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Flint doesn’t think it possible to feel any worse after the events of Charlestown. Until he returns to the ship and finds John Silver unconscious and deathly pale, laid out on a blood soaked table with his left leg missing below the knee.
“What the fuck happened?” he demands, his voice sounding hoarse and distant to his own ears.
“Vane’s men,” Howell speaks up, “They tortured him to give up names. Men who could be swayed to turn on their brothers.”
The muscle in Flint’s cheek jumps, his nostrils flaring and he can once again hear the rush of his blood pounding inside his own head. He breathes slowly, trying to quell the rage that wants to claw its way up his throat. There’s no use being angry about it now; everything has changed and all pirates are on the same side. But that doesn’t stop Flint from wanting to hold down and remove the legs of every man responsible for this injustice.
“I take it their endeavor was unsuccessful,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Mr. Silver didn’t give an inch!” Muldoon announces. Flint recognizes that look in Muldoon’s eyes; that fierce glitter of devotion that says he’ll follow Silver anywhere. He sees the same worshipful expression on the faces of all the men still gathered around the table.
Flint thinks back to the young man who sat across from him in Eleanor’s office and claimed torturing him would never work; that he’d say anything to make the pain stop. And yet here he is, having endured what must have been unbearable agony for the sake of every other man on this crew, including himself. He wonders where along the line things changed for Silver; how he’s gone from a conniving self-centered thief to a loyal ally, a brother in arms.
“Will he live?” Flint asks, not liking how much his stomach tightens as he waits for an answer.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Howell starts, “He’ll be unconscious for a while and susceptible to infection, but he should live.”
Flint gives a jerky nod, feeling the knot of anxiety loosen a little. “He’ll stay in the captain’s quarters while he recovers. It’s the cleanest place on the ship by far, plus the stern is more stable and he’ll have access to fresh air.”
“Aye, sir,” the doctor replies with a nod, looking at Flint as if that’s the most sensible thing Flint’s ever said. Perhaps it is.
All of the points Flint listed are true but the main one remains unspoken. For some reason, right now, he doesn’t want to be away from Silver. Irrationally, he feels that just keeping an eye on him will somehow keep him tethered to this earth. There’s a fear in the pit of his gut that if he looks away for too long, Silver will be taken from him too. He can’t bear that—losing someone else so soon after Miranda, possibly the only person left that Flint can talk to. The only person left who gives a shit if he lives or dies. How the fuck did that even happen.
Silver doesn’t wake until the following afternoon. Flint has only left his cabin long enough to delegate orders to the crew, growing anxious whenever Silver isn’t in his line of vision, so he hears him stir immediately from his place at the desk. His pen stops writing and he listens harder, and then there’s another faint moan coming from the window-seat. Flint whirls around in his chair to find Silver’s eyes wide open and staring as if he has no idea where he is.
“It’s alright,” Flint says, “You’re safe.”
When Silver doesn’t show any sign of having heard him, Flint gets to his feet and puts the back of his hand to Silver’s forehead. He pulls back in shock at how hot he feels and Silver is still casting his eyes around vacantly, his hands twisting at the blanket with obvious distress.
“Fuck,” Flint says to himself, feeling his heart start to pound. He’s no doctor but he knows a fever when he feels it.
“Please,” Silver whispers, his voice cracking with disuse. “Please, please stop. I can’t tell you anything I can’t, I can’t, I…”
Flint shushes him gently, feeling his battered heart break a little more at the hopeless tone of Silver’s voice. He strokes Silver’s hair back from his face and he turns his cheek into Flint’s cool palm, groaning softly at the brief comfort it provides. Just as Flint’s wondering how to disengage himself and run for the doctor, he hears the cabin door opening behind him and to his great relief, it’s Howell.
“Is he awake?” the doctor asks, setting down the bucket of clean water he brought, along with a bowl and some fresh linens.
“He’s delirious with fever,” Flint replies, having quickly retracted his hand from Silver’s face when Howell approached.
Howell’s mouth is pinched with concentration as he touches Silver’s head and he makes a tsking sound. Silently, he sets to work, pulling away Silver’s blanket to expose the bandages covering his mangled leg. Flint cringes but doesn’t look away as Howell starts to unravel them. The layer closest to the wound sticks and Silver starts making small sounds of pain that turn Flint’s stomach. Howell gently begins to pry the bandage away from his skin, wincing in sympathy when Silver cries out and jerks.
Removing the bandage causes the wound to seep blood and clear fluid, the skin surrounding it mottled and inflamed. Howell gets to work, scooping some water into the bowl and soaking a strip of cloth that he then uses to carefully clean the sutures. Silver fidgets, his eyes screwed shut and a sheen of sweat standing out on his brow; he tosses his head against the pillow and whines pitifully.
“You’re hurting him!” Flint exclaims, ready to push Howell to the ground if he causes Silver to make that sound again.
Howell levels him with a stern gaze, showing Flint he refuses to be cowed by the captain’s temper. “I have to use force to clean it properly. Do you want him to lose the rest of the leg?”
They hold each others’ stare until Flint finally relents, feeling his face flare with heat at his own irrational behavior.
“I’ll hold him still, shall I?” he says after a moment and Howell lets out a breath and nods.
Flint braces an arm over Silver’s chest, feeling his rapidly thudding heart as the doctor goes back to tending him. He keeps releasing little pained noises and his hands come up to grip at Flint’s arm, clawing weakly. By the time Howell is finished cleaning, Silver is trembling all over, his teeth chattering as he simply clings to Flint now, holding his arm tight to his heaving chest.
Howell wraps his leg efficiently and gathers up the bowl of fouled water and rags. He leaves the bucket of fresh water with Flint along with his last remaining cloth, instructing him to bathe Silver’s forehead until his fever breaks and to alert him should he bleed through his bandages.
Flint nods absently, eyes still trained on Silver’s pained countenance, his face pale but for spots of hectic color in his cheeks. The line between his brows doesn’t ease even as he slips back into unconsciousness. Flint hears the doctor leave and then does as he’s told—using the cool wet rag to soothe Silver’s feverish face, soaking it again when it warms from his skin. Eventually Silver’s breathing evens out to something close to normal, and his hold on Flint loosens enough to pull his arm free, though part of him doesn’t really mind being held onto.
After a while, Flint loses himself in the repetitive task of stroking cool water over Silver’s brow and cheeks, pleased at Silver’s relieved sigh when he drags the wet cloth over the length of his throat. While he’s tending to Silver, Flint’s mind is blissfully blank except for the task at hand, the ghost of Miranda briefly held at bay. He knows he should feel bothered by how strangely soft he feels toward Silver at this moment but he can’t deny the warm feeling of purpose that comes from easing some of the man’s pain.
“I don’t think you’ve been so quiet in all the time I’ve known you,” Flint muses softly.
Silver’s face remains impassive and it seems so jarringly wrong. His usually animated features gone slack and still, smart mouth silent save for the occasional murmuring that Flint can’t quite make out. He’s reminded suddenly of the one evening they spent together in this very room, with Silver bent over the desk, so vocal and needy for him. He regrets they didn’t get the chance to do it again before all of this mess, can’t deny he’d still be more than willing to continue that arrangement, if Silver wants it too.
Feeling guilty for thinking of something so crass as sex at a time like this, Flint tries to put it from his mind. But it isn’t entirely just the sex he’s thinking about—it’s the intimacy, the warmth of his embrace, the flirtatious grins tossed over his shoulder, the taste of his fervent kisses and whispered words that burn and sooth all at once. Flint’s craving it all, unsure if he’ll ever be brave enough to cross that line again, hoping he’ll be lucky enough to have Silver approach him twice. But if recent events are any indication, Flint’s luck has well and truly dried up.
It goes on in much the same fashion for nearly a week. They drop anchor in Tortuga long enough to take on water and gather information from Nassau. It’s a lot to process, particularly the part about there being no more Guthries left on the island. A bizarre concept to be sure.
Silver sleeps through all of it, Flint there beside him to ease him through fever spikes and pockets of panicked half-wakefulness when the pain overwhelms and Howell must come to administer enough opium to let him rest peacefully for a few hours. The doctor cleans and dresses his leg twice daily and seems pleased enough with its healing process though it still looks absolutely horrific to Flint. Silver sometimes cries in his sleep and it makes Flint so indescribably sad. All he can do is stroke Silver’s hair back and dry his tears until the pain subsides.
When he doesn’t know what else to do to pass the time, Flint reads. He picks a book from the shelf and reads aloud to Silver in a quiet steady voice. It might be just his imagination but Silver’s face seems to relax more when he can hear Flint speaking. If the sound of his voice is some form of comfort for him, then Flint is happy to provide it. It also has the benefit of allowing Flint’s mind to escape to different worlds, to stories with endings that aren’t so nebulous, narratives about people who’re nothing like him.
He can almost forget that he’s the monster of his own tale; that he’s Captain Flint. The rigid mask he wears slips enough to glimpse the man he used to be. He can pretend he’s simply James; just a man reading to a friend who’s taken ill. Until someone calls for the captain and the mask snaps back into place as if it was never gone.
Silver’s eyes drift open to the feeling of sunlight on his face and the headache that immediately makes itself known confirms for him that he somehow survived the most traumatic ordeal of his life. There exists a span of seconds where Silver can’t remember anything past the torture, and then everything else comes slamming back to him with force enough to knock him breathless. The sick weight in his stomach only grows heavier when he makes himself look down at his lower body.
He can hardly make his brain accept what he’s seeing, though the evidence of it right there. His leg is fucking gone. The obvious gap where his left shin should be is glaring, almost screaming at him. He swallows past the nausea and takes a steadying breath before turning back to the window and gazing out at the ocean. He knows he should be grateful to be alive but he can’t really feel anything besides a bitter, distant kind of sadness and he’s still so very tired.
“Where are we?” he croaks, knowing Flint is somewhere nearby.
“Just south of Inagua,” Flint replies as he comes into view.
He watches with mild fascination as Flint pours him some water without being asked, his expression decidedly soft when he puts it carefully into Silver’s hands. He can’t help but linger over Flint’s fingers when he takes the water, a silent thank you he hopes Flint understands. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. He simply sits down on the stool he’d evidently been using to sit at Silver’s side and that’s...wow. That’s borderline unbelievable. This man never ceases to confound and amaze.
Flint apprises him of the situation while he drinks, and of the news they learned in Tortuga. Silver gathers that he’s been out of it for a few days at least and is too scared to ask how many. Jesus, how long has Flint been tending to him? The mental image of it is filling him with a strange kind of heat that’s almost embarrassment. It would be, if Flint were someone else. But instead, it makes him feel important; important enough to Flint that he’s seeing to his recovery personally. He’s unfamiliar with this feeling but finds he doesn’t hate it.
To his continued surprise, Flint begins waxing poetic about the state of things, speaking of changing winds, how the men will struggle to face the transition of the coming days, speaking to Silver in soft tones like an equal. And then the other shoe drops and the words Silver had been dreading are leaving Flint’s mouth.
“They'll need to lean on something solid. On the men who can reassure them that in times like these, there are some things that can be counted on. They'll look to me for that,” he pauses, inclining his brows at Silver, “But they'll also look to their new quartermaster.”
“They voted?” he asks. The throbbing ache in his leg is coming to the forefront of his attention now and he feels himself start to sweat as he grits his teeth through the pain.
“A few days ago.”
“I…” Silver starts and he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.
“I think the men wanted to tell you when you awoke, so try and act surprised.” Flint says with a teasing smile.
Silver can feel his heartbeat quicken as Flint continues to speak in that new candid manner he’s been using since Silver opened his eyes. He seems even wistful and Silver wonders how long this can last.
“It’s a funny thing. The more those men need you, the more you need them. And it drives us to do such unexpected things.”
And that’s the truest thing Silver’s ever heard. He resolves to a decision that’s been forming at the back of his mind since his leg was taken. Whether he likes it or not, he can’t take care of himself anymore. He’s been out of his senses for a week, having all of his needs tended to for the first time in his life and it’s not comfortable but it’s necessary. The bottom line is, there’s no conceivable way to retain his share of the Urca gold and also continue belonging to this crew. And without the crew, he’s nothing but an invalid who matters to nothing and no-one. He’s loath to ruin Flint’s light mood but there’s no other time to tell him than right now.
“There's something you ought to know before we reach Nassau. About what we'll likely face there,” Silver says, trying to keep his voice from cracking as he tells Flint the modified truth. The stress and the pain is making his fever return with a vengeance; he feels the sweat gathering on his upper lip.
“I’m sorry...I’m...just having a hard time…” Flint’s expression morphs from confusion into cold fury as he meets Silver’s eyes and sees he’s quite serious.
“He lied to us all?” he grates out, “And then he sold the information to another crew so that they could retrieve the gold?” Repeating it back, it’s obvious how the words leave a bad taste in Flint’s mouth.
“Yes.”
“Who the fuck did he sell it to?” he growls.
“Rackham,” Silver says and bites the fist he’s brought to his mouth, scrunching his eyes shut against the pain now becoming blinding. His leg hurts, his head hurts, all of his muscles ache and he feels like he’s burning from the inside. Tears prick at his eyes but he refuses to let them fall.
“Are you alright?” Flint asks, then grimaces because of how lame it sounds. Silver is nowhere in the vicinity of alright.
The anger is surprisingly leached from Flint’s voice, those green eyes watching him with intense focus. He’s concerned. Abstractly, Silver already knew that but seeing the proof of it is heady and terrifying. He swallows and meets the captain’s gaze through a thin veil of tears, considering the merits of lying to him. A sharp stab of fire traveling all the way up to his hip makes him gasp and then he’s given himself away, rubbing furiously at the moisture gathered in his lashes before Flint can see.
“I’m getting the doctor,” Flint says but before he can leave, Silver lashes out his hand and catches Flint’s wrist.
“No,” he says, “Please. I don’t want...I don’t want him. Don’t leave. Please.”
Flint looks conflicted, almost scared as his eyes search Silver’s and dart all over his face. “You’re in pain. Howell has opium in his medicine chest. It won’t take long to—”
“No,” Silver cuts him off, shaking his head anxiously.
“Why the fuck not?” Flint asks.
Silver doesn’t trust himself or the things he might say while lost in a haze of opium. But that’s not something he can tell Flint without making his story about the gold sound suspicious. The pain is making it impossible to think, however, and Silver very much wants it to stop. When he can’t formulate a feasible answer in time, Flint retracts his arm from Silver’s grasp.
“That’s what I thought. I’ll be back.” Flint says, and he leaves to fetch Howell.
Silver falls back against the pillow with a ragged sob and lets the tears flow.
Over the next two weeks, Silver slowly regains strength, becoming restless the longer he’s conscious and not occupied. He tries reading to himself to pass time but it never takes long before his head is aching, his tired eyes blurring the words unhelpfully. Flint notices him toss the book aside with a frustrated sigh and picks it up.
“What page were you on?” he simply asks.
Silver tells him and watches on in amazement as Flint turns to the page and starts reading from the top. His voice is soft, flowing around Silver like cool water and he closes his eyes to listen better. A breeze comes in through the open window and teases Silver’s curls and despite the headache and the missing leg, Silver feels quite at peace. Flint reads to him until he’s called for on deck and by that point, Silver is already drifting back off to sleep.
Sometimes Flint wakes in the night to distressed whimpering and finds Silver lost in a nightmare, sweating and thrashing on the pillow. Flint stills him with his hands and Silver seems to panic, batting him away violently as if Flint wishes to do him harm. Flint avoids his flailing fists and manages to grab Silver by the upper arms, squeezing hard and calling his name until those blue eyes finally snap open and take in his surroundings, Flint’s worried face hovering before him in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” Silver whispers, his body going limp in Flint’s hold.
With a sigh, he releases Silver. “No need to apologize.”
They don’t speak about it after it happens, or about the times it happens to Flint. When he wakes up to Silver calling his name, pulling him out of the grey hopeless landscape of his dreams, realizing he’s been tossing and crying in his sleep. They keep pulling each other out of the darkness and they never talk about it, which makes it feel all the more significant.
He doesn’t realize how much he’s become accustomed to sharing his space with Silver until he’s well enough to rejoin the crew. The more independent he becomes, the more isolated Flint begins to feel; as if not being needed is draining him of what little humanity he has left inside him. Without the constant distraction of Silver, his thoughts are allowed to spiral, leading him into a dark, unforgiving place. At this point, he shears off his hair and along with it the chance of ever rejoining civilization. It feels like shedding the last of James McGraw and stepping fully into the role of Captain Flint, the ruthless monster.
Miranda screams at him in his dreams but he can never hear a word she says. Her eyes are imploring him, desperate, but her mouth still moves in utter silence. Somehow Flint knows it’s no doing of hers; it’s his fault he can’t hear her. He isn’t listening. He won’t. The only thing that soothes the choking rage that consumes him is exacting his vengeance on every governor who dares hang a pirate. Yet still, every time he raises his pistol to end a life, he sees Miranda staring back at him, the bullet hole in her forehead glaring and final. This is a torture he deserves and he can’t stop himself from chasing it.
He’s stuck on her last words—her desire to see Charlestown burn. Every settlement he visits his rage upon is just another Charlestown in his eyes. Every governor just one more Peter Ashe stricken from the earth. Every drop of blood spilled in her name is cleansing, purifying, watering the parched landscape of his weary soul. It’s the only thing that carries meaning anymore. Until he can join her, he will avenge her.
In the coming months, Silver learns how to use the iron boot, much to Howell’s displeasure. He keeps telling him not to overdo it, that the boot isn’t meant for a wound so fresh. But Silver simply can’t abide hobbling around on his crutch in front of his men. It’s bad enough he’s been completely useless since the incident and the ever-present worry that he isn’t earning his keep drives him to do it anyway. He grits his teeth and shoves his leg into the boot and learns to live with background noise of his pain.
His physical state is the least of his concerns and at the very top of the list is Flint. He’s been getting worse. Every governor he slays, every settlement he razes to the ground seems to feed the darkness growing inside him, the reckless need to throw himself in harm’s way. The worst part is, he understands why he’s doing it. From Flint’s perspective, he has nothing left to lose but his own life. And from the looks of it, he’s itching to get rid of that as well.
He’s closed himself off from Silver and after so long in each others’ company, it feels like another missing limb. Silver hardly knows what to do with himself most days, wondering if he actually has any influence over his captain at all. The day he tells Silver he’s not welcome inside his head, he feels the words like a blow. He hopes Flint doesn’t notice the tears brimming up as he feels every ounce of progress they’d made slip through his fingers. He’s come to Flint out of concern for his well being and is getting punished for it, shut out once again. He’s unwilling to admit to himself how much that fucking hurts.
His duties as quartermaster come to him more easily than he expected and he certainly has influence over his men. As the days pass it becomes clear to him that every one of them would lay down their lives for Silver and that’s a kind of power he never thought he’d have; a power he’s never wanted. But the adoring looks, the need to please him, to be on his good side...there’s an addictive quality to it that Silver finds himself getting a taste for.
His friendship with Muldoon blossoms during this time. He’s always finding Silver when he’s in one of his dark moods and cracking a joke just to see him smile. He knows from the way Muldoon speaks of Logan that he loved him; feels betrayed that he would leave him behind so easily. The truth is always lingering in the back of Silver’s mind and he wonders what would be more painful—to believe he’d been abandoned or to know Logan was dead. But the more he gets to know him, the less he’s able to bear the thought of seeing him hurt in that way, so he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
And then the tempest arrives. Muldoon’s just joked to him that they’re married because he had just been offering Silver moral support and in the blink of an eye, his legs are trapped beneath the weight of a cannon. Silver digs in with his one foot and his iron peg and he tries to lift the gun but he keeps losing his purchase and he can’t help but wonder if he’d be able to lift it if he had both legs intact.
But the gun isn’t moving and the water is filling the hold faster and faster, rising up around Muldoon’s neck. Silver screams and screams for help; they both do. The grate at the top of the ladder is stuck under something heavy and is as unwilling to move as the cannon when Silver shoves against it. The panic is welling up in his chest as he returns to his friend and sees the tears shining in his eyes. He knows. He knows this is the end.
Silver isn’t ready to accept it so easily. He tries to move the gun again, he tries to pull Muldoon out by the arms but it’s no use. He stops, panting and listens as Muldoon speaks to him, as if he’s trying to offer Silver some comfort in his last moments. Always seeking to comfort him. Silver clings to his hand because he remembers Muldoon doing the same for him. He held Silver’s hand throughout the amputation and he’s never stopped being grateful for that show of kindness in what he assumed were his last seconds alive. It’s the least he can do to return the favor.
Watching his friend drown introduces Silver to a new degree of worthlessness he hadn’t thought possible. He holds on as Muldoon thrashes, panic setting in as the water fills his lungs. And then his hand goes still and falls from Silver’s grasp. He grabs it back up immediately and presses it to his face, sobbing brokenly while the hand he holds starts losing heat. He’s not truly aware of how much time passes while he cries and curses god and begs forgiveness from the man he couldn’t save. But eventually the water stops filling the hold and Silver finally brings himself to release Muldoon’s ice-cold hand.
As if that isn’t enough pain for one day, Flint never comes below deck to wait out the storm. Silver doesn’t sleep, petrified of what they’ll find in the morning, or not find. But they do find him and he’s tied himself to the helm, unconscious but alive and Silver is so angry and grateful he could kick him or maybe kiss him. But soon enough, none of this will matter because they are becalmed and weeks from shore with no mast. It will take a miracle for them to survive this and he had willingly followed Flint into it. Silver can barely understand himself anymore; the insane things he’s capable of doing when Flint speaks with such conviction. He’s helpless to it.
The day of the shooting, Billy comes to him and tells him to get Flint under control. If he wasn’t so weak and tired, he’d be furious. What does he think? There’s some kind of magic key to unlock Flint’s mind and get inside? Billy reminds him that Gates could do it, that the Barlow woman could do it. But they never had to face Flint quite like this. He’s never been quite so desolate before. But Silver has to do something before Billy takes matters into his own hands; knowing that if he ever got the chance he’d kill Flint in a heartbeat and that’s something Silver can’t allow.
So he resolves to do the only thing he can think of—the last act of a desperate man. He’s going to bare himself to Flint. He’s going to wait for the right moment, get him alone, and tell him the truth. He needs Flint to see that Silver isn’t someone else to use to his own ends and discard. He’s not just another member of the crew—he is Flint’s intellectual equal and it’s time he knows that. If he manages to survive the encounter, they will emerge from it irrevocably changed. He knows the only way any of them stand a chance is if he and Flint are working in concert and not in competition.
And then the opportunity presents itself in the form of a dead whale and a longboat. Silver waits until they’re well out of range of the ship, enough to make it near impossible for Flint to get back by himself in his diminished state. And then he lets it all go. He speaks to Flint’s back, watches him freeze, the line of his shoulders going tense. He’s eerily quiet as Silver admits his lie about the gold and Silver genuinely wonders if he’s about to die. There’s only so many ways this confession can go.
“Whatever happens out here,” Silver finishes, his voice parched but grave, “one thing is certain. You will account for me .”
A beat of silence and then Flint asks, “Why are you telling me all this?”
“So you can decide,” he replies, “to fight me, maybe kill me, and figure out a way of hauling yourself back to that ship alone...or you can acknowledge the fact that we’d be a hell of a lot better off as partners than as rivals.”
“You conceived all of this?” Flint sounds quietly amazed and Silver waits for the rage to come. “The cover story, the endgame on the jetty...waiting for the scouts to return?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do with your share?” It’s not the question Silver expects but he answers honestly.
“I gave up my claim to it.”
“Why would you do that?” His voice is still calm, curious.
“Because I could see no way to hold it and remain a part of this crew. And without these men...all I am is an invalid.” The words taste like ash on his tongue, words he’s only before held in the recesses of his mind, too proud to admit them. But they are so past pride, now.
Flint moves and Silver tenses, reaching for the grapple behind him, but Flint simply takes up his oars again and they finish making their way to the whale carcass in silence. Killing the sharks together consummates something between them, solidifies their stance as partners standing on even ground. The near manic grins they share when they have their prize, both of them splattered with seawater and blood, hold a glimmer of promise, a spark of excitement at what they’re capable of when working toward the same end. They feel unstoppable.
It’s a feeling that grows as Silver watches Flint eat the raw shark meat they procured together, a feeling of weightlessness in his chest bordering on euphoria. He barely understands why he’s smiling at a man voraciously eating something that should be disgusting but it tastes like ambrosia to Silver. Billy catches him gazing fondly at the captain and asks what happened.
“Progress,” Silver says, a little breathless.
“How can you know for sure?”
“Because I’m still alive, I suppose.”
The sound of a sail catching wind—a sound he feared they’d never hear again—calls their attention toward the sky and sure enough, the canvas is moving in the breeze. Silver lets out a shuddering breath of amazement, once again convinced that Flint somehow controls the state of reality with his moods. The doldrums of despair are finally over and the winds of change are beginning at last. He meets the captain’s eyes over his cup and grins.
When they finally reach land, Flint brings him a bucket of fresh water to tend his leg and Silver sees it for the peace offering it is. His heart beats a little faster when Flint settles into the sand beside him, companionably close.
“Does it hurt?” he asks. Silver accepts the olive branch.
“Less so. Fresh water helps.”
They discuss the pardons and Silver shares with Flint the ideas he has regarding Hornigold and the possibility of a universal pardon. All the while he’s explaining his thought process, a little smile curves the corner of Flint’s lips, like he can’t help but be impressed.
Flint gives him that look like he’s not even sure Silver is real before he says, “You've been putting all this together all this time and never saying anything to me about it?”
“Well, you and I haven’t exactly been on the warmest of terms lately.”
Flint has the decency to look a little ashamed of that. “No, I...I suppose not.”
They discuss the possibility of facing an embattled Nassau but Flint assures him the fight has already ended, if there was one at all. And then there’s the lure of the pardons to think about.
“Our men resisted because you and I told them to,” Flint says, and he’s still meeting Silver’s eyes—open and honest—and Silver finds himself getting lost in their depths as he speaks, “For whatever reason, whenever you and I speak with one voice, we seem to be able to compel them to any end.”
Flint’s telling him that it will be the two of them together going back to Nassau and rallying the men behind them with this strange power they wield. They’re going to lead a pirate army and they’re going to do it as partners. Silver is afraid, obviously, but also a little bit thrilled. Flint’s determination has always been infectious, and when paired with such a gentle expression, Silver feels like warm sand slipping through Flint’s fingers.
In the cage, there’s ample time to think. Silver thinks about the way Flint kept watching for him over his shoulder on the walk over, ready to help should he stumble; remembering Flint’s strong hands lifting him back up, pulling Silver’s arm up over his shoulder. He thinks about the way Flint had stepped forward immediately to announce himself the captain but refused to answer the queen when she asked for his quartermaster. Silver piped up before Flint could face any repercussions for shielding him, earning a glare that clearly read: “you shit”.
They’re all busy trying to think their way out of this situation but Flint has been quiet for so long now. Silver has never seen him look so vacant and hopeless, as if he’s not even willing to try. It makes Silver nervous, seeing the fight drained out Flint this way. When he speaks to him, Flint replies in a quiet voice, as if from far away. They discuss the terrible escape plan introduced by Billy.
“It gives him focus,” Flint says, of Billy, “Keeps his mind off the fact there might not be a better plan.”
But Silver is determined to find another plan and speaking with the queen’s daughter presents him with that chance. He knew there would be a sympathetic ear to their cause and is buoyed by that until he tries to tell Flint and meets the same toneless indifference as before. Silver is borderline annoyed now, unable to understand where Flint’s coming from. They’ve survived hopeless situations before. Why won’t he at least try?
“Where are you?” Silver asks gently, approaching Flint where he’s gazing out at the jungle, leaning morosely against the bars of the cage.
Flint tells him. He explains his certainty about the universal pardon, how he once worked toward this very end before he forgot it all and became what he is. Silver is left with as many questions as before but then Flint says something that makes Silver’s chest ache with a hollow kind of pain, his stomach twisting itself in knots.
“I wonder if the pardons are the victory and the most enlightened thing I can do is...sit still. Accept what appears to be inevitable and let this be the end of Captain Flint.”
Silver hates hearing that from him, that willingness to accept defeat. It sounds so wrong coming from his mouth, in a voice that’s a pale shadow of the one he’s grown used to.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, “No, no, no. Nothing is inevitable here. I’m showing you a way in which we can survive this.”
Flint is unwilling to see it. He turns and gives Silver a sad look as he says “You’re new to this. Being responsible for men’s lives. But I know what the woman who leads this place is facing right now. The weight of her peoples’ welfare on her shoulders....She won’t let us leave this place alive. She simply won’t permit it.”
He talks about the lies we tell ourselves, that Billy can fight his way out and Silver can talk his way out, but that when it comes down to Flint?
“I don’t know that I have any more lies left in me.”
This is the deepest, darkest place Flint’s ever been and it’s up to Silver to plumb those depths and pull him back out into the light. He wishes he knew where the fuck to start.
Flint dreams of Miranda again and this time he can hear her words. She warns him not to throw everything away.
“What would I be throwing away?” he asks.
She smiles softly, “You can’t see it yet, can you? You are not alone. ”
The words ring in his ears when he wakes. You are not alone. He can’t make sense of it yet but for some reason it spurs him forward. He speaks to Mr. Scott which emboldens him more, and by the time he’s relaying the information to Silver, he’s considering what he’ll say in his audience with the queen. To convince her their partnership would be mutually beneficial. Silver’s eyes are watching him carefully as he speaks and they’re full of concern.
“And what if you can’t convince her?” he asks.
“I will put the case as best I can. But if I feel that isn’t happening…” he pulls the small knife from its hiding place in his boot and shows it to Silver. And then he explains his plan to threaten the queen’s life for the release of his crew.
Silver blanches, blue eyes wide and beseeching. “Even if you could get to her without being killed in the process, even if you could get the knife to her throat and convince them to let us go…” he looks horrified, “You would never get out of this alive.”
Flint doesn’t understand why Silver finds the idea so abhorrent. Right now, it seems like the crew’s best shot of escaping. An opportunist like Silver ought to be on board with a plan that benefits him so directly. But Silver goes quiet, clearly restraining his anger as he stalks away from Flint to the other side of the cage.
The next time he hears Silver’s uneven gait approaching, a few hours have passed.
“Billy doesn’t give a shit if you die tomorrow,” he says by way of greeting. “But I suppose you know that already.”
Of course he knows. Billy makes his resentment of Flint very clear.
“You know, the strange thing is,” Silver continues, “I should be with Billy.”
Flint’s eyebrows raise. Is he not?
“Until most recently I’m quite certain I would have been. Unbothered by trading your life for the rest of the crews’. And yet,” he pauses like he can barely believe it himself, “...for some reason, right now, I am bothered by it.”
He tells Flint that he understands the allure of sacrificing himself for the crew. The temptation of dying as a savior instead of a villain that must be calling to him. And God, leave it to Silver to see right through to the core of him; to the fears he keeps most closely guarded. He’s too tired to deny it. There’s no use, Silver sees him.
“What a waste, it seems to me,” Silver continues when Flint doesn’t speak, “Knowing it doesn’t have to be this way. Knowing the man who talked me into giving a shit about this crew...why, he could talk those people out there into anything.”
Flint dwells on his words all night and when the morning comes and it’s time to see the queen, he leaves his knife behind.
The waiting is torture. Silver sits on his hands to keep them from shaking as Flint appeals to the queen. He can’t be sure how much time has passed but it feels like an eternity. He’s trying not to think about how slim their chances are and wonders if it’s a good sign it’s taking so long or a bad one. Just as he feels like he’s about to lose his mind, the cage door opens and they’re allowed to stagger out into the sun.
Hardly able to believe the sight of Flint alive and in one piece, he looks at the captain with abject wonder, tells him he never expected the plan to actually work.
“Me neither,” Flint admits. A beat passes and then he adds in a gentler tone, “Thank you. For opening that door.”
Silver flushes with pleasure, feeling a smile tug at his lips as they stare at one another. He’s exhausted and hurting and still feeling the effects of starvation but at this moment, he feels nothing but weightlessness.
The night he kills Dufresne and delivers Flint’s commandment to Nassau, he feels a similar sensation. But this time, the weightlessness is accompanied by a heady rush of power, of vindication. It’s an intoxicating elixir and he instantly understands how some men become addicted to violence for violence’s sake. It’s frightening in its intensity, the pleasure derived from killing a man just because you hate him.
When Silver referred to himself as a one-legged creature, he’d only been half joking. The way he sees himself has changed entirely, though he tries to hide it. He figures if he carries on as well as he can, as normally as he can, then he won’t have to face the fact that he’s broken. The total lack of sexual contact between he and Flint reaffirms the notion that he’s an undesirable wretch. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s the main reason he chose to grow out his facial hair. It seems irrelevant, a thing like shaving when you’re already a freak.
He can’t even feel the pain in his leg as his iron foot comes down on Dufresne’s skull, crushing it as easily as a hollow gourd. The pulpy mess of hair and fractured skull, the hot blood splattered across his face, soaking the leg of his trousers, caked to his boot. He’s hardly aware of anything after he leaves the tavern but somehow he makes it back to the ship and the throbbing in his stump makes itself known. The men notice him limping more than usual and badger him into going to the doctor. For once, he doesn’t argue.
Distantly, he hears the tale being told and retold all around him. He’ll be a legend before the night is out, he’s certain. Howell reprimands him for putting so much force on his leg, wincing as he carefully removes the blood-soaked leather from Silver’s swollen skin. Silver nods and apologizes and explains that the whole thing wasn’t exactly planned. He lets the doctor tend him and half-listens to his scolding because his mind is already reliving the murder in vivid detail. Long memory or no, it’s something he’ll never be able to forget.
“You were there, yes?” Flint asks Madi while they watch a crewman reenact what happened in the tavern.
She gives a tight nod, clearly troubled. Flint watches the man mime stomping Dufresne’s head in and flinches. He has no tender feeling toward Dufresne; he’s glad the little bastard is dead. But Silver. This is monumental for Silver. Flint’s seen him take a life when it’s unavoidable but this is an entirely different beast.
“Where is he?”
“With the doctor,” Madi replies.
Flint goes to Howell’s surgery immediately and finds him bent over Silver’s leg where he’s seated on the table. Silver’s face is drawn tight with pain.
“Are you alright?” Flint asks.
“I didn’t feel it when I struck down on him,” Silver replies and Flint can see the sweat standing out on his brow, “I didn’t feel it when we made our escape but, oh. I feel it now.”
Flint has no doubt he’s in great pain but that’s not what he means.
“I wasn’t talking about the leg.”
There’s a weighty pause and Flint asks Howell to give them a moment. The doctor leaves the two of them alone and Flint can finally stand in front of Silver and look him in the eye. He decides to admit something to Silver first in hopes of coaxing the truth from him in return.
“You were right,” he says, and Silver looks at him in surprise. “About the toll it took, playing this part. Losing Miranda. The things that losing Miranda drove me to do. So I know what you’re feeling in the moment.”
Silver is quiet for a second and then he says, in a quiet contemplative voice, “I perceived its effects on you. What I assumed was sorrow, loneliness, and worst of all terror at the thing you were becoming. There is an element to this journey into the dark...that I’m only now beginning to appreciate.”
Flint holds his gaze along with his breath and Silver stares back at him with dark, heated eyes. “What’s that?” Flint asks.
“How good it feels.”
The words settle with sizzling warmth at the pit of Flint’s stomach and he’s instantly reminded of the one time they fucked. God, it seems like a lifetime ago, so much has changed. Their talk about the pleasure of wielding power that occurred directly before Silver touched him for the first time and set his skin on fire. With one look at Silver, he knows it isn’t lost on him either. The flush of his cheeks, the dilated pupils, the hitch in his breath. He’s thinking about being fucked over Flint’s desk and it’s a good look on him.
They move toward one another at the same time, mouths colliding in a hot mess of teeth and tongue. Flint groans into his mouth, enjoying the new sensation of Silver’s mustache catching on his own as his hands fly to Silver’s waist, clutching him tightly and pulling his ass to the edge of the table. Silver whines his approval and spreads his legs for Flint to get between them. He finds Silver already hard for him and he can’t help but rock into his hips with a strangled moan.
When they break apart, they lean their foreheads together, panting in each other's breath until Silver says, “I thought...I thought you didn’t want to. Anymore.”
Flint’s brows crease in confusion and his hands come up to cup Silver’s face, thumbs gently stroking the circles below his eyes as if he can smooth them away. “What are you talking about?”
Silver’s hands come up to hold Flint’s wrists in place like he’s scared of losing the touch. He looks almost embarrassed and Flint doesn’t like that.
“Well, since my...misfortune, I…well,” he pauses, sighs, “Let’s just say I wouldn’t hold it against you if you no longer desired me in that way. It was one thing to fuck the roguishly handsome thief and quite another to fuck the pathetically hobbling cripple.”
Flint feels rage trembling just under his skin and under that, a profound sadness that runs fathoms deep. How dare anyone make this man feel any less incredible than he is?
“Listen to me,” Flint says, still holding Silver’s face in his hands, “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. I didn’t want to hear it from Billy and I don’t want to hear it from you. You are no less of a man for what you’ve lost, regardless of what anyone says. Your leg is tantamount to a badge of courage, announcing to the world that you would rather die than betray your brothers. Be proud of that. Be proud of what you’ve survived, for fuck’s sake. You’re stronger than all of us.”
Flint’s hands slide down his neck, thumbs skating over his fluttering pulse. “And as for my finding you desirable…” he leans in and sucks a kiss onto the side of Silver’s throat until a moan vibrates against his lips. Then in his ear, he whispers, “Just knowing what you’re capable of...if anything, it makes me want you even more.”
Silver shudders and turns his head to catch Flint’s lips again, licking into him slow and deep and Flint’s hands are pulling at his curls and making him sigh into the kiss. Every sound he pulls from the other man makes him crave a hundred more; he wasn’t kidding about how much he wants Silver. He feels almost stupid with it. His hands are clumsy when they go for Silver’s breeches, hastily undoing them before he drops to his knees and comes face to face with the thick cock he’s been longing to get his mouth on.
“Jesus,” Silver hisses, hands flailing briefly before coming to rest, white-knuckled, on the edge of the table.
Flint looks up, catches the wild look in Silver’s eyes as he wraps his hand around the throbbing heat of Silver’s length. He watches Silver’s lips part, a most becoming blush staining his cheeks along with a few stray splatters of blood. He looks feral and gorgeous and Flint glories in the choked off moan he earns when he swipes his tongue across the head of his cock. It feels right to be here between Silver’s thighs, kneeling in devotion for the man who’s making this entire war possible. The man who just killed someone in Flint’s name.
He’s salty and bittersweet and so hot as Flint takes him inside his mouth, he can’t help his own pleased hum at the stretch in his jaw, the heavy scent of Silver’s arousal, making his eyes want to flutter closed. But the expression of pure rapture on Silver’s face is too captivating to look away from. The way he bites his lip, eyes rolling back as Flint hollows his cheeks to suck, feeling the taut flesh pulse between his lips and realizing how much he missed this special kind of power—the thrill of taking a man apart with just his mouth.
Silver still can’t quite believe what’s happening. It’s like Flint swept into the room and breathed life into one of his wildest fantasies. The way he looks between Silver’s knees, fuck. It’s even more scintillating than he imagined. The fearsome, bloodthirsty Captain Flint is sucking his cock like he’s been dying to forever and Silver finds himself close to the edge already at the delicious heat surrounding him and the hooded look of pleasure in Flint’s eyes. He’s truly enjoying himself, humming as he takes Silver deeper and deeper on every pass until the tip is nudging the back of his throat.
He can’t watch his cock disappear between Flint’s flushed lips and manage not to come so he squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall back on a shameless moan. One of his hands creeps up and strokes over the peach fuzz on Flint’s head, soft and tickly against his palm, and the captain pushes into it with another hum that Silver can feel all the way up his spine. He doesn’t push, merely rests his hand there so Flint can feel its warm weight, holding him in place.
“Fuck,” Silver moans raggedly, sneaking peeks at Flint whenever he thinks he can stand it. “That feels...oh. Oh, fucking incredible...you look so good like this.”
Flint’s own erection strains uncomfortably in his trousers, leaking as Silver praises him. He redoubles his efforts, focusing on the head, tongue flicking out to collect the precome steadily dripping from his slit as Silver’s thighs begin to tremble on either side of his head. He’s sure everyone below deck can hear the breathy whines and low groans Silver seems incapable of keeping inside and the thought of it makes Flint all the more voracious. Let them hear. Let all of them know how good he’s making John Silver feel.
Silver’s blood had already been hot from the man he’d slain and Flint’s mouth is extremely talented and the wet sounds and muffled groans are making his remaining toes curl. He feels his balls tighten, inching up toward his cock and he’s not going to be able to hold back this time.
“Oh god, I’m not gonna last,” Silver warns, panting heavily, sweating in his clothes and suddenly wishing they were both naked.
Flint’s eyes flash up at him, green nearly eclipsed by black and keeps right on going. Silver stares down at him, mouth agape as Flint braces his palms on Silver’s thighs and bobs his head faster.
“I’m serious, Flint, I’m gonna fucking come,” he growls, thighs tense and quaking under Flint’s palms.
Maintaining eye contact, Flint takes him all the way in, letting Silver’s cock enter the snug passage of his throat briefly before sucking hard all the way back to the tip and Silver’s gone . His back arches and he shouts to the deckhead as his dick jerks and shoots right onto Flint’s tongue. Silver forces his watering eyes open to watch the last jets of come land across Flint’s lips, catching in his beard and hanging there like pearls. He’s never seen anything quite so perfect.
Flint pants up at him, eyes dazed as he uses his hand to work Silver through his orgasm until he’s spent. Silver looks dumbstruck, speechless for once as he brings his hand from the back of Flint’s head to his cheek. He sweeps up the rest of his release with his thumb and pushes it into Flint’s mouth. Flint hums, pale eyelashes fluttering, and sucks Silver’s thumb clean as if he can’t get enough of the taste of him. Silver shivers, a pulse of heat going to his over-sensitive cock.
“Come here,” Silver finally says, his voice cracking as he grabs for Flint’s shirt, shoulders, anything.
Flint rises and Silver immediately pulls him into his arms and kisses him hard, moaning wantonly at the taste of himself on Flint’s tongue. He can feel the thick line of Flint’s prick, rock hard where it’s digging into Silver’s belly, and he wants it.
“Stay,” Silver commands, when he finally pries their lips apart.
Flint watches him breathlessly as Silver lies down on the table facing him, his hands making quick work of Flint’s fly. His cock springs out, hitting Silver in the cheek and leaving a smear of wetness behind. Flint moans desperately and gets a hand in Silver’s hair as the man gives him a wicked grin before engulfing him in the wet heat of his mouth. Flint’s eyes slam shut and his hips twitch forward but Silver doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches behind Flint and grabs his ass, urging him on.
After a few greedy sucks, Flint’s already swearing and twitching, right on the edge. And then Silver’s mouth slides off of his cock, leaving him flushed and straining as he teases his lips gently over the tip, painting them in his slick.
“Fuuuck,” Flint groans, “The fucking sight of you.”
Silver smiles and turns on his back, opening his mouth against the underside of Flint’s cock, flicking his tongue over the thick vein that travels its length. He encourages Flint to move again, thrusting across Silver’s mouth so his tongue can touch everywhere, lips sucking maddening kisses into the throbbing flesh and Flint’s rhythm picks up. He’s panting and groaning like a man possessed as he leaks over Silver’s face, fingers tightening in his hair.
“Come on, captain,” Silver says, right against the skin of his cock. “I want it.”
If he weren’t out of his mind with pleasure at the moment, Flint might be embarrassed about literally coming on Silver’s command. But as it is, his soul feels forcibly ejected from his mortal form as he cries out and spills over Silver’s face. He watches it land in his mouth, across his lips and cheek and nose, sliding into the curls at his temple, sticking to his mustache. Silver sucks and mouths at him through all of it, nuzzling into Flint’s balls, covering him with spit and come. It’s utterly debauched and yet somehow pure; the way Silver worships him. He takes a page from Silver’s book and feeds him the rest of his spend with his fingers, and Silver willingly opens his lips for it like he’s accepting communion.
When their eyes meet again, Flint feels the world shift beneath him. This was more than just sex and they both know it, more than just using each other to get off. This was a christening of the new thing between them—another act of devotion in a long line of many. Flint has no words for what they are to one another but it seems more important, more real than anything has in years. He needs Silver and Silver needs him too, and that’s all he really cares to understand.
Miranda’s words echo in his ears again. “You are not alone.” He thinks he knows what she meant now.
The knowing looks they receive from the crew, including Howell, when they finally emerge from the room are an easy price to pay for what they just shared. Besides, there isn’t a man among them willing to give Long John Silver a hard time about fucking the captain. Flint smirks at the bruise he left on Silver’s neck, already thinking about adding another. Silver was right about this descent into darkness they share. It does feel very good.