#returnedtothesea

[paradisecost]

Samson @ Oisín] It has been a black week. Christ, his limbs are leaden, his mind like half digested muck. But he hears the rap on his door. And he knows who. It takes minutes to reach it, despite the limits of his crooked hut. A bright eye is fixed against a long worn fissure in the wood, and Samson cannot smother the deep fondness that licks at his heart at the sight. Tugging at the salt swollen wood reveals his friend, only half hidden by a most unexpectedly frothing bouquet.

@returned-to-the-sea

Oisín beams when the door opens, all teeth and bright-eyed affection. It’s been a long time since they’ve seen each other, he thinks, but he can’t be sure how long. He never measures the days and everything feels like it was years ago and ten minutes ago at the same time anyway.

 “Hullo,” he smiles, and lets himself in. He only stops for a second, to bump his forehead against Samson’s, and then he is making himself at home the way he always does: sitting cross-legged on the floor, the bunch of flowers in his lap. If Samson was expecting them to be a gift, he will be disappointed: Oisín plucks one from the bouquet and chews on it, fidgeting slightly with the excitement that seeing his friend brings. Perhaps someone else would have asked the requisite questions: how are you, it’s been so long, where have you been, did you miss me? But Oisín just moves on.

“D’you want some?” He holds out a handful, palm-up like feeding a horse. “They’re fine for eatin’, I thought we could share?”

[intolerablexsacrifice]

pre series post smooch] Thomas is sprawled between James' legs, nosing fondly at his stomach, hands gripping firmly at his hips. "Ask, my love," he murmurs, dragging the tip of his tongue across skin, soothing his side with a long finger. "Tell me, ask me." He tips his head up, eyes soft at the sight of James warring with his own mind. "You won't upset me, James. It isn't wrong." He presses a kiss to the soft skin at the top of his thigh, shivering a little at the heat on his lips.

James is twitching, flushed down to his chest and fighting the urge to squirm under Thomas’ gentle, firm hands. He wants- wants badly enough that the heat of it is dizzying, the sight of Thomas’ mouth so close to him but not touching nearly unbearable. The thought of putting it into words--

He trembles when Thomas speaks, pushes a forearm over his own eyes. Has to swallow the instinct to protest. Deeper than his shame runs the absolute conviction that Thomas is the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen; that loving and being loved by him cannot be wrong; that he wants James to ask, wants to hear it from him. 

James takes a moment. His forearm is warm against his too-hot face and he pulls it away finally, looks down at Thomas again, hands curling anxiously into the sheets. 

He curls one of them into Thomas’ hair instead, stroking through it. Traces the curve of Thomas’ ear with his fingertips, just to see if it makes him shiver. 

“I-- your mouth on me.” He says it quietly, softly, like a confession. His thighs are trembling. Shame does nothing to cool the desire pooling in him as he watches Thomas’ face, eyes flickering. “Please.” 

[thatwasdark]

F@S] The sugar bag hits the table, and Silver is /lingering/. Flint doesn't look up, doesn't speak, but he /knows/ that there are unspoken questions forming hard and loud in Silver's mind. They stay quiet. That evening, before the sun is tucked below the sea, the telltale thump of leg and crutch alerts Flint to the swinging of the door. He's stopped, again; this time staring at his saddle. "Going out, Silver?" Flint's voice is soft in the darkness. He hesitates, before muttering, "coming back?"

For once, he doesn’t feel Flint before he hears him. Silver stiffens, back turned to him at first, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. For all that he trusts Flint - for all the he knows he isn’t Flint anymore, and that Flint was never capable of harming him anyway - there’s still something deeply unnerving about his presence, sometimes. Something other, too subtle to be spoken but deep enough to be felt.

“Unless something truly unfortunate happens to this horse and I in the next few hours, I should think so, yes.” 

It’s only then that he half-turns towards him, just enough to look at Flint in the shadows. If he were a better man, he’d be softer about it; reassure him, perhaps, that this isn’t a lie, that he really does intend to come back. He isn’t even sure he’s going to reach his destination before turning back, can already feel unease settling in his gut. 

Silver wars with himself a moment. Then jerks his head meaningfully towards the horse, hops a little to shift his weight. “Fancy lending a hand?”

[mythwhale]

@returned-to-the-sea (from here)

There’s a fondness in his anticipation, louder at last than the bitter edging of unease or the dark, wild snap of mistrust. God help him, he’s looking forward to Silver’s crooked grin, his bouncing stride, the sight of him rumpled and sleepy by the hearth. The tension between them, never quite out of sight, feels almost balanced now. The sight of her then, of Madi, real and sharp eyed and beaming, speaking fiercely, touching him with all the stern fondness he had missed so deeply feels like a cruel, piercing blow.

Chest to chest, her arms holding him fast, his own limp and awkward: stilled by shock, he hears himself, croaking stupidly into the thick silence.

“You’re here.”

His frantic eyes settle, to stare endlessly at Silver, who has still not stepped inside, and whose face is solemn, shadowed, and scared. “I didn’t think -” his tongue feels clumsy, and he tries to marshal his thoughts but they teem and crowd, blurring in his mind. That I’d see you again. That you’d want to see me. That we weren’t some half swallowed fever dream. That you and he could ever endure that madness.

That you survived.

He blinks, his blood hot and desperate for something solid; some tether to cling to. It drags his lost and aching gaze to Thomas leaning against the doorframe, his smile soft and curious, watching their silent grief unfurl. Flint brings his arms around her back, gripping tight for a heartbeat before stepping back. He settles his hands on her shoulders, and takes her in, the chaos dancing in the pit of his mind quietens at the sight of her. He’s being appraised, he realises, her steady, softening stare roaming over his features, his life, his mind.

“He didn’t say.” He finds the words tumbling unbidden from his lips, a quiet little admission of all the things Flint doesn’t know, and all the things Silver doesn’t tell them.

She settles under his hands, the gentle weight of them. This is not the man she knew, not entirely. He is not so far changed that she cannot recognise him, but she sees - finally - what Silver had meant when he’d told her that he had unmade Captain Flint.

Until now there was no proof of his survival save for John Silver’s word, and love him though she may, Madi has learned that such a thing cannot ever be fully trusted. Even when he tells the truth, she senses gaps - omissions - things he doesn’t let her see.

“Hm. No, I didn’t think so.” Her eyes don’t leave him. She sees the tall, white man that must be Thomas Hamilton in her peripheral vision, but her focus is only on Flint, drinking in the sight of him whole and alive, looking better-rested and happier than she’d ever seen him. It’s an uncomfortable thing to be confronted with, in some ways. To know that he and his loved ones gained peace at such a cost. In her bitterest moments she could care less for the things that were gained through Silver’s betrayal: she still grieves for a war that never was.

“I was not certain whether I would come,” she admits, one hand lifting to rest briefly atop his where it sits on her shoulder, before dropping again. “If it would cause more harm than good. But I like to think, even with the look on your face--” And she’s smiling, eyes bright and fond, almost teasing him. “--that it will be the latter.”

Silver, still frozen anxiously at the door, cannot stop staring at them. It’s a dream and a nightmare realised in unison: the two of them reunited again. He cannot shake the cold, throttling feeling that he’s made a mistake. That Madi’s warmth towards him--that Flint’s--will turn cold and distant again. He thinks they already might have. He thinks he might feel Flint’s anger even before Flint does, when it comes. And while everything in him is begging him to turn and leave while he still can, Silver refuses. He steps, as slowly and quietly as the crutch will allow him, over the threshold.

[sunvault]

returned-to-the-sea replied to your post “@songofthestone (from here) Having stumbled gracelessly down the...”

god I fucking ADORE HOW MUCH RAPHAEL LOVES HARRY

HE JUST FUCKING ADORES HIM SO MUCH AND I’M SO GLAD IT COMES ACROSS HSFDKJDNFKJNG

[the-sea-of-waking-life]

Pretty mind blowing to think that a year ago I came to this place... I packed up my subaru and drove 1,300 miles to the coast and a new life. Leaving my family and Colorado home was terrifying but I proved to myself I was brave enough. The amount of growth I've experienced in the last 12 months is almost unfathomable. I take myself for granted more often than not, and the journey I've been on sure as hell hasn't gone without its lows, there's been loneliness, heartache, managing my ever present anxiety, swings of depression I wasn't sure I'd make it out of, unreasonable expectations from myself and others and a slew of curve balls. At the end of the day though, I know I've worked hard to be where I am regardless of others opinions. I am grateful for the messy beginnings of my fresh start. I now have a great job, a man who loves me like I never could have imagined, friends near and far who care and brighten my days, a family so full of love and crazy who I think of constantly, a roof over my head, food in my belly, a reliable car, less debt, laughter, and all the daily adventures big and small. To everyone who has touched my life, from the bottom of my heart, Thank you. Wouldn't have made it here without you. #personal #stillaliveat25 #anotheryeargoneby #freshstart #grateful #returnedtothesea #coloradomermaid #roadtrip #ontheroad #braverthanyoubelieve

[paradisecost]

@Raphael] The morning seems to stretch. Harry, his eyes prised open in fear before the sun has dared to breach the mountain sits alone, and far too silent. The pipes beneath his feet begin to mumble and warm. Six o'clock. A bird wails outside. He feels the dimming of the pollen, the sway of a branch. Morning has arrived. He quivers with the chill, and the uncertainty of loneliness. Climbing faster than he ought, he pokes his head into the loft. "Raphael?" He crawls over. He wants to be held.

@songofthestone / @returned-to-the-sea

Through the haze of sleep, the first thought Raphael has is that Harry should be careful climbing the ladder. His shoulder might be more or less healed, but there is no doubt in Raphael’s mind that it’s still delicate, and prone to aching. 

With his hair half-obscuring his face, Raphael doesn’t open his eyes, but breathes in deep as he properly starts to wake, rolling further onto his side to face his friend. The floorboards creak softly under Harry’s weight. He crawls closer, and Raphael realises (with a flush of pleasure that would embarrass him if he were more awake) what Harry’s come to him for.

He lifts an arm, and with it the thin blanket, and silently invites Harry in.

When Harry is close enough, Raphael wraps that arm around him to pull him in the rest of the way, tucking Harry’s head under his chin and burying his face in that soft, golden hair. He catches the smell of soap and clean cotton, and beneath that the nameless but unmistakable scent of Harry himself. It makes his heart ache. It makes him want to pull Harry on top of himself and stay like that for an age.

Raphael still doesn’t speak - it’s too early in the morning for a third language, and there’s nothing that needs to be said when they’re this close to one another. He slips his other arm under Harry’s body, wraps that around him too. Without thinking about it, he traces soft patterns on Harry’s back as he drifts back to sleep.

[intolerablexsacrifice]

The Lieutenant - /James/ - he thinks, with a soft smile, is early. His face is blank, and he’s standing erect; buttons gleaming, his coat still firmly on. Thomas nears, smile fading to a frown. He looks like a man awaiting some terrible fate. He aches to reach out, to temper this strange distress, but he stops, shocked by a dark bruise blooming beneath his eye. “My dear Lieutenant,” he murmurs. “What on earth has happened?” He moves, as if to touch, catching himself just in time. “Does it hurt?”

James’ heart is not pounding. He had thought it might, with the looming danger of being dismissed from Thomas Lord Hamilton’s service, but his pulse feels slow and steady in his chest, too calm for the events about to unfold. 

His face is carefully neutral, hands behind his back; the sight of Thomas drives a scarlet spark through him, even now, and he believes more than ever that what he did yesterday evening was right. That Pickram - or his friend, James cannot remember now who received the worst of his wrath - deserved his bloodied face and his likely permanently-misshapen nose and jaw. 

He would do it again, he thinks wildly, even as he braces himself. He would do it again without hesitation or apology.

Something in his gut flutters nervously at the endearment Thomas greets him with; the slight start of his hand, almost reaching towards him. James resolutely does not move. The knuckles behind his back are bruised and aching but in this moment he barely feels them at all.

“You didn’t hear? I assumed someone would have told you by now.”

Thomas doesn’t know, which means the duty of telling him falls to James. He should be grateful for that- grateful for the opportunity to explain himself- but all he feels is a low and steady dread.

James’ eyes flicker over Thomas’ face, the bruises on his jaw and beneath his eye throbbing. His heart is no longer as steady as it was.

“I struck a fellow officer.” If only it was as simple as that. If only it had been just one blow. James takes a breath, as if steeling himself, and shifts his weight slightly. “He and his… companions made an attempt to provoke me,” (he could lie, if he wanted to, but he cannot imagine telling a lie to this man and sleeping at night afterwards) “Through insulting your wife’s name, and yours.” 

He hesitates.

“It worked. Admiral Hennessey was forced to intervene.”

[thatwasdark]

Thomas @ Silver] "Two years, Long John Whatsit." He's yelling from the kitchen, because he's trying very hard not to ruin this hot chocolate experiment. "Two years and you're still sleeping by the fire." Eventually, he pokes his head out, four triumphant cups balanced on a small tray, the scent of cocoa thick in the air. "We keep that room free for a reason, you know." He hands John a cup, wondering where James and Miranda have gone. "You don't /have/ to use it," he smiles, "but it /is/ yours."

Two years and he’s still sleeping by the fire. 

Two years and he can take a cup of rich sweetness from Thomas’ hands without feeling guilty but still has to quell the urge to raise every defense he has when the room is mentioned. The room. His room. 

He’s known for a long time that they mean for it to be his room. He’s used it maybe a handful of times in the past two years, but the thought of claiming it--the thought of keeping anything in it, if he even had anything to keep--terrifies him. 

You don’t have to use it, Thomas says, smiling so genuinely that Silver wants to throw his drink at him, But it is yours. And then Silver nearly does throw the drink, heart pounding suddenly in his chest, but he keeps both hands clasped around the mug and stays very still in his chair by the fire and doesn’t bolt.

If he accepted the room as his own he would have somewhere to retreat to; a safe, quiet place that he could ask people not to enter, where no-one could look at him. 

But then if he accepts the room as his own he will have to leave it behind and before that he might have to confront the fact that he--that he’s never--that the last time he had a room, it--

Silver’s mouth opens, then closes again. He looks down at the mug in his hands. Stares at the dark liquid in it and resolves not to throw it in Thomas’ face literally or metaphorically. He isn’t smiling, for once. Doesn’t even try.

“Hm,” says Silver, and tries the drink so there’s literally anything else to talk about.

[paradisecost]

H@R]Harry’s hair, usually so soft and bright, is plastered darkly to his brow.His cheeks are pinked, and flushed still further beneath the heat with stubborn frustration. “There’s something the matter with these grains, Raphael.” His whole face is a miserable picture, damp and pouting, his hands trembling a little from the acrid stench of scorched quinoa, and the cruel little burns flecking his palms. “They jumped up! Right from the water!” He holds out his hands, like a plaintive child. “Look!”

@returned-to-the-sea / @songofthestone

This was why he never let Harry cook if he could help it: something was always bound to go wrong. Even after nearly a year, it was a gesture of immeasurable trust that he’d left Harry alone with the oven at all, given how dangerous the whitewood could be, and how useless Harry had been in the kitchen thus far.

Raphael swept his gaze over Harry’s flushed, upset face and the damp hair sticking to his neck, then took both of his reddened hands in his own. He looked hard at them. They were burnt, certainly, where they’d been splashed. It was nothing that wouldn’t heal within a day, but he was sure it stung horribly. He wondered if Harry’s upset was less to do with the pain and more to do with having burnt the quinoa on top of it all. 

“There’s nothing wrong with the grains,” he said calmly, brushing his thumbs over Harry’s wrists. “You’re just bloody useless in a kitchen. I’ve told you. You’re cursed.” He let him go, but rubbed Harry’s shoulder, then gently nudged him aside to check the stove. 

“You let it boil too high,” he said, as he wrapped a towel around his hand to move the pan aside. The smell of the burnt grain was foul. “There’s a bucket of water by the door. Put your hands in it. See if it still hurts after a minute, then we’ll see.”

[mythwhale]

T@Oisín] He has spent the past hour stretched out and watching. Oisín-and-Miranda is a familiar sight: him thrusting his sweet soul forward, her holding it gently, caressing the edges, firming the sides. But here he is, murmuring at James, the sloping grin wild and fond. James takes something from those long, pale fingers and nods at the stranger. He waits, interested and under informed. Later, hours it seems, Thomas strides towards him. “So then.” He’s utterly at sea. “What do you make of us?”

Oisín peers at him; stilling, instinctively, when he sees the man striding towards him. Something in the way Thomas carries himself–the way he speaks, the words he uses–always stirs something in him, an idle curiousity. Not everyone speaks like that. Even most lettered men don’t speak like that, from what little Oisín knows of such men. Either Thomas is something else or he was, once, and is no longer.

But the thought drifts from him when Thomas speaks; Oisín’s hands rub at one another, fingers fidgeting idly with one another as he ducks his head and stares at the other man through a curtain of hair.

“Make of you?” His eyes flicker towards where James (who is not Captain Flint, though he was once) had disappeared. Oisín’s hands drop to his sides, and he feels as if he has gone very still. There probably isn’t a wrong answer, but Oisín can count on one hand the number of times he’s been asked his opinion on–well. Anything, really. Especially by a near-stranger. “I haven’t thought about it? Think Miranda’s a friend?” Then, because it doesn’t occur to him to lie, or to obscure the truth: “Don’t know so much about you and- your- James yet. But that’s ‘cause I don’t know you, except from how Miranda is about you.” 

The longer he talks, the more anxious he seems to become, and the more he seems to withdraw into that wild nest of hair.

[paradisecost]

(wrong account shhh) 🌑 flings a sleepy Merrick at Raphael [post canon BUT YOU CHOOSE THE VERSE]

Send 🌑 to crawl into bed with my muse // @songofthestone // v: nassau

He had lost eleven hours somewhere, leaving his internal clock skewed by almost half a day. Even in this place, with no markayuq to maintain and no village to take care of, it was still rare that he was ever asleep before midnight. He’d found he liked putting things in order, and that he liked having no-one to answer to but himself.  There was always work to be done if you wanted to live self-sufficiently, unless you wanted to pay people to do it for you, which Raphael didn’t. 

Tonight, however, he was in bed by six, too exhausted to stay awake and afraid that if he didn’t sleep soon he would freeze instead, and that it might be even longer this time. Eleven hours was longer than usual and when the light had changed he had shook for a long time afterwards.

He didn’t expect Merrick to come back so soon; when he felt him crawl into bed and opened his eyes it was only just starting to get dark, Raphael’s vision dimming with the descent of the sun. It could only have been eight or nine in the evening. He rolled over to face Merrick, to press his palm flat to his chest in lieu of holding him close. Merrick’s heart was strong and steady under his palm and he wanted to feel the warmth of him, instead of only imagining it.

“You’re early,” he murmured. His voice fractured at the end and he pushed his forehead to Merrick’s instead, nosing gently at him to ask if something was wrong, or if he’d just wanted to be close to Raphael for a while.

[intolerablexsacrifice]

@returned-to-the-sea (from here)

It’s that still and dreamy hour. The night having left her post, the day yet to wake.

Exhaustion creeps through the men, drugging minds and dragging at limbs, everyone slumped against the threshold of then, and next.

Hal finds himself blinking, awake too soon in the thick grey darkness, cocooned in a fug of breath and heat. Grunting a little, he tries to shift, but a weight on his chest stills him quickly. Too light to be someone dead, too close to be someone to worry about. He tilts his head, cursing as it throbs at the movement. Flint, tucked quieter and softer than he’s seen him in months, is gripping firmly to his bare body. Fuck, he thinks, a fondness pattering in his chest. Fuck. Fond turns to dread, and tightens around his throat. He lets his hand rest gently on Flint’s arm, his rough fingers aching to tighten, and pull him closer. Pushes his nose into the wild, hot hair instead, and waits until the sun begins to sneak under the door and pry open Flint’s eyes.

The bastard burrows then, shoving his face right into the soft, sweet skin of Hal’s neck, mumbling pitifully. He knows Flint’s not wearing any breeches. That the only scrap he’s got on is his wide, white shirt, and it drags across his bare belly as he hauls his Captain on top of him. He pins one leg between the knees of his own, and curls his arm around Flint’s back, pressing them chest to chest. He smooths one hand down the nape of his neck, sighing heavily. “You drank all the rum.”

He wants to keep touching, to tug at the shirt, keep out the daylight and stroke at the hardness he feels between those bare legs. “All my rum, you bastard.”

He lets his hands drop to his sides. Flint will leave now, he supposes.

“And then you nicked my bed.”

“Doesn’t seem like you tried very hard to make me leave it,” Flint murmurs. The quirk of his eyebrow goes unseen, face still hidden against Hal’s neck. That heavy hand on the back of his neck makes him shiver, grounds him to himself. The loss of its weight leaves him cold and wanting.

If he weren’t so hungover, he tells himself, he would be rolling out of the hammock already. Extracting himself from Hal’s arms; from his steady heartbeat and the gruff warmth in his voice; from the deep urge Flint feels to roll his hips against the warm, firm thigh resting between his legs. If he weren’t so hungover, he wouldn’t even entertain the prospect of staying here a little longer when there’s work to be done.

Flint opens his eyes reluctantly, lashes brushing Hal’s skin. He wants, quite suddenly, to sink his teeth into Hal’s bare shoulder; the expanse of it is just there. Instead Flint raises himself up a little with a grunt, just enough to fold his arms on Hal’s chest without accidentally tipping them both, and look quietly at him in the rising dawn.

It’s too hot. Hal’s hands haven’t returned to him, and Flint doesn’t know how to ask him to touch again. His eyes flicker to Hal’s mouth, wondering- he wants, badly, to press down against him with his hips- but.

“Why didn’t you? Make me leave.” The quirk of his brow is visible, this time. He doesn’t even try to pretend he isn’t heckling Hal on purpose. “Looking for an excuse to complain at me, no doubt.”

[thatwasdark]

Flint@Silver,post canon]"You don't eat pork," he says flatly. James has learnt three new things about his ex-quartermaster and current friend since his turbulent arrival at their cottage. This one is making it very difficult for him to maintain a straight face. He scrubs at his beard, carefully avoiding eye contact. "You don't eat pork, in fact you're /Jewish/, and we made you roast an entire fucking pig, the first week you sailed with us." He buries his face in his hands, a wild laugh escaping.

Silver’s hand stills momentarily around his mug of lukewarm tea, then continues to raise it to his lips. He takes a prolonged sip, avoiding those mismatched eyes just as much as they avoid his, a small, uncomfortable smile curling at the corners of his mouth. There’s tension in him until Flint laughs, and then Silver’s laughing too just because of the sound of it, shoulders shaking, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide behind his hair the way Flint’s buried his face in his hands. There’s a tightness in his gut that only comes with being seen, but the house is warm and Flint has the most ridiculous laugh he’s ever heard, and Silver doesn’t run.

“You did,” he says cheerfully, raising the mug a little. “And every piece of hardtack I ever ate had fucking insects in it, too.” He doesn’t care if Flint knows that eating insects or insect-ridden food is forbidden, says it more for himself than anyone else. He starts to say something else, maybe But you can eat anything when your life depends on it, it’s allowed or I once ate a red fruit half-rotten and but the words get stuck in his throat and he swallows them down with a gulp of tea instead. 

[intolerablexsacrifice]

The evening is chasing them, hours spilling past with little concern for their work, for their intentions. James seems lost in a page, his thumb tapping idly on the dark wooden desk and Thomas feels his heart fill, as it always does, watching his mind work; furious, yet silent. He stands by his side, and gently lays his own heavy hand over those busy fingers. They stay, joined and quiet for a while before he speaks. "I would ask you to stay, but I - " for once he's lost, a little. "You needn't."

James’ heart catches at the sound of his voice. He looks up at Thomas, feels that bright, scarlet spark inside himself flare joyfully at the sight of him this close. The work slips from his mind like sand through splayed fingers. 

It’s a curious thing, to see Thomas hesitate like this. James glances towards the window, the light already dying as the sun descends. He’d be late getting back to his lodgings, he tells himself; so late that he might as well not sleep at all, with the time he’d need to be awake again. His heart tugs towards Thomas like a hound straining at the leash.

“I want to.” It’s nearly an interruption, so eager is he to banish that faint, uncertain tone from Thomas’ voice. James’ hand grasps his, laces their fingers through one another. He meets Thomas’ eyes and finds himself utterly unafraid. He says, a little more tenderly: “I’d like that. Very much.” 

[thatwasdark]

@returned-to-the-sea (from here)

Flint blinks slowly, his mind quiet for once, thoughts lost and lazy in the flames licking at their blackened grate. He grins, the echo of that rage now just a gentle clench in his gut.

“God,” he drawls. “I wanted you dead.”

He remembers the rope, tight and biting at his wrists and ankles, the scream beneath his skin building and burning. His heart that day had been full of Thomas; of failure and betrayal. He had heard Silver, his low and easy voice slicing through the rank air in that cabin. “Good thing I was tied down.” He gazes fondly at John, bundled softly in the chair closest the window, a breeze lifting the curls off his forehead. “You were a little shit though.” Offers him a gentler smile. “Are.” He closes his mind now, swallowing anger that belongs in another life. “A comforting constant in all our lives.”

G-d, but he’d missed this; Flint’s flat humour, his particular brand of unsettling, comforting honesty accompanying it. There’s so much space between them, Silver curled in one chair, Flint sprawled in another. But Silver feels like the whole room is wrapped around them; like maybe they are the room, the two of them, no daylight between them after all.

He chuckles, eyes soft for a long heartbeat before they flicker down, and Silver turns his face away towards the window, still smiling. Reminiscing with this man always has the potential to bring more harm than comfort; Silver knows his own mind well enough to know that the slightest allusion to certain incidents might send him spiralling. But Flint says comforting constant in that particular dry-fond tone of his, and the breeze ghosts gently through Silver’s curls like a touch and he knows he will carry those words in his chest to the grave. 

He also knows that if he looks back at Flint too soon that look on the captain’s face will not have faded yet, and there’s only so much of Flint’s intensity that Silver can take all at once.

“Good. I pride myself on my continued capacity to both aggravate and endear at any given moment.” 

Only now--once he’s deflected just a little--can Silver look at him again, and the moment he does a truth comes to mind, a half-buried little thing, glinting in the back of his mind. There’s the little intake of breath before speech, and then a pause, Silver weighing the risks, before he relaxes again-

“Speaking of the warship- I don’t think I ever told you.” That’s probably a dangerous phrase, coming from him. He knows this, continues swiftly. “When you were sinking to the bottom of the sea- when I jumped in after you, I wasn’t thinking. About the gold, or about how fucked I’d have been if I let you drown, or the crew or the danger or any of it. I just--did it. I saw you go under, and I just. Dove after you. Not for any good reason, really; I didn’t care much for you then, you’ll recall. Certainly not enough to justify risking drowning myself just to save you from the same.”

There is, in the unusual picking of Silver’s hand at a thread in his shirtsleeve, the faintest hint of a truth obscured. He knows his reasons; they’ve echoed in every stranger’s life he’s ever tried to save, every cry for a doctor in the heat of battle. He is allowing Flint, in some way, not to know the reasons themselves but to know that they exist.

“I don’t believe in fate, or that some divine hand pushed me into the water after you,” he says, too casually, “And needless to say, I’m fucking relieved that I did jump in after you, but--Well.” And now his story falls apart, a little, because there is no good excuse Silver can give for telling him this, no reason beyond I wanted you to know this about me. Which is terrifying, and he’s picking at the thread again. “If I did believe in fate, I suppose I’d believe she lent a hand, in that moment.”