Work Text:
When there’s nothing left of Charleston but an ever-growing cloud of smoke, Flint allows himself to move from the spot at the edge of the railing and hears the first mention of Silver’s name. A few of the others have reappeared from below decks and they start swarming him, telling their versions of the story, since no one that was in that room with him when it happened is still alive.
They talk about his screams as the warship moves out to sea, leaving Miranda and any thought of his past behind.
Flint follows them down below and their words don’t become real until he sees him. John Silver, laid out in a bloody mess, his left leg gone from the knee down and half the crew surrounding him. Howell is still hard at work and something twists in Flint’s gut at the sight, and all at once he’s hit by the deafening silence that is usually filled with Silver’s voice. The man hardly ever stops speaking and he’s out cold—that, somehow, truly demonstrates the full extent of the damage.
“He saved us all,” Billy says, close to Flint’s side. The few that hear him look up in agreement, most close by with hands still on Silver even though he isn’t putting up any more resistance to Howell’s work. When Flint thinks of it as a form of comfort he feels the need to add his own hand, still clapped in irons and a recently broken chain. But he holds his ground.
“When it’s finished, he needs to be brought to my quarters,” Flint says, and turns to leave before anyone can question him.
--
He’s seen men lose their limbs before. All the harsh screaming, the pleas for death, losing their bowels and their motivation to live. John Silver, little shit though he might have been all along, has always been a vibrant soul, always with something to say or contribute, and Flint has unwillingly felt his voice and his presence close to necessary as of late. He’s lost everything, his own lack of will to live only rivaled by his need for revenge, and thinking of this man, this man above any other in that kind of pain makes his stomach churn.
None of them are prepared for him being involved but Flint helps them clean him up, get him in a new set of clothes, and oversees Howell bandaging his stump once they have him situated by the window.
“I’ll be in and out to check on him—” Howell starts, and Flint draws up a chair behind his desk, a little closer to the window than he normally would have been.
“Let me know what I need to do,” he says, clearing his throat once the words leave his mouth, “and I’ll call for you if I need assistance.”
Howell looks struck dumb and all Flint wants him to do is leave.
--
The first night is the worst. Silver never wakes but the pain plagues him, and Flint is pulled from the depths of his thoughts by the sound of whimpering coming from the window. Flint gets up and moves a little quicker than he himself would have anticipated, striding over to stand beside him.
Silver’s brow is furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut, breathing fast through his mouth. A fine sheen of sweat has broken out on his forehead and Flint reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. He grabs the cloth from the crate next to him, dipping it in the water and smoothing it over Silver’s skin.
“Shhh,” he breathes, and he narrows his eyes. He never thought seeing Silver like this would affect him in this way, his heart picking up its pace, but the whole world is altered now, and he knows if what the crew say is true, he wouldn’t have made it out of Charleston alive without Silver’s aid. They’re alone now, he has Flint’s attention entirely, and things feel different here, on the other side.
He runs the cloth over Silver’s cheeks and sets it down on the crate, running his thumb over his cheekbone and smoothing away the moisture there. Silver calms, just enough to stop trying to thrash, and leans into Flint’s hand. His breathing begins to even out.
“That’s right,” Flint whispers, feeling the heat coming off him, “that’s right, it’s alright.”
--
He finds himself staring over at Silver, willing him to wake up. He reads and he watches him, he stares out the window at the ocean and he watches him, he goes out onto the deck to bark orders but leaves the door open so he can still see. He ushers the others out when they come in to look and feels strangely sick when he finds out the news about Eleanor’s arrest, realizing that the world truly is different now than any one he’s known before.
“He won the vote,” Billy says, sticking his head in the door, knowing he won’t be invited to stay.
Flint nods, turning his eyes on Silver again. His new quartermaster.
That night he finds himself reading aloud. Nearly out of his own volition, but nothing meaningful, just an old nautical text he’d found on the bookcase. When he realizes he’s doing it he falters but doesn’t stop, only scooting closer to the prone form next to the window.
He realizes he’s bursting with all the news they’ve gathered and there’s only one person he really wants to tell it to. Wants to hear what he’s got to say, like Silver is the port in the storm fixed in this new world, where everything is wrong and the ship seems to sway a little heavier.
“Captain.”
It’s Silver’s voice, a little bit more broken but his all the same. Flint stops reading and his heart jolts in his chest when he looks up. Silver’s breathing is picking up again and his head is lolling from side to side as he presses his lips together. “Flint,” Silver breathes, his brows knitting together. “Don’t. Don’t go.”
Flint’s breath gets caught in his throat and he tries to clear it, scooting closer.
Silver gasps, the breath coming back out in waves. “Don’t, they’ll—they’ll—”
Flint reaches forward and wraps his hand around Silver’s wrist, feels his pulse beating rapid there. Flint can’t imagine what he’s seeing, if it has to do with his capture or if it’s something else burning in the back of his mind.
“I’m sorry,” Silver breathes. “’m sorry, sorry—”
Flint tightens his hold. “Relax,” he says, and it sounds too loud, so he lowers his tone. “I’m right here, you don’t—there’s no one else here, no one else to hurt you. The crew’s safe, I’m—I’m here.” Silver’s forehead is still hot when Flint presses his hand there, and he stands up, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and bringing the cup of water to his lips with the other. Silver drinks some but a line of it streams from the corner of his mouth, and Flint brushes across the swell of his bottom lip when he wipes it away.
--
Flint gets nervous. Paces around the cabin and has nearly memorized the sound of Silver’s breathing, how he sounds when he’s peaceful, when he’s in pain, when something is tearing at the back of his mind. He only seems to level out when Flint speaks, so Flint hardly ever stops speaking. He thinks the rest of them might think he’s gone insane, and maybe he has, but this—him—is what he’s chosen to cling to.
Silver must wake up. He must.
“I can still feel the chains around my throat,” Flint breathes, eyes flicking over to find him when he passes by. “There were children there looking at me like I was something they’d never seen before. I don’t know why, there had been hangings—they’d surely seen, with how close they’d managed to get.” He blows out a breath and leans on the wall next to Silver, trying to stare out at the strip of sea instead of staring down at him. “I hated leaving her body there. But there was—there was no possible way—” He clears his throat and sits down again, next to him. He draws the blanket up a little further so it’s nearly covering Silver’s throat, tucks it more securely around his hip, and is grateful for the closed door.
--
Silver looks peaceful now. The fever isn’t so bad anymore but Flint keeps touching him to make sure, skims his thumb over his eyelid. Paper thin, and for the first time Flint is nervous about Silver waking up in this moment instead of anticipating it.
He looks so young like this. Flint knows losing the leg will change him, will wipe away some of that optimism and the graceful way he’d move, like he had a set of wings he’d been hiding. Flint pinches at the bridge of his own nose and walks over to the bookcase, picking out one he’s incredibly familiar with. He looks at the chair behind his desk but knows he can’t deny himself or his instincts, not now when he’s on this precipice between the living and the dead and Silver is hanging there too.
He smooths his thumb over the words and it still isn’t as tender as the way he’d touched the other man before. He looks up, like he expects him to be listening, and finds him moving ever so slightly, turning his face in Flint’s direction. He makes the smallest noise from the back of his throat and Flint draws himself closer.
“Here at least,” he starts, looking up at Silver again, “we shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built here for his envy, will not drive us hence. Here we may reign secure, and in my choice to reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav’n.”
“Flint,” Silver says, soft, and Flint reaches out and lays his hand in the crook of the other man’s arm.
“I’m still here,” Flint says, and though he doesn’t know about his future, can’t think about what might become of him, he knows that as long as this man is here, right here in his cabin, he’s going to stay stalwart beside him. It’s like fate made the decision, and he had no choice but to go along with it. “I’m not going anywhere.”