Archive of Our Own

Silver is in the room when it happens. He’s not sure if he’s glad for it, in retrospect.   

The day is urgent, and the ship around them chaotic, though Flint bears little resemblance to his surroundings as he listens to Silver talk about the state of the beach.

It's unusual. Not his silence, but his stillness. Then again the man is seriously considering razing Nassau to the ground. He’s allowed to brood on the matter a little. A little hesitation seems a good thing, in this case, to Silver. 

Not a good thing, he reminds himself, as he takes in the concerned frown that has begun to crease Flint’s brow. Hesitation is not for pirates. He suspects it can be lethal for Captains. The men need certainty, and so Flint is brooding in private.

Less clear is precisely why Flint is permitting him to bear witness to this scene of bare doubt. Is it an attempt to secure Silver’s loyalty by feigning a moral conflict? A poor one, if so. Inelegant.

And more to the point it doesn’t feel quite right; a man like Flint could not have gotten to where he is had he any qualms about violence or murder. He can’t honestly expect Silver to believe that this is what undergirds his expression. Whatever the real reason for it, it’s worth further contemplation, certainly. Silver makes a note of it. 

Part way through Silver's rundown of the coming fight—which amounts to a list of bodies available for the cause—Flint gets a strange look on his face. It’s distant, turned inward, as though he’s disappeared into himself.

As strange as it is, it’s not unfamilar: Flint’s been making that face often as of late. Another thing to prod further. Feigning ignorance for the time being, Silver presses on without pause right until Flint shakes his head and moves to rise out of his seat, going for the bottle of rum just out of his reach.

As soon as he gets up he sways. Both of his hands come down hard on the desk. The rest happens too quickly for Silver to do anything but watch: Flint’s eyes roll far into his head and in one stroke he collapses, dragging some of the tools and maps spread out on the table down to the ground with him as he goes. 

Flint’s neck—when Silver puts a hand on it—feels like an open flame.  

The doctor is in the cabin when Silver next enters. He’s standing by the nook in the window, squinting at a pocket watch in one hand and holding a pale wrist in the other.

The room is oddly stark, Silver thinks, oddly bright. The Captain’s desk has been pushed to the side. The vanguard’s hammocks have been cleared for space. A tub sits in the middle, recently used and half-empty. Familiar items are strewn about: a studded gun belt, a dark shirt. Weapons laid out on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Flint’s jacket on the floor, like a spill of ink.

He looks at Howell. "How is he?"

“The same,” Howell says, in that flat tone of voice that has started to grate. “I’ve given him something to break the fever. With any luck, we should begin to see improvement in a few hours."

"That's good news.”

Luck isn’t news, much less good news. And, as Silver had been starting to suspect, it’s simply not good enough. Perhaps the doctor ought to abdicate his role to someone with more skill; someone from Nassau proper with a better knowledge of remedies. At any rate there is too little time and too much at stake to entrust such a task to the ship’s hatchet-man. 

How to go about convincing him of this without causing offense is another matter. Silver takes a moment to think as he watches Howell lower Flint’s hand back onto the cot and turns away to rifle through his bag for something.

On an intake of breath which can only be described as a rattle, Flint’s wrist begins to slide off the side of his stomach. Skin catches against the wood panelling, once, twice, until his forearm slips off the side, seemingly lifeless. The good doctor doesn’t notice.

The impulse on Silver’s part to walk over and return Flint’s arm to his side is as sudden as it is strange. He frowns.

It seems he has grown accustomed to doing things for Flint before the man can even ask that they be done. That’s understandable, Silver supposes, given Flint’s penchant to order him around like a servant, and the vital necessity of predicting his desires for the time being. Although it is still unwise. It can't become a habit.

He leans into the door-frame and crosses his arms, throws one ankle over the other for good measure. He regards the doctor evenly, and takes his shot. 

“Hornigold can smell blood in the water,” Silver says, as Howell presses his palm to Flint’s forehead and makes a note in his journal. “He’s already talking about calling for a vote.”

“Hmm,” Howell says. He makes another note. 

“The men can feel it, too,” Silver goes on, letting his voice color with a lament. “They're growing restless. In a day or two, they will be right where Hornigold wants them. The Captain needs to be up and about before that happens.”

“Hmm,” Howell repeats, and for a very brief moment Silver wants to lunge at him.

Pay attention.

By the next breath it has subsided.

“You seem awfully unconcerned about this," he says, with a smile.

“Would you like me to panic?" Howell asks over his shoulder. "I’ve done everything I can, Mr. Silver. Now we have to wait.”

“I understand that, but my point is that we do not have time to wait.”

At that, Howell casts him a look; a slow, accusing thing, as though Silver has incriminated himself.

The urge to harm him swiftly returns. Something about his glacial pace. His total impotence. The man still hasn't noticed Flint’s arm hanging off the bed. What kind of Doctor is he? A shit one, given how he seems more concerned in this moment with continuing to stare at Silver rather than turning his attention where it ought to go. 

“Have I offended you?” Silver asks, unable to help himself. “What?” 

"You seem tense."

"Why aren't you?” 

The way Howell’s eyebrows rise, even that is slow. Time for subtlety is over; Silver shoves off the door and enters the room. 

“I don’t know if you’ve considered this, but every moment the Captain is unconscious in that bed is another step away from five million dollars.” 

“I’m aware of that,” Howell says, stiff.

“Wonderful. I’m sure you are also aware, Doctor, that we are currently locked in a ridiculous show of force with a madman who seems very keen on blowing us all sky high unless we concede to his demands; we have a crew full of men itching for a fight that the Captain promised them—a fight that we, in our present order of leadership cannot even hope to deliver; and not to forget, of course, the fact that we are sitting on what is by the measure of all good sense a political powder keg, with other Captains imminently looking to usurp what has begun to look like a rather empty seat, and—” Silver takes a breath for effect. He has to get Howell to see the urgency of the issue. Has to make the man solicit help from someone else, someone better than him; he has to fix it. “On second thought, there is no 'and.' I’d say that’s about enough shit to make us all a little tense, wouldn’t you agree? Now, perhaps we ought to use that tension, and put our best foot forward, so that we might be prepared for what’s about to—”

"Have you slept at all?" Howell cuts in; Silver balks. 

The fucking—

“Did you hear what I just said?” 

“Irritability is a common symptom of sleep deprivation.” 

Silver inhales a sneer. “I am quite all right, I assure you, just concerned for our shared fortunes, you understand. I only wish to impress upon you that perhaps we ought to talk to another—” 

It seems that the Doctor can move quickly when he wishes; in an instant has crossed the room and he is too close; his eyes are too close. They peer at Silver as though they are weighing him.  

“You look awful.”

Not a shred of even feigned sympathy, just an observation. This makes it worse. 

“Thank you,” Silver says, and he can hear it now, clear as day, how he is failing, utterly, to keep his tone civil. He cannot control it with the way Howell is crowding him. “I appreciate the concern, truly, I do, but—” It must be some kind of death-wish that brings Howell a step closer; Silver leans away an inch and chuckles. “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, Doctor, but I feel compelled to point out that I am not the patient here.” 

Howell holds up a hand.

“Mr. Silver. Despite what you may think, I do not enjoy pestering you. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t care a whit what you do at night. But we cannot afford for this fever to spread across the crew, do you understand? I do not have enough medicine on hand for that. And if you do not rest—”  

“I’m well-rested, I assure you, could we just get back to the matter of—” 

"I find that hard to believe. You’re impatient, aggressive, you appear quite disoriented—”

"Jesus Christ, what difference does it make!" Silver snaps at last. "Would you please focus your attention on the unconscious man in the room?"  

A ringing sort of silence. Holding Howell’s gaze in it quickly grows intolerable, although Silver persists, for looking elsewhere feels unwise. Leaving is an option, though that might serve to imbue his outburst—borne of pure frustration at Howell’s combined incompetence and impertinence—with interpretations that Silver would not be able to control. He considers making a joke to lighten the mood. But perhaps rage will work on Howell where all else has fucking failed.

He is proven correct, it seems; after an interminable moment Howell retreats, returning to Flint’s bedside.

"As I said,” he murmurs, ”The Captain's condition is stable for the time being. I understand that the stakes are high. I understand that the men are waiting for news. I understand that you are concerned. But there is very little I or indeed anyone else can do. I’ve treated him. The rest is up to—”

"God?”

Another fucking mistake; Silver bites down on the inside of his cheek. He ought to leave. This conversation is not proceeding as planned. 

“No," Howell says, and Silver looks at him, momentarily thrown. "Even God can do so much. It's up to the Captain whether he comes back from this. He's already let it get this far, after all."

Dread sinks into Silver’s stomach like a corpse. “What does that mean?"

He knows what it means. Howell's answering expression is a familiar one. It asks, though not unkindly: are you stupid?

"This fever isn't new, Mr. Silver,” he says, unfurling a worn blanket to drape over the bottom half of Flint’s legs. “The fact that it knocked him out—it would need time to progress to such a stage. I can only assume the Captain has been walking around with it for days."

Flecks of dust soar through the air. Days, Silver thinks. Of course. Stupid. He'd been looking for the source of Flint's recent willingness to finally depend on him in the wrong places. Flint's been sick. Delirious. It's why he asked for Silver's opinion yesterday.

“Was it the gunshot?" Silver asks, before he can think better of it. "An infection?”

If he had patched Flint's shoulder up better maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe they could have been on the way to the gold right now.

Howell wets and wrings a rag dry. “His wound appears to be healing well enough, although one can never know for sure. I can't say with any certainty what caused this.”

“Is there anything that—Beg pardon. The Doctor says I’m sleep deprived.”  

His attempt at levity is not successful. Howell is stoic as ever as he places the clean compress over Flint’s forehead.

“You are right, I don't know much. But to my mind one thing is certain: the stories we hear on Nassau are not to be believed.” Off Silver's look—there are too many stories—he goes on, "You’ve already heard them, I’m sure. Captain Flint. Unkillable. Immortal. Anointed by a witch or some such superstitious drivel. But he is only a man, like the rest of us. He forgets that sometimes, I think. Men like him tend to forget.”  

A series of vivid memories, all at once: Flint wading into the sea with one good arm and a target on his back; Flint strapped to a chair, lifting his chin as he stares down the barrel of a gun; Flint sinking into the water, heavy and pliant and silent.

He doesn’t forget, Silver thinks. He simply doesn’t care.

He doesn't say it. He doesn't know why he doesn't say it.

"Where’s a witch when you need her, eh?” 

That one earns him a chuckle. Howell hefts the washbasin into his arms and carries it across the cabin to the open window in the aft corner.

“Perhaps she’s waiting for him at home.”

As he goes, the path to the bed is cleared. For the first time since he walked through the door, Silver lets himself look at Flint directly. 

When he was a child—nine years old, ten at most—there had been a dog on his street. A massive beast of a thing that snapped its teeth at anyone who dared come close. He terrorized the neighbourhood for weeks. Caught birds out of the air, chased grown men up trees, stole cuts of meat from the butcher around the corner. The older kids warned everyone in the home not to go near him.

It's diseased, they’d said. Starved right mad. He’ll take yer little head off with his teef, Sol!

A few days later, Silver had seen a flock of crows descend on the dog in an alley. He had watched as they tore him to shreds before he could run, before he could fight. For all that he was, all that he had ever been, the beast was a bloody pup in death. It hadn't seemed fair at the time; a thing so big taken down by things so small. Even to a little boy who had learned young that fairness was a notion reserved for fools.

Flint looks dead. That is the long and the short of it. Colourless and bled out like a stuck pig. Someone has divested him of his clothes. The white undershirt they have left him in would be fit for a burial, if not for the fact that it is transparent with sweat and stuck to him all over. His face and neck are covered in the same sickly shine right up to his hair, which has curled into pale ringlets at his temples. The permanent scowl on his face that Silver had found himself growing used to is gone. In its place is a delicate, weary frown. It shivers as Flint exhales, as though it costs him something to breathe. The combined sight is unsettling. It is bizarre to see a man like Flint in so vulnerable a state.

Though not nearly as bizarre as the impulse that looking at him awakens: Silver wants to hide him. Wants to bolt the cabin door, refuse men entry. This is a troubling thought, until it shifts like sand; Flint looks weak. Flint can’t look weak. It would do Silver no favours to have Flint’s captaincy threatened when it had only just been re-established. Not if he is ever going to get Silver rich, as he'd promised. And sure, Silver has been trying to build a rapport with the men. It’s going fine. It’s going well. They’ve stopped punching him at any rate. But he is not indispensable on this ship yet. For that he needs more time, and he won’t get more time unless Flint is there to ensure his survival among them. It pays to keep Flint alive. That is it. That makes sense. 

What comes next most certainly does not. Flint winces and shifts in his sleep, as though he’s in pain, and in the blink of an eye, Silver wants to grab him and run. He clears his throat. 

“Wazzat?”

“Ema schelcha—!”

In a flinch, Silver bends over at the waist, bracing for fire. He quickly straightens and leans close to look at Flint, close enough that he can hear Flint's wheezy, troubled breathing. His eyes are still closed. 

“Howell," Silver says. "Can he hear us?”  

"I'm not sure.” Howell returns to change the compress on Flint's forehead. "He’s quite delirious. Talks in his sleep. It’s a common symptom of tropical fevers." 

"Jesus Christ." Silver rubs at his chest and tries to laugh. "You could have warned me."

"That would have ruined the surprise."

"I see. Anyone ever tell you you've got a shit sense of humour, Doctor?"

“Yes,” Howell says with a grin. “What language was that?”

“Beg pardon?" 

“It sounded familiar but I couldn’t place—”

"Who's there?!" Flint barks. Howell and Silver turn to look at him in unison. "Shut the fff—uck up."

“Ever the contrary bastard, isn’t he? Even half-dead he hates us all.” 

"Silver?" 

This time, he jerks away from the bed and knocks into Howell. Flint’s eyes have flown open. He is staring at the ceiling, erratic and unseeing.

“Silver,” he says, as though he's righting himself, and rolls over to look right at him.

"That's me." Silver is the stuck pig. He forces himself to speak. “Hello, Captain. How are you?”

There's clarity there, for a moment. The frenzy in Flint's gaze appears to still. Flint recognizes him. Even as it is happening, Silver can feel it slip through his fingers like the burning edge of a rope, and soon Flint's eyes have glazed over. He turns away from the room with a long, miserable groan, and begins to shiver. The cot beneath him starts to rattle.

"I should—" Silver says, only he doesn’t know what the fuck he should. All trace of good humour in the cabin has vanished; Howell shoves him aside to attend to Flint. "I'll get out of your way—sorry—"  

He is out the door and halfway through the hold before he notices that his hands are shaking.

We are all of us born sinners, Sister Margaret tells him. Only the woman speaking looks nothing like Sister Margaret; nothing like the stoutly, kind-faced one he half-remembers, at least.

No. This woman is faceless. Boundless. 

We must learn this lesson, just as our first parents did. Her voice reverberates in the cathedral of his chest. Without the shedding of blood there can be no forgiveness. Are you ready to do your part, child?

She bares her teeth and the ceiling caves in. She bares her teeth and the windows break. He doesn't notice that he is drowning until the water is up to his neck, hot, scalding, turning his hands red. He tries to cry out; finds he has no voice; bucks his legs to find he has none of those, either. When he looks up at last, she is standing over him, untouched and vicious and framed by a black sky. Her skin, clammy and white, begins to crack—and she says, in a voice he can recall only in the way he can hold air in his lungs; fleeting, and burning;

Dry your tears, mijo—

Silver wakes with a gasp, clutching at his throat. Nausea unfurls wide in his stomach and he leans over to retch, managing to get most of it into the bucket by his hammock. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and tries to focus on his surroundings. Half the crew is asleep, snoring like beasts. The other half is up on deck for the night’s watch; boots stomp lightly over his head and the air around him grows thick with displaced dust. Nearby, Muldoon rolls over, smacking his lips as though he's having a good dream. Silver stares at the back of his head, envious.

He thinks of Flint, shaking and pale. There's little else to retch but water this time around.

When he returns to the cabin a full day later, Howell is slumped in the chair by Flint's bed, snoring. Flint is also asleep, though he's scowling as if he resents being unconscious, which—Silver is certain—he does. As he hears Silver approach, the Doctor wakes with a start.

"He's doing better," he says, before Silver can get a word in. "The shivers have more or less subsided, although the fever persists." 

They watch Flint together for a moment. As usual, he seems to be put off by the scrutiny and soon turns away. Howell digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and yawns.

"You look like shit," Silver tells him. 

"I feel it, too," Howell says miserably. As he rubs at his forehead, he casts Silver a far too attentive once-over for a man who had been asleep a minute ago. "You look better."

"Took your advice. Got some rest. I've heard it's good for you.”  

“Glad to hear it.” Howell yawns again. "I'd like some myself." 

"I can watch him for a few hours, if you like."

Howell stops in the middle of stretching out his neck. "You're certain you don't you have somewhere else to be?" 

Silver shrugs. "Not much I can do now that we’re underway. The men know I'm not a skilled sailor. And I can’t be trusted around cannons, you know." 

"Yes," Howell nods, although he looks unconvinced. He yawns for a third time; it is apparently exhaustion alone that makes him relent in his line of questioning. "Very well. I'll only be gone a few hours. Send for me immediately if anything should change." 

With that, the Doctor stumbles out the door and Silver is alone. He listens to Flint breathe, for a time; still shallow and hoarse, though he no longer sounds like he's in pain. The chair Howell vacated is pulled up right to the side of the cot. It offers a view: of the sea, stretching for miles in their wake, and of Flint, as he slowly curls towards the room again and begins to snore.

Awake, Flint is a difficult man to look at. He walks around with a stifled sort of rage which begs for and recoils from attention at the same time. Opportunities to observe him closely are few and far between. But right now, in this moment, he is still. It is easier to look at him. Silver takes in the creases on Flint's forehead, the wry set of his mouth. The dust of freckles over his eyelids, the bridge of his nose; a little off, previously broken. Silver wonders if that happened to Flint as a pirate. Or if it happened before, in the navy.

Flint’s never said as much, of course. He doesn’t have to. It's easy to spot a navy man. Mostly by their walk: arrogant and precise, positively burdened with purpose. A projection of power which serves to legitimize; a fantasy of competence meant to beget obedience. One-time recruits and junior officers are the easiest to pick out from a crowd for this reason. Their walk is a pretense. A shadow of authority. Flint's is not.

Silver wonders if he knows that his past is all over him. He wonders if Flint knows how dangerous a way that is to live. 

As the sun dips lower in the sky, he begins to feel uneasy, sitting like this. He can't quite bring himself to leave. Howell gave him a job. It's also not entirely true that Silver has got nothing to do. Stepping out of this cabin would mean having to help Randall cook, which is intolerable at the best of times. Unable to leave, he simply resolves to keep his eyes on the churning water. He mostly fails at this. He also does his best to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut that he is inviting something dangerous through a door.

He mostly fails at this, too. 

"You're good at that," Flint mumbles, and Silver is knocked right out of his head.

It’s hours later. It must be. He cannot recall time passing. The cabin is near dark and Flint is awake, his head tucked into the crook of his elbow like a child. Silver follows Flint’s gaze to his own lap, where he is fidgeting with a coin, weaving it over his knuckles, between his fingers, back and forth. Flint is still transfixed by the sight when Silver curls the coin into his fist.  

"Old habit,” he says.

A nervous habit, he means. One he had long since shed. The relapse is disconcerting.

“You have quick hands." Flint stifles a yawn. "Who are you?”    

Silver keeps his voice free of alarm. "Captain, do you not recognize me?“

“No, that’s not—” Flint heaves an exhausted sigh and sits up. “Before all this. Who were you?" 

His eyes are gentled by sleep, and appear bare in the waning light. They catch Silver in something. He is slow to respond.

"You must have heard me tell the crew. I'm from Whitech—"

A pale finger reaches out. “I can tell when you’re about to lie,” Flint says.

The rest of Silver’s prepared answer turns to ash in his throat. He stares at Flint’s finger as it approaches the dip of his cheek, stops right as it is about to touch the corner of his mouth. An absurd impulse to lean into it, like a marionette pulled along a string.   

"A line by your mouth—right there. It's fucking—" Flint inhales with a low rattle in his chest, drops his hand, puffs it out. "It’s a problem."

“What is?”

"Your mouth." 

"My mouth is a problem?"

Whatever illness Flint is nursing Silver must be catching it; he can feel himself slip into a giddy thrill, like bells. In the back of his mind, behind a veil that feels like its been drawn, he knows he ought to be far more concerned about this. About the fact that Flint seems to think he knows when Silver is lying, which, in turn, suggests that Flint has been paying far closer attention to him than he had previously thought. This revelation should concern him. It should alarm him. But the look on Flint’s face—shifting languidly between fatigue and something that looks like desire—is far more interesting to think about.

Slowly, Silver smiles, and takes in the way Flint's eyes follow the movement. 

"I’ve heard worse about my mouth, Captain,” he says, and Flint’s hazy gaze locks with his once again. “Though I confess that I haven't heard anyone put it quite so eloquently before." 

"I like that, too,” Flint murmurs. “The way you say that." 

This conversation is a mistake. "The way I say what?" 

"Cap-tain.” Flint snaps his teeth around the title. "I like how it sounds, out of your mouth." 

"Captain," Silver repeats.

Leaning forward on his knees, he watches first with an urgent curiosity, followed by a sharp, pleasant squeeze in his stomach as Flint's face splits into a warm grin.

“Say it again.”

Flint pitches closer to meet him in the middle and the room seems to tilt on its side, as though a tide were levelling the ship. Even if it were, Silver could not bring himself to care about it; Flint’s tongue is running over his lips and the world is shrinking to the small space between them. One of Flint’s hands runs over the back of Silver’s head, slipping into his hair at the nape, drawing him closer. 

Against Flint’s mouth, Silver says, on a shaky pull of breath, “Captain—”

“Captain!”

Someone barges in with enough force to slam the cabin door into the wall. Silver leaps up to his feet, and Flint's fingers tug on his hair as they leave it. Mercifully, there is little time to think too hard on the strange sound that escapes Silver in response, as Hornigold stomps up to them a moment later, his arms full of maps and his ridiculous moustache twitching with rage.

“Captain,” Hornigold repeats, “You’re awake.”

The observation is brandished like an accusation. Flint throws him a look, impressively withering for how sick he is, Silver thinks. 

“I am,” Flint says, sounding like he resents the fact.

“That’s good news. I need a word. In private.”

That's fine. Silver is desperate to leave as it is. He’s been desperate to leave since he got here.

“I’ll be off, Captain.”

He can feel Flint turn to look at him. Flint's eyes stay on his back as he makes his way to the exit, quickly. Hornigold starts talking before he's able to leave, eager to begin his tirade.

“What is it you propose to do about this?” he demands.

“About what?”

“This! Our plan has gone to ruin! Vane is still sitting in my fort while we’re on our way to Freetown instead of—”

“What?” Flint’s tone sharpens. “We’re moving?" 

"Jesus Christ, have you looked out the window? Can you not even feel it?”  

A dangerous pause. Then, like the snap of a whip: “Why the fuck are we moving?”

The rest of the conversation gets swallowed up as Silver shuts the door behind him.

Peeling corn with Randall is a torturous ordeal. It can’t possibly work this way, Silver knows, but the massive pile between them seems only to grow rather than shrink no matter how many hours they spend cramped in the kitchen together. Ordinarily, this pisses him off. Ordinarily, he’s itching to throw himself over the side by the time they are done. Ordinarily, he makes himself scarce whenever Randall so much as looks at a stalk of corn.

There is nothing ordinary about today. Today, Silver sits down on the hard, rickety stool in the corner and focuses solely on his task. Break, peel, sort. Break, peel, sort. Break, peel, sort. It isn’t exactly relaxing work. Randall mutters to himself like he always does, the ship rocks faintly this way and that, and the hot air trapped in the hold makes Silver’s stomach heave. Eventually he’s able to drift. Break, peel, sort. By the time he looks up there’s only a handful of corn left on the table and his mind is quiet for the first time in days. 

Across the way, Randall is eyeing him suspiciously. His hands have gone still. It’s a sentiment Silver supposes he’s rightfully earned, though he still asks.

“What is it?”

“We know,” Randall says. The swinging lantern over their heads cuts his face in half, and back again.

“Good for you,” Silver tosses the last of the corn into bucket between them and wipes his palms on his knees. “Know what?”

Randall’s teeth flash; his version of a grin. “We know what you did.”

They look at each other. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Silver says, and Randall spits at him. Silver can feel a gob of saliva land on his forehead.

“Liar,” Randall says, growing more confident. “The Captain won’t be happy, you doing what you did. He doesn’t like liars, and you lied, you—”

The stool scrapes against the ground as Silver stands.

“Randall,” he says. “When has the Captain ever been happy?”

It’s nightfall when Silver returns. He stands near Flint’s door for a time deliberating on whether he should go in. He needs to tread carefully. There is a chance Flint is furious. There’s a chance Silver could risk the whole endeavour with the gold by saying the wrong thing (anything) at the wrong time (right now). There’s a chance Flint doesn’t remember what happened before Hornigold walked in, a chance he’s appalled by it, a chance this is a mistake, it’s a mistake, it is a mistake—

The cabin is dark. It’s illuminated sparingly by a few candles; two on the desk, standing among the maps Hornigold has left behind, and a third on the bedside table, throwing the dark expanse of Flint’s back into sharp relief. He’s fast asleep, facing the windows. He’s changed his shirt. 

Now that he’s in here, Silver wants to leave. The violent swing of this is beginning to infuriate him. He dawdles by the threshold, casting about for a final straw that will uproot him from where he’s standing and shove him out the door. He finds one, just as he's about turn and go, though not entirely of the sort he’s looking for.

It’s the red that catches his eye. Buried in the shadow beneath the candle on the nightstand, Silver can just make out the spine of a book—dark red and leather bound, worn to hell with age. The cabin is full of books. The previous occupant had clearly been a better student than a captain. Rows upon rows of them line the two walls, and not a single one appears out of place.

He's sitting in the chair by the bed again before he realizes what he's done. The book is in his lap, under his palm, perfectly unassuming and unremarkable. Silver knows a liar when he sees one. Whatever this book is to Flint, it's important enough to forgo the ship business piling up on his desk. It's worth the fight through a fever haze to be able to read it. He watches the rise and fall of Flint’s shoulder and sees it, in his minds eye; Flint propped up in bed, warm with sleep, struggling to focus, clinging to this book.

He flips it open. Intends to skim it. To start reading at the page Flint has marked with a white feather—half-way through already, it comes as no shock that Flint is a quick study—only the spine of the book is bent out of shape with use and so the cover falls open. Silver thinks the page blank. Almost moves on.

James, he reads, suddenly. He reads it again. He stares at the rest. The world shifts, struggling to re-align itself. Silver looks at Flint and sees that his shirt has hitched up around his waist, revealing a pale slip of skin above his spine. James, he thinks. Many things reveal themselves at the same time, like sails filling with a gust of wind. Flint was James. Silver knew this already. James had been loved. This part is new. Deeply and truly loved, at some point in his life. This love had been lost. It had to have been. He's never seen a man more adamant to die for it. Lost to the sea, perhaps. To worse, more likely. Silver knew of worse. He could recognize some of the scars. Vengeful fury in some and false smiles in others.

He shuts the book. It sits in his hands, quiet and true. As he looks at it, a wave of revulsion roils over him; he thinks, he's only ever known how to take what doesn't belong to him. Then he thinks, so fucking what? That hardly helps. Next, he's seized with the desire to dispose of the evidence: to cast the book aside, leave the room, never look at Flint again. To shed this skin like the rest and leave it rotting in the sand.

Flint groans and turns over and all at once Silver's revulsion is eclipsed by his rage: how the fuck could Flint leave this here? Sitting on the table, for anyone to walk in and peruse it, rifle through it or destroy it like it’s nothing, a beating heart of nothing. The binding of the book feels as though it's burning him. He puts it down the way he found it. Turns it just so into the shadow, the way he found it.

Untethered, now. Free as a bird. He’s put it down and so he should go, he should run, only the ever-familiar urge is dwarfed by the nameless one which asks him to stay. To guard what Flint is refusing to guard himself. Silver gets up. The floor creaks under him as he makes his way over to a shelf, grabs another book at random. He skims the title—something about trade winds in the West Indies—and it’s good enough to put him to sleep, so it’s good enough. The hours pass. Perhaps they don't. Shadows keep playing on the floor and Silver loses track. He sits with Flint reading and unseeing and unfeeling. Every so often, his eyes skitter around the room to land on red; the red of Flint's hair, loose and damp and spilling over the pillow; the red of the book, peeking at him through the dark.

It's too quiet. Silver starts to hum. Under his breath and nonsense at first, mindless sounds to distract from the fact that the book is still sitting there like a corpse he's pulled from the ground. The distraction helps. His mind beings to dance around the borders of half-remembered melodies, tugging at one another until they slip freely from his mouth, low and familiar. Aching, like a poorly healed wound in the rain. Slowly, eventually, Silver feels himself begin to relax. His breathing matches up with Flint's, matches up with the sea, drawing in and out against the hull.

"That's beautiful," Flint murmurs, and Silver does not startle. Mostly because he doesn't notice that Flint has spoken until Flint shifts and flips onto his back. 

"Captain, you're awake."

"Don't stop on my account. Finish it." 

Any other time the words would sound scathing. Instead, they fall so sincerely out of Flint’s mouth that Silver feels his abject humiliation blur into something new. He goes stupid with it, he must have gone stupid with it, because he does as he’s been asked. This time, more than the melody demands to be voiced; he opens his mouth and begins to sing, lets the words he’s forgotten — he’s sure he has, he’s sure he’s forgotten them, he was supposed to have forgotten them — climb out of his throat, out of the dark, and into the room. Flint watches the ceiling. When Silver falls silent, Flint rolls onto his shoulder to look at him.

“I didn’t know you could sing," he says. "What language was that?”

“I should leave you to your rest. I’ll let Howell know you’re—”

“Silver—"

“Do not tell me to sit,” Silver says as he gets to his feet. “Jesus, that tone. Has anyone ever disobeyed you when you’ve used it?”

“You have. You are.” The corner of Flint's mouth curls, like a vine. “Sit.” 

Silver stares at him. Then he sits. “Don’t take this as a concession. I figured it could be your last request.”

Flint makes a contrary noise and props himself up on his elbow. “Do you know how many people have tried to kill me?" 

“I make a point of not answering rhetorical questions, Captain, but I can only assume in the millions.”

“Perhaps that’s pushing it somewhat." 

"Half a million, then," Silver says. "What’s your point?"

"That I’ve denied them all." Flint at last settles into a comfortable position. Something like defiance simmers beneath his tired gaze. "I won’t give this fever the satisfaction of killing me, either." 

“So you are alive for spite."

Flint presses his lips together. "And you are a perceptive shit." He reaches out a hand. Silver pours him a glass of water from the jug on the nightstand before he is able to do it himself. Wordlessly, Flint takes it. His eyes are bright and amused over the rim.

“What was it?" he asks, after a long drink. "The song you sang." 

“Some old thing. Can’t remember where I picked it up.”

“Really? I feel as if I’ve heard it before.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Impossible?” Flint asks, his tone sharpening with curiosity at Silver’s blunder. “Why would it be impossible?”

“I first heard it from some foreign boy at St. John’s. I don’t even know what language it is, to be honest.” 

“I thought you said you couldn’t remember where you picked it up." Flint sets the cup down. “Do you recall where he was from?” 

Silver thinks about reaching for some water but decides against it. “I don’t, no. How are you feeling?” 

“You’re doing it again,” Flint says. He has the gall to look disappointed for it. 

“Doing what?” 

After a lengthy pause, Flint heaves himself into a sitting position. As soon as he moves to do so he winces and braces a hand on his forehead.  

"The fever is a breeze compared to this headache,” Flint says.

“I’ll fetch Howell. He'll have something on hand to dull the pain.”

Without waiting for a reply Silver stands, makes his way around the chair and heads towards the door.  

“I know about the men,” Flint says.

“Pardon?”

When Silver turns to him, Flint is staring at the candle on the nightstand. The light plays across his hollowed cheeks, turning the stubble across his jaw red.

“I know that they wanted to stay. Hold the blockade in Nassau as I’d ordered. Dufresne thought the opinion was unanimous. He was certain. He told Hornigold as much. But the men voted to leave.”

“I see. Yes, it was odd. Although you know how fickle the men can be. They wanted to see you hanged one day and voted you Captain the next. One of them likely saw some omen at the bottom of a bottle and riled up the rest. And while we’re on the subject, between you and I, Dufresne isn’t fit to be Quartermaster. I’m not surprised that his canvassing has left something to be desired.” 

“Hornigold didn’t know, of course,” Flint continues, as if he hasn't heard a word. “He mentioned it in passing, how unusual it was for a crew to swing suddenly like that. I knew as soon as he said it.” 

Silver cannot bring himself to speak.

"You," Flint says, lightly. "You convinced them.”

“Captain,” Silver says after a moment of silence. “This is the fever talking. How would I—I know I’m good, after a fashion, but I’m not that good."

“The point here isn’t what you did or how you did it, but why.”

“I don’t know what it is you want me to say but truly, I didn't—" 

"At first, I thought you had made a deal," Flint sighs, drawing his hands together between his knees. "That you'd thrown your lot in with Charles Vane and Eleanor Guthrie. Perhaps the plan was to undermine my captaincy, steal the gold from under my nose. It wasn't unthinkable. I expected it." 

“That’s a good story, Captain,” Silver says, and he can hear it now; the desperate edge creeping into his voice, “But I promise you that is not what—"

"Only if that were the case," Flint tilts his head to the side, "It makes no sense for you to be in this room, does it? Sitting here, hours on end, watching me." He drags a hand over his face and gives his jaw an agitated scratch. "I can't make sense of it. Any of it. Why are you here?"  

"You should be resting."

"Why are you here?"  

At last Flint lifts his gaze from the floor. His face is trembling with the sort of profound misery that Silver suspected he carried around; the sort Flint wouldn’t be caught dead wearing so close to the skin if he hadn't been near death himself mere hours ago. Seeing it laid bare in this way is startling; disorienting. Silver begins to speak before he knows what it is he is going to say.

“I wanted—"

“What?” Too many seconds trickle past in silence and in one quick stroke, Flint loses his patience. “Get the fuck out. Just get out." 

“I lost my mother to a fever.”   

It breaks over Flint slowly; the foolish, absurd truth of it. Like a fish, his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. It breaks over Silver much at the same time, and the painful awareness the admission brings is swiftly accompanied by an all-consuming, bone-deep terror. All at once, Silver feels stripped, like his skin is inside out. He can't think. He turns on his heel to leave the room. 

He is almost at the door when Flint says, “That’s—please don't—”

“This is what you wanted, isn't it?"  Silver asks over his shoulder; his voice is trembling, as though it belongs to another man entirely. "You wanted to know why. I did it, I convinced the men. I flipped the vote. I surrendered Nassau to Charles Vane and I did it because I couldn't—Jesus Christ, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Flint asks, as Silver turns towards him once more.

"As if you aren't angry, as if I haven't fucked us all by—"

“I’m not." 

Something grabs Silver by the throat and he takes an aborted step forward. "Don't fucking lie to me."

"I'm not angry with you," Flint repeats, and looks it. His expression remains unchanged, in every way, except for his eyes. They are warm, and horribly, horribly unguarded. “I understand why you did what you did. Thank you for telling me.” 

“Captain,” Silver says, after a stretch of silence. He takes another step. “Did you hit your head?”

When Flint frowns he looks more like himself than he has in days. “What?”

“Then I must have hit mine. Or, I’m asleep. Perhaps I’m dead. I'm dead, aren't I?" 

Flint laughs, and it’s a wonderful, buoyant sound. The nauseating weight pressing into Silver’s chest is replaced with a sudden lightness.

“Will you sit with me?” Flint gestures to the chair with his foot.

"You're offering me a choice?"

“It’s always a choice. It's always been a choice. Sit?" 

Silver stares at him. And then he sits. Flint grins as he approaches, swinging his legs back up onto the bed to lay down once more. 

"You should know," Silver says, settling into the seat and putting his feet up by Flint's. "That tone is worse than the other one." 

"I'm aware," Flint says, weaving his fingers over his belly and closing his eyes. "It always works."

"You shit." 

"Mmm. Is there room aboard for two?" 

Silver considers this. "We'll make room. Throw someone overboard to compensate. I vote Dufresne." 

"Good plan," Flint says. He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about your mother." 

"It was a long time ago," Silver manages, at length. He turns his eyes to the ceiling. "As it is I hardly remember her." 

"Even so. Those kinds of wounds are not the sort to fade with time."

Something flares in Silver's chest; the need to disagree, he thinks. Everything fades with time if you let it. Everything fades. Except—even as he wars with himself to stifle the memory—he can see her; can see her still, clear as day and smiling. Warm like a home. The intolerable ache returns with her face, crawling out of the dark as though brand new. It tears the words from his hoarse throat before he can help it, before he can even think to get ahead of it.

"She looked like me." 

There’s quiet for a moment. Silver thinks that Flint has drifted back to sleep, but he comes to life with a sigh.

"She must have been beautiful," he says, like an after-thought, and Silver marvels at the unblinking honesty of it.

They sit in comfortable silence for some time.

"Are you Greek?" Flint asks abruptly, and Silver laughs. 

"No," he says, knocking at Flint's leg with his own. "No more questions. Speaking of, I'm curious, did you come up with all of them on the spot, or did you spend the day thinking of things to ask me?"

"I think about you,” Flint says simply.

"Is that so?" 

"Mmm." 

"And what is it that you think about, when you think about me?" 

"All sorts of things," Flint says, and he begins to smile, though it soon slips. "Mostly of how little I know about you." 

"That's rich, Captain, considering I don't know a thing about you."  

"My name is James."

The floor seems to quake beneath Silver's chair. He can't his mouth to form a reply, lie or otherwise. 

"I know you know," Flint says then, and the shaking floor disappears entirely.

There's a dawning horror. "If you tell me you were awake this whole time—"

"Don't be silly. It's the feather. You fell for the same trick twice."

Silver cranes his neck to look beneath the bedside table and sure enough, the feather is on the floor, almost invisible in the low light.

"Well," he says, face flushing as he leans back. "That isn't a very revealing secret then, is it? I already knew your name."  

"The secret is not the name," Flint says, and he cracks one eye open to look at him. "Plenty of people know my name. I'm giving you the permission to use it. That should count for something, right?" 

"I—" Silver starts, and the knot in him is unwinding, unwinding, unwinding, coming all the way apart in his hands. "It does, yes. Thank you." 

The corner of Flint's mouth lifts. "You're welcome," he says, letting his eyes slip shut. "Will you sing for me, then?" 

Silver shoves against his foot on the bed. Flint shoves back.

"Don't push your luck, James." 

Turns out, the men do have a use for Silver when they are at sea, namely the role for which he was hired in the first place. Howell relieves him at daybreak, while Flint is still asleep, implying that Randall has begun to throw a fit about being in the kitchen all by himself. Resigned to his fate, Silver slips out and spends a riveting day peeling more shit to feed to a bunch of ungrateful fucks. Being a cook is a thankless job, he’s learned. By suppertime, he’s so exhausted that he collapses into his hammock like a felled tree.

They’ll be in Freetown in two days. Flint will have time to heal, and they’ll find a way to take back the fort like they’d planned; they’ll find a way to go after the gold like they’d planned. Silver lets himself be lulled into a dreamless sleep, rocked by the easy rhythm of the tides rushing against the hull.

The next morning, he enters the cabin to find Flint's cot empty. Panic grips him, but only briefly—as if the Captain could just up and die without someone letting him know—before his eyes adjust to the light and he sees Flint; standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back. The leather jacket is back on his shoulders. Beneath it his spine is straight. Silver can just about make out the line of his cheekbones, the corner of a tight frown as he stares off into the distance. Relief and disappointment roll through Silver's stomach at the same time.

"Good to see you're up and about,” he says as he shuts the door. 

Like a swinging blade and just as lethal, Flint throws a one-eyed glare over his shoulder. "Where the fuck have you been?" 

"Up on deck with the men. I didn't think you'd be awake." 

It’s not the time for this, it’s not the time for this at all, but the second Flint turns to him—larger than life, once again—Silver is awed at the sight; other than a faint sheen of perspiration still clinging to Flint’s forehead and the last dregs of a flush to his skin, there is no earthly indication that he was close to dying not two days ago. The air around him is bristling, instead, with a coiled and dangerous fury. His voice is steady when he speaks. It makes Silver's hair stand on end.

"There's a rumour going around that you were the one who gave the order to sail to Freetown," Flint says, bracing two hands on the desk and leaning forward. The last time he stood like that, Silver thinks—Flint’s eyes going white; Flint collapsing—he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t remember—

"Mr. Scott and I agreed that—" 

"Mr. Scott and I?" Flint sneers. "Him, I understand. Who the fuck are you to give orders on my behalf?" 

"Captain," Silver says, feigning calm, though he feels like he's skirting the edges of fury, "You've been delirious for the past week. If we'd gone back to Nassau it would have been useless, if not catastrophic. We did what we thought—I did what I thought was right." 

"What are you talking about? We had a plan, we made a commitment, we—" 

"What would people say?" Silver snaps, taking a step forward. "Take a moment to fucking think before you tear my head off. News of your condition would have reached other crews as soon as our men stepped on the sand, and then where would you be? In the middle of some power-play, no doubt; between Vane and Hornigold every other Captain on that island wants you dead." 

"They always want me dead," Flint retorts, disbelief twisting his features, "What fucking difference does that make?"

"That may be true, but a moving target is harder to hit, and you have not been moving at all for the past few days. The plan needed to be changed. So I changed it." Silver’s blood cools. “Regardless, I’m sure we can figure out a way to put it all back together now that you’ve recuperated.”

"Are you telling me you did this out of some misguided impulse to—what?" Flint's expression melts from unbridled anger to something far worse, nearing disgust. "Protect me?" 

"To protect your captaincy," Silver corrects, feels it slice into him. "Yes." 

The tension in Flint's shoulders eases, only just; though he seems only to grow more furious for it. He leans over the table and prods at the surface with his finger, his voice expanding in the room like hot air. "I do not need your protection. I need your obedience, do you understand? I need you to do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, not offer up your own solutions to problems that aren’t even yours to fix—" 

"Not mine? Are you fucking kidding me—"

Flint's open palm comes down on the table, hard. His eyes are bright now, urgent, frenzied; "Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you have any idea how much time we've wasted? We could be in competition with ten other crews for the Urca gold by now, not to mention the fact that Charles Vane will never, ever let me regain the advantageous position you so carelessly, thoughtlessly abandoned. So even if by some fucking miracle we beat every other crew there and get our Goddamned gold we will be forced to surrender some portion of it—if not all of it to him when we return! God, you—” Flint heaves a great breath, betraying his exhaustion for the first time, “You have single-handedly fucked every man on this ship out of his share in—" 

"Jesus Christ!” Silver bellows, at his wit’s end, “What fucking use is the fucking gold if you're dead!”

It is only after the dull thud of it abates that Silver realizes he's bashed his foot into the ground. The reality of what he’s just said hits him the same way; painfully slow, and absolutely damning. A dangerous silence stretches out. Expressions chase each other quickly across Flint's face; rage, more rage; and then something that looks horribly pained, the corner of his eye shivering with a twitch. He stares at Silver for a long, drawn second – and it could be an eternity as far as Silver is concerned, he’s counting the way Flint’s breaths come, the way his eyes track, the way his fingers clench and unclench – and then Flint looks away, waving a hand to dismiss him. 

Where fear was burning through him, indignation flares, sharp and painful. Silver turns to leave.

"Wait—" Feeling more and more like trained monkey with each passing moment, Silver doesn't obey until he hears Flint shift behind him followed by a firmer, "Stop." 

The strange edge to his voice is more alarming than any kind of anger Flint has ever displayed. Silver halts in his tracks, staring at the still-closed door. A rustle of cloth, like Flint has rounded the corner of the table. His boots fall heavy onto the wood.

"Did we—" Silver braces for what’s coming, but it’s still not enough; it hits him like a broadside; "Did we speak yesterday, you and I?" 

“Briefly. I was busy all day with the men. We were short a Captain, you see." 

Flint says nothing. All Silver can hear is his own shaky breathing. When the silence grows to be unbearable, "If that's all—" he starts, at the same time Flint says, "I could have sworn—" 

The sharp inhale that follows feels like the snap of the gallows.

“If that is all, Captain, I’m needed on deck.”

Flint takes a step forward. That’s Silver’s cue to leave. Which he does, just on this side of hasty so that he doesn’t look like he’s running. 

“You look sad,” Randall says, squinting at Silver over a pile of potatoes.

Silver stirs the stew. “You look drunk. Smell it, too.”

“You look sad,” Randall insists, leaning close. When Silver ignores him Randall gets up and grabs his forearm, tugs at him a little, setting a single, peeled potato into his palm. 

“Er—thank you?”

Randall looks pleased. He grins a toothy grin. “You’re a thief,” he says, and Silver huffs, moves to turn away; Randall holds on tighter. He's surprisingly strong. “You’re our thief.”

Something close to fondness rushes through Silver, followed swiftly by panic. "I see," he says, gently prying Randall's hand off his arm. "Thank you. I'll make sure to wash this before I eat it." 

Randall nods, slaps Silver's cheek affectionately, once, and too hard; Silver has to blink his vision clear. He looks as though he's about to do it again with more gusto when Silver catches on. He feigns an inane smile, which Randall returns. 

"Good," he says, and hops back to the table. Silver stares at his hand, tries not to think about the fact that a peeled potato from a half-there pirate is the only gift he’s ever received in his life.

They serve the stew and the boiled potatoes to a lukewarm response from the crew. Everyone is agitated and restless; eager to get back to Nassau and fight, eager to get to the gold, for this whole endeavour to be over. Flint had amended their course in the early afternoon and retreated to his cabin for the rest of the day. For his part, Silver had elected to avoid him, listening to the announcement from the dark kitchen. This amounted to a lot of Randall time and more fucking peeling, which—again—was preferable over the alternative. Now they're moving around the mess hall together, clearing dishes and wiping the tables down. Men shout and stomp overhead, instantly re-coating everything in dust. The warship picks up speed. At this rate they'll be at Nassau by sundown tomorrow. 

"Christ," Silver says, peering at the already blackened rag in his hand. "How the fuck do they manage to make such a mess?" 

"They're pirates. You get used to it." 

Silver whips around to find Flint sitting at the corner table in the dark, his hands folded in front of him.

"Hungry?" Silver asks, and Flint shakes his head. 

"My stomach is still a little—" he clears his throat. "I wouldn't say no to rum if we've got some to spare." 

"Rum is never to spare, Captain," Silver says, leaning against the table he was cleaning. He holds out a mug. "Want Dooley's leftovers?"   

"I'll pass." 

"A wise choice."

Neither speak for a moment, and then at the same time; 

"I should—" 

"Would you like to—" 

"What?" 

"What?" 

"You go first," Silver says, drawing closer. Flint leans back; his face dips in and out of the light streaming through the porthole, the barest hint of nerves. 

"Right," he says. "I wanted to ask if you'd—is that a potato?" 

"It's a gift," Silver says, taking it off the table and pocketing it. For safekeeping.  

Flint looks, rightfully, baffled. "I have questions," he says, and Silver has to fight the foolish grin he feels pulling at his mouth. 

"About the potato or something else?" 

"I’ll add it to the list.” Flint leans into the light. His eyes are crystal clear; a welcome sight. "Would you like to sit?" 

The question hangs between them. Silver thinks he can see the future stretch out in front of him. Long and winding, and real. For the first time in years, he finds the notion less than utterly terrifying.

"All right," he says, and settles in across from Flint; who smiles, a soft thing that reaches his eyes.

"All right,” he says.