Chapter Text
The tension drains out of Silver when Dufresne tells them their sentences have been commuted. Something unclenches inside of him, like a breath he’s been holding for too long, and he looks over to where Flint is leaning against the small turret-like structure on the forecastle. Flint’s face is still stony: he’s been eerily quiet throughout the vote.
17 yea votes against 15 nays. Dufresne appears to get no small amount of satisfaction out of letting them know they’ll be removed from the ship without severance as soon as they reach Nassau. It’s clear he wouldn't have minded hanging them either; he seems the sort of man to hold on to any small victory he can get. Dufresne smirks and turns around, leaving them alone on the forecastle. It is all Silver can do to keep from rolling his eyes.
On the deck below, the men are celebrating the taking of the Spanish man-of-war. Cheers erupt, and the voices turn rowdier as one of them staggers abovedecks with a small cache of red wine. Silver has never wished to be part of a crew like this but he wouldn’t have minded at least some credit for his role in taking the ship. He volunteered for this mission — he, John Silver! — and yet everyone seems thoroughly unimpressed. There should be more in it for him than just… not being hanged. Gold, for example.
Despite his efforts, he’s now stuck on the outside of it all with Flint, who is still brooding enigmatically. Silver is loath to admit that the newly deposed Captain is almost more attractive like this, even though the memory of Flint pressing him against the storage compartments belowdecks with a knife to his throat still sends shivers through his entire god-damned body. To feel this strength and anger turned against him was a rush he’s unlikely to forget soon. Silver has always done his best work under pressure — he’s quick with his mouth and quick with his hands, for as long as the threat of violence is just that: a threat. He’s much less enamored with it when the violence becomes manifest.
Silver swallows. He needs Flint. Dufresne’s attitude betrays him, even if he has the crew’s vote. A natural leader — a competent leader — wouldn’t have gloated, wouldn’t have held a grudge the way Dufresne had when Flint was on the ground with a bullet wound and all but defeated. Silver shakes his head thoughtfully. Dufresne might be a liability, unused to command. He may have the moment, but does he have it in him to lead the crew when they’re up against Spanish soldiers?
Across from him, Flint is scowling and stroking his beard as though deep in thought. Silver is struck by an impulse. The memory of Flint’s rough body against his is only one piece of the puzzle.
He’ll have to be careful. He raises his left hand to mirror Flint’s gesture, and reassures himself that the crew’s attention is safely occupied elsewhere. Then he begins to speak.
“You were right, for what it’s worth.”
Flint seems irritated rather than puzzled. “Beg your pardon?”
“If your interests and mine were adverse to each other, there’s a good chance I’d cross you to save myself.”
Silver knew he’d have to bait Flint into talking to him at all, and there’s nothing like a small dig to get someone’s attention. Flint’s eyes bore into him. “Then why didn’t you?”
“Because at the moment,” Silver takes a deep breath and gets up, “I don’t believe our interests are adverse to each other.”
He makes deliberate eye contact before he moves across the deck to stand next to Flint, stepping right into his carefully maintained personal space. Flint’s stare burns through him and Silver turns his back to him, his eyes gliding over the shape of the ship in front of them. He needs to make sure the men are accounted for in the waist of the upper deck and unable to overhear what comes next. He’d also like to ensure that Flint can get a good look at his backside, should he have followed Silver with his gaze.
“I don’t believe you did any of this for a pardon, or a passage to Nassau, or to be able to walk away from anything,” Silver continues. “I think you intend to reclaim your captaincy. I think you intend to take control of this ship.”
More accustomed now to the tense presence of Flint next to him, he turns around. Flint is pointedly looking straight ahead. Silver watches him intently as he charges on.
“And then I think you intend to return to that beach, armed to the teeth, and seize every last ounce of gold off of it.” He inhales and drops his voice. “And I think you’re going to need my help to do it.”
It’s only now that Flint turns his face towards Silver and fixes him in his steady, calculating gaze. Silver’s stomach lurches and he pulls up the corner of his mouth in an uneasy smile. Flint’s eyes are dark pits. It’s a terrible thing to have Flint’s attention on him like this, and exhilarating at the same time. Silver feels dread pooling in his stomach, and blood pooling in a place not far beneath.
Silver’s challenge is ignored when Flint turns away and the heat of his stare leaves him. Silver shivers at the loss. He feels the distance between them opening up, even as he’s certain that he hasn’t overplayed his hand. His fingers twitch, but it’s too soon, too soon. He wills himself calm, makes his voice go light.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
Flint remains silent and turned away from him but he hasn’t moved, leaning against the turret only inches away from Silver’s hands. If Flint wanted to be by himself, to think and brood and strategize, now would be the perfect opportunity for him to take his leave. But he doesn’t. He stands there, all coiled energy and rage, and this is it. This is the moment.
Now comes the most dangerous and therefore exciting part, the one Silver will need all his skill to pull off.
Silver takes one more deep breath, and then, on the exhale, he reaches out.
Flint stares at Silver’s hand on his arm, his good arm, the one without the bullet wound in the shoulder, and he’s still staring at it when Silver moves his thumb across the muscle, softly, experimentally. A gentle motion, and yet unmistakable. Heat surges through Flint, focuses on the spot that Silver is still, inexplicably, touching.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Flint growls. He doesn’t pull his arm away, although he knows he should. It feels too good to be touched so hesitantly after all the fighting he’s endured today, the struggle to gain this ship against the odds, the men he has killed to achieve it. It throws him off-balance that there can still be gentleness in this world where men are maimed for less.
Silver doesn’t quite manage to meet his eyes when Flint looks up at him. He looks at his hand on Flint’s arm instead, his breath coming faster.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Silver repeats, a mere whisper, before looking up at Flint.
Flint’s eyes slide over Silver’s body almost unwillingly, taking in the curls framing his exposed neck, the movement of Silver’s throat as he swallows. A tension he hasn’t felt in a long time takes hold of him. Silver’s arm is still stretched out towards Flint, his whole body angled towards him, cracked open like a shell. With a sudden feeling of vertigo Flint notices that Silver is half-hard in his breeches.
“Tell me.” Silver sounds pleading now, almost breathless, but when Flint looks back up there’s a smile curling around Silver’s lips that makes it obvious that he has noticed him noticing. It’s that smile, that knowledge passing between them, that perceptiveness that intrigues Flint, intrigues him more than the promise of Silver’s arousal, although that’s certainly worth investigating as well. He wonders what it would take to get something at least vaguely resembling the truth out of this man who is now, apparently, all but offering himself to Flint on a wild guess. More likely it’s a deeply calculated move in order to strengthen his tenuous offer. Well. Two can play at that game.
“If you’re going to punch me, I’d rather… “ Silver babbles on, before Flint shushes him. Flint pulls his arm away and in the same motion turns more fully towards Silver.
“Let me see you.”
The hand that was stroking his arm flutters downwards like a wounded bird, and Silver’s eyebrows knit together. “Beg your pardon?”
Flint bites back a smile and nods in the general direction of Silver’s midsection. “Show me.”
Silver’s small gasp is delicious, barely audible over the raucous laughter of the men in the waist. Flint keeps an eye on them. He doesn’t want any surprises, but his main focus is on Silver who is now fumbling at his belt and undoing buttons. Then the breeches drop to the ground and his cock springs forward, mostly covered by the hem of his shirt. Silver nudges the trousers to the side and pulls the hem of his shirt up, stroking himself to full hardness. The head of his cock glistens wetly as his fingers curl around the base.
But it’s the expression on Silver’s face that sets Flint’s teeth on edge. That singular focus on his own arousal, that practiced touch, shot through with a skittish, almost nervous quality, seeking his approval. Flint schools his features into an expression of casual disinterest — after all, he has had decades of experience in seeming distant and aloof in the presence of men he’d much rather fuck into the ground. Which, it needs to be said, it takes more for him to do than a loose smile in a handsome face. Still, he notices how soft the lamp light is on Silver’s skin, how dextrous and strong the fingers fisted around Silver’s cock. The sharp edges of his hip bones around that dark patch of hair.
Silver’s curls fall into his face as he looks down and then up at Flint with an infuriating grin. “You seem to like what you see.” He jerks his head in the direction of the noise on the deck behind them. “What about them?”
Flint snorts. If Silver thinks he’s going to find them a secluded corner for whatever misdeeds he’s got in mind, he is sorely mistaken. Flint prefers him right here, not quite in view, but always at the risk of discovery. He moves back a little bit, so Silver has his back against the wall while Flint retains a view of the stairs, the stars, and the proceedings right in front of him. If anyone’s coming, he’ll know.
It’s been so long since he’s had anything like this, years of solitude punctuated only by Miranda’s steady affection, once they were over the worst of the loss. She hasn’t openly encouraged him to seek out other partners — she’s too dependent on him now, tucked away in inland isolation. But he knows she isn’t going to begrudge him as long as he keeps her safe and healthy, as long as they can talk about the important things. That’s always been their understanding. Perhaps he can allow himself this, and gain a bit more knowledge about the man who has become so entangled in his hunt for the Urca. One small pleasure against the grimness of the day.
He glares at Silver, baring his teeth in what only a very optimistic man would be capable of calling a smile. “Them? Fuck them.”
John Silver is, by his very nature, not an optimistic man, although he likes to pretend to be. Still, the way Flint looks at him with that half-feral grin makes him twitch in anticipation. He leans back against the wall and gives his cock a slow and thorough tug. With satisfaction he notices that Flint’s eyes are tracking his movements.
“Without those men we’d be dead, and I for one am glad that I shall live to see another day.” Silver’s breath hitches as his palm circles over the tip of his erection. He decides to press forward since Flint still hasn’t moved a single muscle. They are close enough to touch, but Silver knows not to push things too fast, not physically at least. “You don’t get to indulge very often, it seems. Not as —”
Flint interrupts, a sardonic eyebrow raised. “If you think that fucking me will improve your standing among the crew, you’re wrong.”
“This is hardly fucking now, is it?” Silver strokes himself a few more times, pushing his foreskin over the head of his cock. His heart is pounding in his chest, mostly because of the sheer thrill of being out here with Flint’s eyes all over him. After a moment he raises his other hand to his mouth. He sucks two fingers into it, lets his lips go soft around them. Flint almost rolls his eyes at the lewd gesture but remains transfixed, which is just as well. With Flint still watching, Silver shifts his stance and slips the wet fingers between the cheeks of his ass. He shoots Flint a lopsided grin. “But it can be if you’d like.”
Flint mutters a curse under his breath, and his eyes go wide when it becomes plain what Silver is doing. Warmth spreads through Silver’s belly, just as the first wave of pleasure hits him. With one hand on his cock and the other one teasing the rim of his hole, Silver watches as Flint positively vibrates with the barely-contained urge to do something to him. As far as Silver is concerned, it better be something filthy.
The thing about men like Flint, Silver thinks, is that they like to be in control at all times, which, in turn, makes them wonderfully predictable. And the beautiful thing about this current situation is that Flint still thinks he is. In control, that is. Silver can tell by the way Flint holds himself, by the way his mouth has opened just a little, unbeknownst even to himself.
The idea that Flint will be much easier to manage from now on sends small shivers up Silver’s spine. He needs that gold, and Flint? Well, Flint’s chances of regaining the captaincy can only improve if he isn’t so fucking high-strung all the time.
Silver gives a small gasp as the tip of his finger breaches his hole. He rolls his hips back against his hand, fucking himself open ever so slowly. It’d be easier with some oil, but he’s doing this mostly for the benefit of setting Flint on edge, not to get himself off. There’s also the added bonus of being better prepared should Flint decide to just grab him and bend him over against the wall. Which is a risk he’s now taking, he’s aware, and the thought of it shouldn’t do things to him but it does. With his other hand still wrapped around his cock, Silver moans breathlessly.
Flint’s eyes dart around the upper deck, but when he doesn’t seem concerned, Silver moans again. Flint’s gaze finally converges on him and he closes the distance between them in one quick stride. One of his legs pushes between Silver’s, and there’s only a sliver of air left between their bodies. They’re close enough for their breaths to mingle, and Silver can feel Flint hot against him.
Then Flint’s hands are on his cock, calloused and warm on his sensitive skin. Flint gives him a sharp tug, and Silver has to let go and use both hands to steady himself against the wall. Flint’s hands aren’t rough exactly, but they’re taking stock of him in an extremely straightforward way, cupping his balls and pushing his foreskin back, and Silver can’t predict his next move just yet, but his legs feel shaky.
Flint’s grip twists over the head of Silver’s cock, and his voice is dangerously low against Silver’s ear. “How would you let me fuck you, then?”
His words shoot a jolt of pleasure through Silver, several visions unfolding at once. The thought that this is something he gets to decide to let Flint do, in the manner of his choosing. Silver gasps again as Flint starts jacking him more purposefully. His other hand is now tracing the curve of Silver’s ass, and somehow it’s the softness of that touch — almost a gentle tickle in contrast to Flint’s manhandling of his cock — that makes Silver forget how he got here in the first place. There’s an ease in the way Flint’s touching him, as though he’s done it before plenty of times and knows exactly how to do it. It makes Silver feel vaguely reverent, makes him roll his hips into the touch.
“In your cabin,” Silver pants, because that’s not his favorite vision, “over your desk.” He rests his head against Flint’s as his breath comes faster, and Flint’s scent hits him, incongruous among the ever-present smell of salt and the sea that’s seeped into all of their skins. Something musky and wild.
“I don’t have a cabin on this ship.” Flint shifts against him, and then his hard cock is pressing into Silver’s hip. “So you must have been thinking of me when we were still on the Walrus. Imagined what it would be like.” Flint ruts against him, matching the rhythm of his hand on Silver’s cock. Silver bites his lip in a sudden burst of frustration. Shit.
“You’ll get it back,” Silver manages between breaths, “when you’re — captain again. And then —“
His sentence is cut short as Flint’s hand on him picks up speed and then strokes him just so — Flint’s breath is hot against his ear, and before Silver knows what’s happening his eyes scrunch shut and he is spurting his release all over Flint’s hand and into their shirts.
“Fuck.” Silver stutters through his orgasm as Flint guides him through it. Then it’s over and they’re both looking down at the mess between them. Silver feels his face flush red, grateful for the dimness of the lamps.
He looks up at Flint who smirks back at him. Without breaking eye contact, Flint wipes his hand on Silver’s shirt. He looks amused and perhaps even a tiny bit pleased with himself. It is mortifying.
“Good night, Mr. Silver.” Flint nods and makes his way downstairs, humming a tune.
It takes Silver another full second to realize he hasn’t touched Flint once. He hasn’t taken any of his clothes off. For all he knows, Flint didn’t come either, he just… wanked Silver off with the detached professionalism of a brothel worker.
Silver cards a hand through his hair and pulls up his breeches. If he were an optimistic man at all, he’d still call this a success. As it is, he thinks it’s rather time to see about a fresh shirt.