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"All he ever did was offer me his friendship. I cast him aside once, spent years regretting it. And now here we are again," Vane says, and looks at him with what might be resignation. "Tell me I didn't do it for nothing."
"Well, I wont lie to you," Flint says. "It would have helped, having the fleet."
Vane huffs a laugh, and Flint catches himself wanting … not to comfort him, exactly, but to reassure him, let him know he isn't still furious for his initial refusal to join him.
It feels like he should be angry, and Flint takes a second to contemplate why he's not. It's one thing to accept reality, and another to be happy about it.
Maybe it's gratitude; Vane has saved his life. Or maybe it's that he knows, without being told, how torn Vane had felt for choosing Eleanor Guthrie over Edward Teach – for Vane, loyalty is a virtue above all else, and today's decision will likely haunt him for the weeks and months to come.
Loyalty, such a strange thing. He and Vane have been allies only for a short time following ten years of fierce rivalry. It's hard to imagine Vane would risk his own life, as well as Teach's, over their tentative and rather reluctant partnership.
But then, Vane hasn't done it for Flint, has he? It's Nassau who got her hooks into him after all.
What would have happened if Flint had defeated Teach? Would Vane have intervened on Teach's behalf? In that case, Flint might have left the island with a fleet but without Vane. The most beneficial outcome, some people might say – Flint himself might have said, not too long ago. The ships and their guns, minus one recalcitrant pirate captain.
God help him, he actually prefers it this way.
"We have assets, and we have allies," he tells Vane, more than slightly distracted. "The question is what we make of them." The thought unnerves him because it would have been completely alien to him only months ago. Things have changed between them, after Charles Town, but have they truly changed this much?
"I may be able to help in that regard," Vane says and tells hims of the cache of gems, which proves distracting enough that Flint forgets the rest for a while, at least until he retires to his cabin, later at night, and finds Vane already there, in a hammock suspended in the corner.
Flint stops dead. It's not that he really expected Vane to bunk with the crew, but –
Vane doesn't open his eyes. "I know you're there. Might as well come in."
"That's generous of you," Flint says. "Seeing as it's my cabin, I wouldn't have thought I needed an invitation."
"Shows what you know." Vane smiles, still with his eyes shut. "Bring the rum."
Flint snorts. He reaches for the bottle in passing, suppresses a hiss as it puts a strain on his injured arm. He approaches the hammock and offers it to Vane, who, will wonders never cease, actually opens his eyes to take the bottle from his hand and nods a thank you. He tilts his head at Flint's arm.
"No lasting damage, I take it?"
"Hopefully not. What a ship we would make, a one-armed captain and a one-legged quartermaster."
Vane acknowledges the quip with a snort, then drinks. He puts the bottle down on his chest, one hand closed around its neck.
"It's becoming somewhat of a habit for you to save my life," Flint remarks, a little distracted by the way Vane traces the rim of the bottle with his thumb.
Vane's fingers still. "Twice is not a habit. Besides … I didn't do it for you."
"I didn't think you did."
"Good," Vane says. "As long as that's clear."
I didn't do it for you echoes in Flint's head. The fact that Vane feels the need to state it, explicitly, surprises him.
Vane takes another deep swallow. He cocks his head, then offers Flint the bottle with glittering eyes.
Flint takes it and almost drops it as he catches up, at the startling realization that they've played this game before.
His suspicions are confirmed as Vane smiles. A different smile this time. Subtle, almost.
The way Vane licks his lips is anything but.
"What are you doing?" Flint asks.
"What does it look like?" Before Flint can open his mouth for a reply, Vane laughs. "Don't answer that." He sits up in his hammock. "I remember the last time we were on a ship together. Do you?"
Flint's mouth is suddenly dry. "Vaguely."
"I thought you might." With a smirk, Vane tilts his head at the bottle. Challenge accepted, his face says. "Am I drinking alone?"
Flint raises his eyebrows, then lifts the bottle and takes a huge swallow, lets it burn in his throat. It's not the only question Vane is asking, and the implication stirs him more than it should.
That night in Charles Town, they'd agreed it wouldn't happen again. And it hasn't, not until now. Flint hasn't even thought about it, too caught up in his misery – the numbness that had spread through him after his return to Nassau, when he'd seen the empty house. There had been no room for any thoughts of Vane – Miranda's loss had pushed everything else aside, and the numbness only allowed violence to exist at its center.
"A way to pass time?" Flint asks, as a means of stalling. Or maybe of finding out what's driving Vane to do this, tonight of all nights.
Vane looks at him, then away, just for a second. "As good a way as any." This time, when he licks his lips, it's even more deliberate, and he meets Flint's gaze. Yes or no.
Flint's body tells him yes, screams it in a rush of heat and arousal. From the way Vane smirks, it has to be written all over his face.
Vane slowly gets up from his hammock. Flint turns away and walks over to the table to put the bottle down. He takes off his belt, hangs it onto the chair so that his sword rests on the seat. He hasn't cleaned it after the fight, he'll have to do it in the morrow. Who knows what situation might await them on that island?
Turning around, every thought is immediately driven from his mind. Charles Vane is moving toward him, with feline grace - as if he's stalking his prey - and a heated promise in his eyes.
Flint only has a second to brace for the impact before Vane backs him against the table. In an act of sheer self-preservation, before he can lose his balance and end up on his back on the table, Flint throws his arms around him and kisses him.
Vane tastes the same. He tastes exactly the same. It takes Flint back to that night in Charles Town, and he closes his eyes and loses himself in the taste and the feel of it. What else happened in Charles Town, he doesn't want to remember, not in this moment, and pushes the thought away. This, her and now, this is real, and there is nothing to keep him from enjoying it. The storm, the doldrums, the maroon camp: after everything, he's not going to deny himself this moment of pleasure.
Vane is heat and coiled strength against him, giving as good as he gets. The kiss is hungry and deep, something to get lost in, and Flint readily gives himself over to it, chases for more and finds it, again and again.
Vane finally breaks the kiss by turning his head. "Fuck me," he says. His fingers dig into Flint's shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises. They are both out of breath.
"Is that what you want?" Flint asks. His heart is racing.
"Do I look like I'm having doubts?" Vane doesn't wait for a reply. He starts to strip, and his eyes don't leave Flint's even for a moment. There's a quiet intensity in the way he bares himself, a challenge – that, and something more, a hint of defiance as he lifts his chin, as he opens his breeches and and pushes them down
Naked at last, Vane turns around and strides over to the bed. He stretches out on his stomach, head turned to the side to watch Flint.
Flint undresses quickly and fetches the gun oil from the drawer on his way to the bed. He gets behind Vane, then on top of him. His hands span the breadth of Vane's shoulders, and he pushes his hair to the side to bite at his neck. Vane's breath comes faster, stutters when Flint licks the shell of his ear and buries one hand in his hair to tug at it, gently, then hard. He inhales Vane's scent. Tastes the skin at the nape of his neck, tracing his hairline with his tongue. Takes his time to enjoy the way Vane feels under him – smooth skin mapped by scars, alive and warm and beautiful under his hands.
Vane groans. "Will you get on with it?"
"Do you have somewhere else to be?" Flint asks, hiding a bit of amusement, which fades as he wonders whether Vane has only done this with men in a hurry, a rough fuck bent over a barrel, right after battle – the way it happened in Charles Town.
For as long as he's known Vane, there have been no rumors of male lovers. For as long as he's known Vane, the man had been bound to Eleanor Guthrie, on a leash even as he denied its pull, bedding whores to spite her and watching her from the shadows while she pretended not to know exactly where he was.
Maybe Vane loves women and fucks men only out of convenience; God knows he wouldn't be the only one. Plenty of men make do, at sea. Once, Flint had believed himself one of them – during his early years on a ship, long before he'd known Thomas. He'd clung to the illusion, the one that saw a distinction between a decent man and a sodomite. Time, and then Thomas and Miranda, helped him understand it was the other way round: that he could content himself with a woman, for a time being, but that it was nothing compared to the bright flare of a man's touch.
Whatever this is, Vane is here because he wants to. That much is clear, if nothing else, and it has to be enough. And maybe … maybe it's up to Flint to show Vane how good it can be, done right.
He leans over him. "I intend to take my time," he mutters. "Think you can stand it?"
The tension that grips Vane is an instinctive response to a challenge issued, and Flint waits it out, lets Vane decide, remains motionless until Vane snorts and slowly lets himself relax under Flint's hands. "By all means."
Flint coats his fingers in oil while Vane spreads his legs for him, making room for him to kneel between his thighs. Flint does as promised and takes his time, strokes along his thighs, over the swell of his arse, follows his spine, up, then down again, dips between the two meaty globes. He drips more oil onto his fingers, then pushes inside with a fingertip. Vane grunts and lifts his hips, trying to take him deeper. Flint fucks him with one finger, then two, until Vane's breathing goes ragged and his hips move of their own accord, alternating between seeking out friction and pushing into Flint's touch.
Thomas used to love this part of it, so much that he'd been able to come from it – Flint's fingers in him, and his mouth, applied in a way even Thomas couldn't talk about without blushing furiously. He'd been loud, shameless – not afraid of surrendering himself, as Flint had been. As Vane is now, trying to keep quiet with his breath coming in short gasps, noises that vehemently refuse to be moans. A sheen of sweat covers his skin, and his muscles ripple under Flint's touch. Flint licks along his spine, up to his shoulders, bites down hard. Vane hisses, hips bucking, losing control.
Oh, yes. If Vane didn't know before what a touch like that can do for him, he definitely does now. Flint allows himself a smirk, taking care not to let Vane see it. He pulls his fingers out, coats them in more oil, pushes back in.
Vane's body opens easily, but Vane goes still and actually snarls. "For fuck's sake. Haven't you wasted enough time on this?"
Flint turns his fingers, just so, presses, and Vane's hands clutch at the sheets. He lets out a string of expletives, insulting Flint, his ancestors, his sexual habits – and breaks off with a gasp as Flint does it again.
"You were saying?" Flint says. It's a struggle to pretend he's is unaffected; all he wants by now is push into the tight heat he feels around his fingers and do what his body tells him ro, fuck Vane hard and fast with no regard for anything but his own pleasure.
"Fuck you," Vane says through gritted teeth. "Fuck me, or I'll go and find someone who will."
No you won't. Flint knows better than to say it. But he's probably driven his point home by now, so he coats himself in oil and urges Vane on his hands and his knees. The way the bed sways underneath them, they'll be lucky if it doesn't break under their combined weight.
He slides in easily, Vane's body welcoming him in way that feels almost too god to be real.
Vane immediately pushes back to take him deeper. "Fucking finally."
"Stop being so impatient," Flint says, fighting the urge to move. "Told you I was going to take my time."
"Why? You don't need to impress me, I'm not –" Vane cuts himself off.
"Not what?"
"Not some pretty lord who requires a gentle touch," Vane says, venom in his voice.
Flint stills. "Stop talking about things you don't understand."
"Then don't pretend this is anything but what it is."
Flint bends over Vane, his lips close to his ear. "What is this, exactly?" He circles his hips, just a little. An immediate, gratifying shudder runs through Vane.
"Don't do this." His voice is hoarse.
Flint is at a loss. What is it that's making Vane so skittish? Not that it matters, not now, when the urge to move starts to feel overwhelming. He takes a deep breath and finally starts to fuck Vane in earnest.
Vane's body answers him in beautiful, powerful submission as Vane throws his head back and arches his spine. "Like that. Fuck –"
It's over way too quickly. Flint's body is unaccustomed to this kind of pleasure, and he gets the feeling that Vane's is too. The bed swings back and forth, groaning under them while Vane makes desperate, bitten-off noises with every thrust. They're both drenched in sweat.
Flint focuses on Vane, tries his hardest to make him lose his mind with long, thorough strokes, still at a slower pace than Vane would like, which earns him curses and obscenities that raise in volume, until - yes, almost there, yes – Vane's hands clutch at the blanket and he goes rigid under Flint, shuddering through his climax without ever being touched. Flint only manages a couple more thrusts before he follows. The force of it takes him by surprise, makes him hold on to Vane with a bruising grip, afraid the tide will unmoor him if he lets go but for a second.
The fog in his mind clears slowly. They have both collapsed on the bed, sticking together in places. The smell of sex and sweat surrounds them and Flint breathes it in, then slowly lifts himself off Vane's back and slides to the side to give them both room to breathe.
"Care to tell me what all of this was about?" he asks, surprised at the dryness of his throat. He can't remember making a lot of noise, but it feels as if he has screamed himself hoarse.
"We fucked," Vane says blankly. "That's all."
"No," Flint says. "That's not it."
It's Vane's defensiveness that irritates him, his contradictory reactions that don't make a lot of sense, not unless –
Unless Vane's reasons for defying Teach have little to do with Nassau, and a lot more with Flint. Flint holds his breath, feeling like he's been struck by lightning.
"You were lying," he says, suddenly sure of it. Vane, who's had his eyes closed, opens them to glare at him. "When you said you didn't do it for me."
"Shut the fuck up," Vane says, after a moment, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. He doesn't change his position, remains where he is – exposed, with the marks Flint left on him all too visible in the dim light. But his eyes are guarded now, speaking a different language.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Flint says.
"Fuck you," Vane says, and doesn't bother to deny it.
Flint turns away and swings his legs to the side to get up from the bed. He goes to find a piece of cloth to clean himself, a moment of reprieve to make sense of that knowledge. It sits in his gut, heavy and undeniable.
"When did that happen?" he asks, his back to Vane.
The reply comes after a long moment of silence. "Does it matter?"
"It just seems … rather sudden."
"If you think you can use it against me, think again," Vane says. "I made that mistake once. Not going to make it again."
Flint doesn't need to ask what he means. "I don't expect you to," he says.
Vane says nothing in response, and it's his silence that gets to Flint. A quick look tells him that Vane is still lying where he left him. It makes it easier to walk over to the bed with a pitcher of water to offer Vane a drink, return it once Vane is done, and go to lie down beside him – pressed against him, because the bed is far too narrow for two grown-up men. He pulls a thin blanket over them. Settling in, he puts a hand on Vane's shoulder, traces his shoulderblade with his thumb – has to brush a few of his braids aside to do so. He lets his hand rest there, starts to feel the dull pain in his arm. He'd forgotten about it until now.
Vane's breath grows deeper and his back lifts and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. Flint closes his eyes and allows himself to enjoy the closeness between them. Thinks of the way Vane drove Teach back with a series of furious attacks, wielding his sword like an avenging angel – has to suppress a snort, because that's a simile gone wrong. The man he shares his bed with is no saint – if anything, he resembles a mythical creature, a Celtic warrior, painted in blue. An ancient god of war.
Flint can't remember the last time – if there ever was one – someone fought to defend him, not out of necessity or a sense of duty, but to protect him. That it's Vane is unexpected, to say the least. It awakens a strange yearning in him, the wish to – well, cherish it, for lack of a better word.
If Vane knew what he's thinking, he'd probably throw him to the floor and hold a blade to his throat for good measure. There's no room for sweetness between them, for soft words and sonnets and tokens of affection – the thought in itself is ludicrous, even if Flint were so inclined, even if he shared the sentiment … which sentiment, exactly? Is it love, truly, the thing that remains unspoken, a measure of affection that goes beyond … brotherhood, loyalty between allies sworn to a common cause?
"When I heard about the storm," Vane says suddenly.
Flint, caught by surprise, blinks his eyes open. "Hm?"
Vane has turned his head to the other side, and Flint sees the mark of his own teeth on his shoulder. Before he can think better of it, he touches it with his thumb. Vane's breath catches in his throat. It's a temptation to find out what noises Vane would make if he rubbed his beard against it, but the thought is fleeting, and Flint is too exhausted to keep track of it.
"You asked me when it happened." Vane's voice is quiet. "Hornigold and his crew, they said you and your men were lost in the storm. And I … didn't like the thought."
Flint doesn't quite know what to say. It's all so improbable, so very unexpected, and there's a warmth flooding him that might worry him, if he were to examine it too closely, so he doesn't.
"And now here we are again," he says after a moment, thinking of how both Teach and Vane used the same words today.
Vane seems to remember it too. His low hum is faintly tinted with amusement.
Nothing more needs to be said, for the moment, and Flint falls asleep at last, warm and safe in the shared space, between one breath and the next.