Chapter Text
“Absolutely fucking not!” John yells.
Dr. Howell returns a frown, “I see no other way in which you can safely maneuver a ship.”
John let’s out an exasperated huff, convinced Howell’s concerns are of little import. “The last thing I need is a tangle of ropes weaving throughout the ship reminding everyone of my impotence, that is, when I’m not around for them to gawk at.”
He rubs the taught skin just below his knee as if it will somehow soothe the phantom itch where his ankle should be.
“You need not worry about the sentiments of the crew,” Howell asserts, wrinkling a brow at John’s futile attempts for relief beneath his bandages. “They are intent on looking after --”
“I don’t need to be looked after!” John shouts, flashing back to the time when Muldoon stood above him and made a similar vow. “I’m not --” he pauses, winces, scratching a bit too low and hitting an unpleasant patch of nerves. He takes a breath. “I’m not a child,” he finishes through clenched teeth.
The thick pop of a hardcover book snapping shut disagrees.
“Then stop acting like one,” Flint adds.
John glances over but returns his gaze to the emptiness below his knee just as swiftly, determined to eclipse his embarrassment. The bead of sweat trickling down his temple is courtesy of the unforgiving Carribbean summer. He wipes it away anyway, afraid it might be misconstrued.
“Give us the room,” Flint orders.
Howell nods and quickly gathers his medical kit. The soft scrape of Flint’s chair across the deck of the warship, the heavy footsteps slowly approaching, both calling to John’s attention the stiffening in his shoulders. And just for a moment he welcomes the familiar chill of trepidation along his neck, more loyal to him than the swell of pins and needles at his appendage.
Flint settles into the seat previously occupied by the doctor with an audible sigh. His eyes edge sideways as he waits for the clap of the cabin door against the doorframe.
John sighs, too. “I know what you are going to say and I am fully aware --”
“Stop talking,” Flint mumbles without looking at him.
John bites back his words, bothered by the obvious fact that Flint can gain authority over him with a tone just barely above a whisper - authority which even he, in his newfound position as quartermaster, could not bring himself to challenge quite yet. He peers out from his window-seat toward the soft glow of stars for the relief he cannot ever seem to find inside the cabin.
It’s been almost 3 weeks since John lost his leg, and what seems like forever since Flint has looked at him in any way remotely resembling the intimacy they’d shared there just days before then. Tensions ran high after Charles Town and Flint spent most the journey back to Nassau skulking about the ship because of it, reading books and being his generally distant and pleasant self. Plotting, John thought. Ruminating over his next move, the fallout, the recovery - any and everything other than what had happened between them. That was quite obviously not up for discussion.
John reaches for the tin pitcher of water set beside him atop a makeshift table of stacked crates, pauses, noticing that a glass has already been poured for him. He scans the cabin searching for Howell, realizing he has also missed the part where he’d left the room.
He looks to Flint.
It feels miserably comfortable to be alone with him, so close yet so remarkably out of reach. John takes a sip of water and examines him from over the rim of his cup, pretends not to notice how the humidity and the flickering candlelight both play at Flint’s sticky skin. He doesn’t remember how that tuft of hair just beneath Flint’s lip tickles his chin, or how the metal rings on his fingers slide cool against the heat of his bare chest. He cares not for the swelling familiarity of his own heartbeat when the Captain’s eyes slide over to meet his - his stare forever burning holes into the pit of John’s lies.
John knows he’d do well to just let it go, but in this room of subliminal souvenirs - the bookshelf, the desk, the chair - a silent mockery is always taking place. The odd unspoken agreement which has taken root between them has allowed for miraculous success at pretending as if nothing’s happened, but John only fancies himself half a fool for wanting to comfort Flint after learning of the fate of Mrs. Barlow. He likes to imagine that Flint might have taken him in confidence, perhaps, had John not suffered such a gruesome loss of his own.
Flint leans forward in his chair, resting his arms on his knees and folding his hands. “Vane has convinced me not to move against Jack,” he shares, rubbing the tip of one thumb over the knuckle of the other.
John takes a few seconds to adapt, the comment not what he expected. He trades looks with Flint in time to catch him narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly, most likely in response to the confusion left over in John’s stare.
“We’ll be using The Walrus for the upcoming raids,” Flint continues, unshaken, “and Vane’s crew will be seeing to the warship for the time being. So, if you choose to continue hiding out, we’ll need to find you better accommodations.”
John’s not sure what to respond to first. “I’m not hide --” he reconsiders, “what raids?”
Flint rises from his chair and walks over to the decanter sitting at the corner of his desk. John cranes his neck to follow his movements, watches as Flint pushes two short glasses together and splashes a brown liquid into one then the other. “I sent forth word just prior to leaving Tortuga,” he explains, a gulp of rum chasing his words. “Any magistrate who serves a capital sentence against a pirate will hear my answer.”
John takes a second to gather his thoughts and stares sidelong at Flint. “And you don’t believe they will heed that warning, even in the aftermath of Charles Town.”
“I’m counting on it,” Flint amends, the caveat coarse and sunken deep beneath the alcohol.
He pours himself another drink, walks over to John and hands him a glass of rum, and John knows he should speak, maybe protest, save Flint from himself, but he takes the glass and swallows the contents instead, bats away the haunting reminder of drowning in its familiar bitterness just moments before Howell had taken his leg for good.
“And the men?” John asks, silently loathing the lingering spices against his tongue. “The men are behind you on this?”
Flint sits and sets his glass down precariously upon the arm of the chair, shadows from the firelight catching in the heavy creases of concern appearing on his face. “We are about to begin a course of action which will eventually demand a response. The men are volatile, as is to be expected, but in the coming days we need to determine who is truly onboard with us. All those who remain indecisive are to be expeditiously cast away.”
We?
The word rattles John, bounces around his skull with mostly jagged edges.
Us?
When did they become an ‘us’?
Flint inspects him without lifting his head, eyes black in the dim light, a quick swig of rum in lieu of words. This had to be about more than gold for him now; more than the hapless thought of a free Nassau. John understands, but, shit, the debt owed to its most feared Captain was surely not his responsibility to pay. And even if he could somehow go against his better judgment and actually convince this crew that exacting Flint’s vengeance is in their best interests, why on earth should he? Why not take his share of the gold and be done with all of this?
“ ‘Cry ‘Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war,' " Flint mumbles into his glass.
John slightly cocks his head. “Shakespeare? Really?”
A faint look of curiosity twists Flint’s brow. “Are you familiar with him?”
“Not particularly, but I have read Julius Caesar on more than one occasion.”
“Then you know how it ends,” he says grimly.
“Nobody truly knows how it ends,” John challenges. " 'Men at some times are masters of their fates. The fault is not in our stars.’ ”
Flint reaches over and sets his half empty glass upon the crates without looking, choosing instead to focus entirely on the man in front of him. “You don’t believe in fate?”
“I don’t believe in much that isn’t conducive to what my own hands and wit can manufacture.”
“And what of nature?” he continues inquisitively. “Surely, you believe forces of nature to be out of your control.”
John repositions himself upon the window ledge so that he is facing Flint, their knees just a few inches away from touching. “I believe - it was Brutus who said, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men. Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.' "
“On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures,” Flint finishes.
A slight smile creeps halfway across John’s face. " ‘Then, with your will, go on.' "
Flint nods and fixates on his hands, pulling his ring halfway off and slipping it back on again. “If you believe in this way, that men are capable of using the chaos around them to exact their will,” he looks up at John, a tiny wrinkle between his brows giving way to thoughtfulness, “then why does your role in this current course of action give you such pause?”
Was it that obvious? And here John thought he’d been playing it off quite well. He takes a deep breath but tries not to let his shoulders rise with it. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. He is not the only one who wields the power of perception in this relationship. He let’s the breath out slowly so that it has a better chance of going undetected. Still, he tries. “Well, you believe in fate yet strive to control all aspects of it. To follow a man with such an inner conflict is not exactly an easy endeavor.”
A mild disappointment dulls the thirst in Flint’s eyes as John purposely leaves himself out of the answer. He did have a unique way of turning the tables when what was being offered no longer served him.
Maybe he should have admitted to Flint how lost he truly feels; how unconfident he has become in his abilities to persuade this crew to move with the strong gusts of wind their Captain has a knack for creating. He understood that this was the answer Flint was after, but in choosing to connect with him in such a way, in choosing honesty, he’d have to admit his part in the theft of the gold as well.
Instead he chooses to deflect, and maybe rightfully so. He still hadn’t made his choice yet. And why should he offer up any more of himself when Flint remained so guarded?
Flint reaches for his rum. “The Walrus will depart as soon as we refit and get wind of the next unfortunate soul who likens himself to Peter Ashe,” he shares. “Hopefully, dear Brutus, you’ll have decided by then whether or not you care to get onboard.”
He hands his glass to a dumbfounded John and makes to retire for the night.
“Fuck,” John whispers into the darkness.