it matter? Why do you want to know?”
“Isn’t it natural to want to learn about others?”
“If learning such things might benefit you, or allow you to exploit their weaknesses.”
“I’m beginning to find it increasingly hard to believe you have weaknesses,” said Ross.
Vermeer liked that. His lips twisted, and although it wasn’t a smile exactly, Ross thought there was approval in it.
“I’m Belgian,” he said.
“Were you in the Belgian navy before?”
“You invited me here to insult me?”
“No, no,” said Ross. “Just… just asking.”
Vermeer leaned across the table to look at him, scowling fiercely, all his scant approval cast to the four winds. He demanded, in a very quiet and venomous voice that made Ross want to hide under the table, “What do you want from me?”
Underneath the venom was an air of strange fragility that Ross didn’t expect, and it bolstered his confidence somewhat.
“I don’t want nothing except to, to talk to you. And — and that.”
“And what? What precisely? You want to fuck me, is that it?”
“Well, maybe, if you’d like, but I didn’t want to… That wasn’t the only — What do you think I wanted from you?”
On more comfortable ground now, Vermeer said, “To kill me. Naturally.”
“Why the fuck would I want to kill you?”
“Why else would you want to be anywhere near me?”
“The same reason anyone wants to be close to anyone. Just, friendship, you know. Intimacy.”
“In all the time we’ve engaged in business together, Mr Forthright, have I ever struck you as either friendly or intimate?”
“No.”
“No.”
“But that was at work.”
“Ah,” said Vermeer. “And now, seeing me outside of my offices, you see that outside of work, after all, I am…”
“Not friendly or intimate,” finished Ross weakly.
“Not in the least.”
“Wouldn’t you like to be?”
“With you?”
“With anybody, I suppose”
“But you’re asking for you.”
“Of course I’m asking for me,” said Ross. “I invited you here, didn’t I?”
“You’ve changed your mind by now, I should expect.”
“No, not really,” said Ross. “I knew you were a bit… distant. But I knew that from the start — I’ve only been working up the nerve to ask for five years, or however long it is we’ve worked together.”
“Six,” said Ross, blinking at him. “All this time?”
“Yeah. You’re… Beguiling.”
“I’m no such thing.”
“You are. You’ve a cleft chin and those rounded cheeks, and your mouth is… When you purse it the way you do, what with the big bow in it and your lower lip being smaller, it’s almost like a heart. Kissable.”
“Kiss me,” said Vermeer doubtfully, “and stab me whilst I’m distracted.”
“Do I fucking look like an assassin?”
“Assassins don’t have a look. If they did, people wouldn’t often be assassinated.”
Ross really didn’t have an answer for that. “Do people often try to kill you?”
“More often than they mount a seduction.”
“That why you’re so uncomfortable? You’re not used to being seduced. You don’t know what to expect from it?”
Vermeer’s lips tightened all the way, his eyes flaring with a burning heat, and for the first time, Ross didn’t flinch away from it. “It don’t have to be a seduction,” he said quietly. “If you don’t want it to be.”
“And what should I want it to be?”
“Not an assassination,” said Ross. “But I just mean, I could go, if you… if you wanted me to go. I don’t want to upset you.”
“Do I look upset?”
“I’ve no fucking idea. Never seen a man who wears his face like you do.”
This seemed to offset Vermeer even more, and he leaned back slightly, giving Ross a queer, uncertain look. His face forgot to be stern and angry, and for a moment seemed softer — not more relaxed, but more vulnerable, less of a hard wall.
“What were you hoping we’d do with this time together?”
“Talk?”
“Aren’t we talking now?”
“No, this is… a lot more hostile than I imagined.”
“Oh, I see,” said Vermeer, sniffing. “Not idle enough for your liking. What constitutes, in your mind, as idle?”
“Do you like cats?”
Vermeer frowned. “The whip?”
“Hell’s bells,” said Ross. “No, not the whip — the feline. The animal, the creature, four legs, whiskers, a tail. Domesticated, which is more than I can say for you.”
“Ought I like them?”
“Do you dislike them?”
“I’ve no strong feelings in either direction.”
“Is there anything you’ve strong positive feelings about?”
“My privacy.”
Ross, beginning to feel like he was getting in the swing of things now, laughed, and said, “Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall.”
“Your intelligence as I’ve judged it thus far would have me believe that’s a common pastime of yours.”
“Brick wall might be easier to make smile.”
“Have you ever seen me smile?”
“Has anybody?”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
“Never?”
“Who’s to say?”
“You’re the expert.”
“Why should I admit to smiling?”
“Is smiling a crime now?”
“What has crime to do with it? We’re each of us brigands.”
“Do you like men?”
“Which men?”
“Which — which men?”
“Which men are you asking if I like?”
“Men in general, I suppose.”
“Oh, I see. No, I certainly don’t.”
“Women?”
“No.”
“Dogs?”
“I’ve no opinion.”
“Horses?”
“The same.”
“Fish?”
“Which fish?”
“I…” Ross gestured vaguely. “A shark.”
For a moment, Vermeer considered this, thinking very carefully, and then decided — though his tone was still quite guarded — “Yes. Yes, I like them.”
Ross started laughing. “Have you ever seen a shark?”
“Of course.”
“In the water, or hung up on the dock?”
“Both, but I prefer them alive to dead. I once witnessed a shark burst from the water as fire from a cannon, propelling itself up and out of the water with a seal in its jaws, soon to rend it apart.”
“You don’t like seals, then?”
“I don’t know that I care one way for them or the other.”
“Whales?”
“I like whales.”
“For their oil?”
“I bear no especial affection for whaler men, but I like the whales that target navy vessels mistaking them for their enemy, and sink them.”
“Oh, so it’s not sharks or whales you like,” said Ross. “You just like violence.”
“I like nature — and part of one’s affection for nature, I think, is in an appreciation for retribution.”
“You like blades or guns?”
“You wish me to choose between them?”
“Why not?”
“I like a dagger.”
“A man has to be very close for you to use a dagger. I thought you didn’t like having men get so close.”
“I can throw a dagger,” said Vermeer, in a tone of fond memory that made Ross shiver. “Can’t you?”
“You like whips?”
“Not especially. It’s never the man who deserves it most that gets the cat.”
“You like to be beaten?” asked Ross.
Vermeer arched one eyebrow. “You expect me to say yes to that?”
“Some men do, naught wrong with it,” said Ross. “I’ve fucked lads once or twice only after beating their arses black and blue. Some men like that.”
Vermeer glanced down at Ross’ hands, which were big things, strong and meaty — he was a deft fella, not clumsy, but his hands weren’t made for anything delicate, and it showed.
Vermeer worried his lower lip under his teeth.
“Nothing like a hard crack to the arse to send blood flowing downward,” said Ross, trying his luck.
“On the contrary, sir,” said Vermeer, prim. “A better method is to cut his femoral.”
“Be impressed if a man could get it up after that.”
Vermeer’s laugh was one of the most incredible things he’d ever heard. It was a tiny little giggle, breathless, and as soon as it was out of his mouth, the little accountant clapped his hand over his mouth and stared, wide-eyed, into space.
Ross, enchanted, stared at him. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said softly. “You’ve a wonderful laugh.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” said Vermeer, slowly lowering his hand from his face. “You’re exploring me for weaknesses.”
“I’m not.”
“You give no answers and ask only questions.”
“I’ll answer if you ask me questions,” said Ross. “What do you want to know?”
“Why are we here?”
“This again?”
“You said you’d answer.”
“I just wanted to be closer to you. To get to know you, maybe. Thought you might like me better.”
“Does it matter if people like you?”
“I suppose — I’m quartermaster. Needs to be that the men trust me, and know I look out for their interests, that they can come to me with their troubles, know I’ll stand up for ’em. They don’t have to like me for that, but I don’t want them hating me.”
“You fuck a lot of men?”
“A few, sometimes. I’m no stallion, but I’ve had my fair share.”
“Women?”
“Only once. Couldn’t get it up — she laughed, but not in a nasty way. Didn’t know yet what I liked.”
“You like animals?”
“Not to fuck.”
Vermeer rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, I like animals,” said Ross. “I’m nervous of livestock, avoid the goats and that on the ship when we’re at sea — I don’t like their eyes, how they move — but I like cats and dogs, and animals that are wild, that I can watch from a distance.”
“Sharks?”
“So long as they’re in the water, and I’m not.”
“Horses?”
“Make me nervous — oxen, too.”
“Why would you come for me, when there are so many other men available?” His voice was soft and vicious in the most delicate of ways, like a honed dagger made of finest porcelain.
“I suppose because you’re not like any men I’ve been with. You’re… little, but intimidating. Stern, sharp, very direct. Handsome, but cold. I suppose I was interested in seeing if you thaw.”
“I don’t.”
“Then to see if I can handle the ice.”
Vermeer leaned back in his chair, and once again, he poured from his bottle into his little metal cup, taking a sip from it.
“What is that?” asked Ross.
“Water,” said Vermeer.
“Wa — water?” he repeated. “You bought… water?”
“I brought water. In a bottle.”
“Where the fuck did you get water? From the sea?”
“I maintain a still, and boil it to purify it.”
“Why?”
“So that it’s good to drink.”
“No, no, I mean… What’s wrong with beer?”
“It makes me sick.”
“Well, not if you learn moderation,” said Ross with a pleasant smile, and Vermeer stared at him unflinchingly.
“No,” he said. “Any of it. Drink makes me sick. Violently.”
“Oh.”
“And in any case, I wouldn’t like to be drunk in such a way as to render me vulnerable.”
“Because of everyone out to assassinate you?”
“You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?”
“I think you might be a bit.”
Vermeer pulled down the laced collar of his shirt, which up ’til now had always completely hidden the whole of his neck. The lacing came undone easily, and Ross had imagined this, had imagined undoing that neatly ribboned fastening.
Vermeer’s collar fell open, and Ross stared at the base of his neck, where four criss-crossing lines of pink, corded scarring rested in variations of completion across his neck. Further up, there were other nicks and marks, including a dug-in set of scarring that Ross was pretty sure came either from a hangman’s rope or some other attempt to drag a man by a noose.
“Someone very much wants retribution against you, then,” said Ross.
Vermeer, for the first time except for his giggle, smiled It was a thin, crescent curve, a slight upturn of his lips at their edges that made his lips into a perfectly dangerous bow, and he kept Ross’ gaze.
“What’d you do?”
“Suffice it to say I did sufficient damage at sea,” he said. “I don’t sail any longer.”
“Have to trust a crew for that.”
He expected Vermeer to argue or shake his head, but he didn’t. He gave a small nod, serious, and something in Ross’ chest panged.
“You betrayed your country in some way?”
“Betrayal implies a breach of trust or loyalty. My loyalty was never assured by my being born.”
“You become more intriguing by the minute.”
“Do I? My apologies.”
“So I’ve been coming after you all these years, and you think that for all of them, I’ve been playing the long game to kill you dead, with a packet of pay from the king or whomever burning a hole in my back pocket?”
“You haven’t been coming at me for all these years,” said Vermeer. “You only asked this time.”
“Well, I’ve tried afore. You always made me wither with fear or shame and get the fuck out of your office.”
“Six years, then, of assiduously unlearning your lessons.”
“You don’t like the lessons I’ve unlearned, Mr Vermeer, you just feel welcome to teach me some new ones.”
Vermeer exhaled, drumming his fingers against the table. “You…” He cleared his throat. When he did, the lines of his neck twitched and shifted, and it made the scars there move and ripple. “You raise some interesting points of argument. But I don’t trust as it seems you’d like me to.”
Ross shrugged. “You could always tie me up,” he suggested.
Vermeer froze like the ice he was made of, going utterly still for a moment, and then, his head tilting, he looked back across at Ross. Ross had no idea what to make of his expression, which was curiously open, and so lacking in tension or suspicion that it almost didn’t seem like Vermeer’s face at all.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Vermeer.
“Tie me up,” Ross repeated, feeling a little giddy at the prospect, and more than that, at the light that had come into Vermeer’s eyes. “Can’t try to kill you if you’ve got me in bondage. Couldn’t even move, once you had me bound, if you didn’t want me to. I can show you how to tie my wrists so’s there’s no damage to my hands, nothing cutting off the blood, you know, but I’m still held fast.”
A pair of tiny pink dots had begun to show at the tops of Vermeer’s cheeks, like bright stars showing through the cloud on a foggy night. “Ah,” he said.
“Not tonight, of course,” said Ross. “Just… We can talk, for now. We’re setting sail again in two days — if not tomorrow neither, then, when I’m back, or the next time.”
“You’re remarkably patient.”
“Have been so far, haven’t I?”
“There’s easier men for you to fuck,” said Vermeer.
“Alright, so I’ll fuck them,” said Ross. “Can we keep talking nonetheless?”
“How do I know you’re not some manner of escape artist? An expert in ropes and extricating yourself from their bondage?”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?”
Vermeer looked at him quite coolly.
Ross looked back, managing to keep his face straight, until Vermeer slightly raised his chin, and the crescent curve of his perfect lips came back. Ross could almost come to love this longbow more than he did the heart.
“Let’s talk, then,” said Vermeer.
“Actually,” said Ross, “d’you want to play a game?”
“E — Excuse me?”
“Backgammon?”
“I cheat at backgammon,” said Vermeer, and Ross laughed.
“Are you good?”
“At backgammon?”
“At cheating.”
“Oh, yes. I’m banned from all the local games tables — no one can prove anything, or I’d have faced some manner of official retribution, but I’m not permitted to play cards or anything else in the area, backgammon included.”
Ross’ laugh was quiet and disbelieving. “All the better,” he said.
They talked over the game as they played long into the night — it took time for Ross to realise when exactly he was being cheated, and even keenly watching Vermeer’s hands, it didn’t help him until after whatever he’d done had been done.
When they went to part ways, Vermeer stood first, and leaned to kiss him, his tightly-held lips warm under Ross’ mouth — Ross reached up to put his hand on Vermeer’s little waist, and his wrist was twisted about so fast he grunted in pain into Vermeer’s mouth.
“Sorry,” he grunted when Vermeer pulled away, and the little accountant smiled at him with his eyes dark and his smile looking dangerously sharp, and then he walked away with his bottle of water at his side.
Ross, dizzy, watched him go, and packed up their game until tomorrow.
FIN.
Leave a Reply