Chapter Text
Jim Hawkins sat in bed, hacking up a lung as he kicked the ass of his computer-generated foe. His room was monochromatic; greys and blues, mildly high-tech and definitively placed within the timeframe more commonly referred to as ‘present day’. A knock heralded the arrival of his mother, referred to exclusively herein as “Ma”, due primarily to Stevenson’s lack of having provided the woman with a name of her own.
“Come in,” he cried hoarsely, and Ma entered the room with a tired smile, holding something in her hands that he couldn’t quite make out from here, a book or a DVD or something.
“You feeling any better?” she asked.
“A little bit,” he said, like a liar. He then coughed again.
Ma’s smile softened as she sat on his bed, reaching out a hand to feel his forehead. “Guess what.”
“What?”
“Doctor Livesey’s downstairs. He agreed to cover my shift.”
Jim perked up a little at that. The bed and breakfast business was a competitive one, with which he tried to help out as much as he could, but it just wasn’t that easy to make ends meet these days, what with the new Premier Inn that’d opened up down the street. Quality time with Ma was hard to come by.
“Yeah? What’re we doing?”
Ma held up the book in her hands, her smile widening. Jim squinted.
“A book?”
Uh.
Not that he was opposed to the concept, but…uh. It’d been a long time since they’d read anything together. He knew how to read.
She explained, “Your father’s father used to read it to him when he was sick. He read it to me when I was sick. And tonight…I’m going to read it to you.”
Oh.
Oh…
“Alright,” he acquiesced. Sentimental value? That he understood.
Jim shifted in bed, getting comfortable, as Ma began to read, “Chapter One. Thomas was raised on a country estate in the country of Charlestown. His favourite pastimes were riding his horse and tormenting the farm boy that worked there. His name was James, but he never called him that…”
* * *
Nothing gave Thomas as much pleasure as ordering James around.
It was a beautiful summer day, with the sun shining almost as bright as Thomas’ blond locks as he held the reins of his intrepid steed in one hand, clearing his throat in the entrance of the stable, where James was hard at work mucking out the literal shit. It didn’t smell very nice, but it was worth it.
“Farm boy,” he called out, getting James’ attention in as gay a way as he could. “Polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”
James, having leaned the pitchfork against the wall upon his Lord’s entry, spoke quietly but with feeling, “As you wish.”
He took the reins from his Lord, swallowing slightly, and frankly just glad that he had something in-hand. ‘As you wish’ was all he ever said to him.
One day, James was chopping firewood, and Thomas was struck once more with the need to hear him speak, thus approaching with two empty pails.
“Farm boy, fill these with water,” began Thomas, hesitating when those sea-green-blue, mismatched eyes turned upon him and made him forget how to breathe. He recovered this ability just in time to utter, “Please.”
“As you wish,” came the response, soft and sure.
That day, Thomas was amazed to discover that when James was saying ‘as you wish’, what he meant was ‘I love you’. And even more amazing was the day he realised he truly loved him too.
It was a Wednesday, and Thomas stood in the library of the estate as James entered bearing firewood, ducking his head to hide the little smile behind auburn tresses that had fallen loose from their ponytail.
“Farm boy,” spoke Thomas, a certainty in the realisation of his love for James colouring his tone with confidence in shades of blue. He pointed at a book that he, the taller of the two, could quite easily reach. “Fetch me that book.”
James set the firewood down at the hearth, then returned to his Lord, whereupon he obliged, standing so close to Thomas that an H2O molecule would be jealous. One might argue that this proximity was unnecessary. Both Thomas and James would disagree.
It was with a badly suppressed passionate gaze that James passed the book to Thomas, pressing it into his chest as he uttered, “As you wish.”
James made to turn, made to carry out his duties, but Thomas caught him by the arm, gently, providing him ample opportunity to pull away. James did no such thing, his eyes flickering between Thomas’ lips and his eyes.
“Farm boy…” Thomas murmured.
“Yes, my Lord?” breathed James, astral projecting into the fucking ether.
“May I kiss you?”
James’ entire brain proceeded to burst into every single Beethoven symphony at once. Thankfully, his mouth moved for him, and he said the words, “As you wish.”
It was a tender kiss, one that was filled with tenderness and new beginnings.
* * *
“Hold it, hold it…” interrupted Jim, raising a finger, eyes closed in incredulity. “Is this a kissing book? Are you seriously reading me a kissing book?”
“Just wait, Jim, just let me read.”
* * *
James had no money for marriage, and Thomas’ father was a jerk who thought him unworthy, not for any dumb homophobic reasoning (because this was a fantasy realm where such bullshit sexuality concerns did not exist), but because capitalism. Anyway, James had no money, so he packed his few belongings and left the estate to seek his fortune across the sea.
The day of James’ embarking on this self- and society-imposed trial was a very emotional time for Thomas, who saw him off at the port.
“I fear I’ll never see you again,” quoth he, tenderness moving his eyebrows as if they were mountains and tenderness an earthquake.
James placed a hand on his cheek, callouses rough against his lily-white Lord’s skin. “Of course you will.”
“But what if something happens to you?”
The smile James delivered unto him was wrought of resolution. “Hear this now: I will come for you.”
Thomas wanted to believe it. Unfortunately, he was the son of a politician. “But how can you be sure?”
“This is true love. You think this happens every day?”
He said it so simply, and Thomas smiled. They kissed again. And then, as James sailed away, Thomas watched him go until his ship was but a speck on the horizon.
James didn’t reach his destination. His ship was set upon by the fearsome Captain Flint, who never left captives alive. When Thomas received the news that James had been murdered, he went into his chambers and shut the door. For days, he neither slept nor ate.
When he finally left the estate, a passing swordswoman enquired as to what ailed him. It was with a voice as emotionless as a slab of marble countertop facing, that Thomas gravely intoned his answer, “I will never love again.”
She wasn’t entirely sure how best to respond to that and was running late on her way to work, so she gave him a sympathetic pat to the cheek and a squeeze to the shoulder.
It didn’t help.
Five years later, the main square of Charlestown was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great Prince Rogers bride-to-be, replete with townspeople, livestock, and livery.
Prince Woodes Rogers, a man of incredible power and bearing, stepped out onto the castle’s balcony – or at least, the balcony specifically denoted for royal announcements of this sort – clad in the royal garb of royalty. His parents stood behind him, old and married, and to the side stood Lord Ashe, the very picture of propriety.
The chattering crowds hushed as Rogers raised his hands, signalling that he was about to speak. “My people…a month from now, our country will have its 500th anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a man who, while not quite a commoner like yourselves, has been known in the past to hold full conversations with your kind, which, frankly, is a compromise that I believe we can all get behind. Would you like to meet him?”
Unanimously, the crowd responded with a thunderous, “YES.”
Maybe now they’d finally have a monarch who’d actually listen to their complaints of famine.
Another set of doors opened as Rogers gestured towards it, these doors leading onto a lower veranda, more accessible to the crowd.
“My people,” boomed Rogers. “The Prince Thomas!”
Thomas stepped forth, and was immediately stricken, for without prompting, the entirety of the civil populace of Charlestown took a knee, bowing to him. His emptiness consumed him. Although the law of the land gave Rogers the right to choose his spouse, he did not love him.
Despite Rogers’ reassurance that he would grow to love him, the only joy Thomas found was in his daily ride.
It was on one such daily ride that Thomas found a lovely, quiet, deserted glen in the woods, and stopped short of mowing down three strangers that, to be perfectly frank, did not look like they belonged here.
There was a man with a face like a ham that leaned on a crutch to compensate for his lack of leg. His name was John Silver.
There was a woman with an ornate sword sheathed at her side, whose face Thomas could swear he recalled from five years previously. Her name was Miranda Barlow.
And lastly, there was a man who, built like a tank, seemed to hold within him all the power of a mighty walrus. His name was Hal Gates.
“Pardon me, my Lord,” called out John Silver, with a tone that could have convinced water to burn. “We are but poor, lost circus performers. Is there a village nearby?”
Something smelled fishy, and it wasn’t the proximity of the Charlestown Channel. Thomas frowned, asserting amicably, “There is nothing nearby; not for miles.”
Silver exhaled, raising his chin. “In that case, my Lord… You have our apologies.”
Thomas frowned, opening his mouth to enquire as to what the fuck was going on.
Gates stepped forth, reaching out and poking the back of Thomas’ neck before he could speak, whereupon he (Thomas) collapsed, unconscious, into Gates’ arms.
Carrying the unconscious Lord over his shoulder was an easy enough task for Gates, who brought him to the boat they’d moored nearby for just such an occasion, whilst Miranda busied herself with readying the boat for sailing.
Silver, however, was otherwise occupied, leaning heavily on his crutch and ripping the insignia from a uniform.
“What in the world are you doing?” enquired Miranda, curiosity piqued.
“Planting evidence,” was Silver’s given explanation, whereupon he tucked the fabric into the crevices of the horse’s saddle, as if they had somehow become snagged.
“Oh?” Gates raised an eyebrow, setting the Lord down before helping Miranda with the ropes.
Silver hopped into the boat, keeping the explanation short and simple, his words a lilting drawl, “We were hired to stage a kidnapping, remember? What good is it to stage a kidnapping without laying the blame elsewhere? That was a uniform of a Nassau officer.”
“What’s Nassau ever done to you?” Miranda queried, with no accusation in her tone. Gates pushed the boat away from the bank, then sat, awaiting an answer.
Silver presented Miranda with his cheek, turning instead to look out over the water. “We’re being paid well for this. That includes not asking such questions.”
Miranda and Gates shared a Look™ while the boat began to pick up speed.
The horse retreated back to Charlestown.