Chapter Text
They arrive in Nassau two weeks later.
Thomas is overwhelmed, at first, with the lush greenery of the island and the sheer life buzzing in every corner of it. He had expected - well, he isn’t sure what he expected when James had described the place, but the description had not done it justice, not truly. He moves to the railing of the ship, watching the crew lower a launch, and marvels at the truly beautiful place that he sees before him, as far removed from London as it is possible to be.
“It’s quite the sight, isn’t it?” James says beside him, and he nods.
“Breathtaking,” he agrees. He scans the shoreline, taking in the bustle that was quite nearly as bad as that in London. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to find Miranda if she’s -”
He stops, mouth gone suddenly dry, as his eyes scan the shore again. There, standing at the end of one of the piers, is his wife. She is plainly dressed, with her hair drawn back away from her face in a style he has never seen her wear, but it is definitely her, and with her -
“James - look,” he points out, and he sees James’ eyes follow his own and light on Miranda and the small, cloth-wrapped bundle she’s holding in her arms. As he watches, her attention turns from watching the harbor to the bundle, and he sees her incline her head slightly, a smile crossing her features as she brings her face down close.
“Damn it!” James says, clearly chagrined. “I told her I’d try to bring you home in time.”
Thomas stares, his attention entirely fixed on her, and James tugs at his arm.
“Come on,” he says. “She’ll - they’ll be waiting for us.” A small grin spreads over his face at the changed word, and there’s an actual spring in his step as he calls to one of the men on the launch, ordering it to be held. Thomas can feel himself fairly bouncing with energy, and when the launch lands with a thump against the shore, he jumps out, making a beeline for Miranda. She spots him before he reaches her, and her face transforms, worry and anticipation replaced by abject relief.
“Thomas!” She calls his name, and the sound goes right through him, soothing something he hadn’t even known was hurting. He hurries to her, his arms wrapping around her, his mouth seeking hers. Her free hand wraps around the back of his neck, bringing him down closer to her, and they stand for several moments after they pull away, just drinking in each other’s presence.
“Miranda,” he finally breathes, and she lets out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Miranda - I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I should have listened. I should have -” He starts to babble an apology. He’s been such an idiot - has come so close to losing her forever, and he can’t quite find the words to express his gratitude for the persistence and cunning and brilliance that has brought him back to her. She silences him with another kiss, this time harder, more determined, and looks him straight in the eye, her brown eyes fierce.
“The next time I ask you to let something be, you’ll listen to me,” she orders, and he nods.
“Yes. I swear it. Your word is law from this day forward.” She nods, and lets go of the back of his neck, allowing him to straighten.
“You look terrible,” she informs him tartly, concern underlying the remains of her anger, and he grimaces.
“You should have seen him when I found him,” James interjects, and she turns to him, eyes softening.
“James. It’s done, then?” He nods, and she closes her eyes for a moment, relief spreading over her visibly, the tension leaving her.
“Thank God,” she murmurs. “Thank you.” She reaches up to him and brings him in for a kiss, lingering and tender, the kind they haven’t shared since Thomas was taken from them, the elephant in the room now firmly banished by Thomas’ return. The baby in her arms seems to feel his mother’s relief, because he squirms and gurgles, and Miranda opens her eyes.
“Thomas,” she says, “James. Say hello to your son.”
Thomas takes one look at the tiny bundle in Miranda’s arms and falls in love.
Miranda hands the child over to him and - he’s not alright. He’s so very not alright, still. The nightmares that have been plaguing him since he was first imprisoned are still very much a problem. He still finds his hands shaking, still startles at small things and has moments where he can see and taste and smell Bethlem, set off by a myriad of seemingly unpredictable triggers, leaving him frustrated and frightened and tired - oh, so very tired. The weeks leading up to his rescue have been a nightmare all their own, one that he is only now truly willing to believe is ended, and the entire ordeal has shaken him to his very marrow, causing him to question everything he had ever believed about his fellow men and yet, he looks at his son and thinks to himself that he might, just might, be alright in time. For the small person Miranda has just handed him, he might be able to pull through this - has to, in fact, will, regardless of what it takes. He can feel the corners of his mouth pulling upward in a smile that is wholly involuntary and entirely welcome, and he raises a hand to his son’s head, huge in comparison to the boy’s small fist.
“Does he have a name?” he asks Miranda, and she smiles, relief written plain on her face as well as fondness and joy at the sight of her husband, not only alive but holding their child.
“I thought I’d allow you to name him,” she answers, and Thomas feels a thrill run through him. He looks to James and sees the same look of wonder on his face as he realizes that the invitation is open to him as well and they look at each other, questioning.
“My grandfather’s name was Darby,” James ventures, somewhat tentatively, and Thomas nods.
“I have two brothers. One is too much like my father, but the other I’ll miss,” he says. “His name is William.”
“William Darby, or Darby William?” Miranda wonders aloud.
“That depends on the surname,” James says. “Is he a Hamilton? A McGraw?”
“Neither and both,” Miranda answers, “as we’re not sure.”
“Why not Flint?” Thomas asks, and James shakes his head.
“No. I won’t give that name to a child. It was meant for -” He stops short, and Thomas nods, understanding.
“I’d prefer if he didn’t carry the Hamilton name, for obvious reasons,” Thomas says.
“And McGraw will only raise questions,” James acknowledges.
“There’s always Barlow,” Miranda suggests, and they look at each other.
“Something of each of us,” Thomas says, and James nods, a smile spreading over his face.
“It’s only fair,” he acknowledges. “William Darby Barlow.” He looks at the newly christened child, and grins. “It’s a good name,” he says, and Miranda nods her approval.
“My mother would be pleased,” she says, and that decides it. Thomas turns his attention back to their son, and the smile on his face is wide enough to hurt.
“Hello, William,” he says, and the baby gurgles and waves a fist. “I think he likes it.” The baby squirms, and Thomas adjusts, his grip becoming slightly awkward. Little William, he thinks, is surprisingly strong for such a tiny thing, and it’s been a while since Thomas has been in the business of holding babies.
“James,” he says. “I don’t suppose you’d like to hold him?” His arms are starting to shake a bit, actually - he’s still not recovered from Bethlem entirely, and he hasn’t had anything of significant weight to lift in quite some time. James, however, is looking at him with something akin to terror on his face suddenly, and Miranda, looking between them, raises a hand to her mouth, a giggle escaping.
“Look at the pair of you,” she says. “James - hold your son before Thomas drops him.” James swallows hard and moves forward, taking the squirming bundle out of Thomas’ grasp, looking as if someone has just proposed handing him a live explosive.
“Support his head,” Thomas instructs. “He needs - There. Perfect.” The squirming has stopped entirely, and James is standing, baby held firmly in his arms, still looking terrified, while William looks up at him curiously, infant blue eyes studying his face.
“I’m - there are things I should -” He tries, trailing off helplessly, and Thomas just laughs harder at the semi-disgruntled expression on his face.
“I take it congratulations are in order.” The voice comes from behind them, and Thomas turns to find Gates standing nearby, his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, a smirk lifting one half of his mustache. James stands, mouth hanging open, and Gates chuckles.
“Now there’s a sight. Yours or his?” James and Thomas look at each other, and Gates laughs.
“Just kidding. He’s the dead spit of you, Captain.”
“You can’t possibly tell that,” James protests, and Gates snorts.
“Yes, I can. Go on - I’ll cover for you until you get back. Congratulations, ma’am.”
He leaves James looking thunderstruck, Thomas laughing, and Miranda looking at both of them fondly. She grabs hold of both their arms, pulling gently toward the beach.
“Come. Let’s go home.”
**************************************
Six months later:
He comes in late at night, the dust of the road still covering him, weary, but satisfied.
“Well, William, it’s done.”
The words are hushed, sounding too loud in the still house. James is too tired to care, and to prove it, he sits down next to the baby’s crib, one hand removing his sword baldric to hang it over the back of the chair and the other moving to adjust the infant’s blanket. He reaches down and pulls his boots off, giving a sigh as he does so. The moonlight streaming in through the window shifts, and the baby moves, woken by the change in lighting and the sound of James’ voice.
“It’s finished,” he says. “No more pirating. No more fighting, and Captain Flint can officially go back to whatever abyss he came from. I’m done.” William shifts, a sort of questioning gurgle making its way out of his mouth as he regards his father curiously.
“That’s right,” James confirms. “Everything’s been wrapped up. The crew are happy. Gates is taking over the captaincy, and I -” He yawns. “I’m ready to lie down and sleep for the next year or so. Christ knows I can afford to if I want.” He leans in closer, the ends of his untied hair swinging down into his face. He’s been leaving it loose when he can, lately, given that Thomas and Miranda both like to run their hands through it. Speaking of Thomas -
“Your other daddy,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, “is a very smart man. Without him, I don’t know where the hell I’d be but not here, getting ready to retire and live the life of Adam in the interior.”
William swings one hand toward James, grasping hold of a hank of hair, and James grimaces and laughs simultaneously as he disentangles the child’s fingers and lets him grab hold of one finger instead.
“No hair pulling,” he scolds gently. “But you’re right. Your mother would have my head if she’d heard that last,” he acknowledges. “Good thing you can’t tell her.” William gives a happy, if somewhat loud, cry, and James shushes him.
“If we wake Miranda, she really will have my head,” he tells his son. “I suppose there’s no point in telling you to go back to sleep.” William squirms, hands and legs waving all at the same time, and James sighs. “Idiotic question to start with,” he mutters, feeling the pull of bed but knowing that he started this. “Right. Come on - let’s see what the pantry has to offer.” He picks up the child, heading for the pantry, bouncing him up and down all the while. “I wonder if Miranda’s made any apple tarts lately. It’s worth a look....”
***************************************
“He thinks we don’t know.”
“Shh!”
Miranda’s giggle is quickly muffled by her hand, and she stands, shoulders shaking with mirth, as she watches James putter around the kitchen, baby held in one arm and the remains of one of her pastries in the other, his mouth full for the moment.
“It’s too precious,” she manages to get out, her voice barely a whisper. “Look at them!”
Thomas turns, and she can see the fond smile on his face even in the darkened hallway.
“It’s good to have him back,” he acknowledges.
“And this time,” James says, raising his voice a fraction, “I intend to stay. You two aren’t particularly quiet, you know.”
Thomas laughs quietly and comes forward, planting a kiss on James’ cheek, with Miranda not far behind him to do the same on the other.
“Welcome home,” he says, and James looks sheepish.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. “It’s been a long day - I’d intended to come to bed after I got this one back to sleep.”
“You seem to have succeeded,” Miranda says. “I’d hoped to be able to welcome you back properly, but this will have to do.”
“Any welcome involving apple tarts is perfect,” James answers, and she laughs.
“He has a point,” Thomas agrees. “Are there any left?”
“Not at this hour of the night, there aren’t,” Miranda answers. “Really, James - I’m very glad to see you, but what on Earth were you thinking riding so late?”
“I was thinking that I haven’t slept in my own bed in six months,” James answers. His tone softens, as do his eyes, and he shifts his grip on his sleeping son. “I missed you,” he admits, and Thomas smiles.
“We’ve missed you too. Come to bed?”
James nods.
“Let me put William back in his crib and then I’ll be in,” he promises. He follows Thomas down the hall and quietly, gently, lays William back in his crib, tucking him in.
“William Barlow,” he muses, standing next to the crib. “I suppose I should just change my name. They’d match, that way.”
“You’ve quite enough names without adding another, James McGraw,” Thomas says from behind him, and the name sends a chill down James’ spine. There had been too many days when he hadn’t been sure he’d ever hear that name again, and now - now it’s his again.
“Say that again,” he invites, and Thomas comes closer, whispering in his ear.
“James McGraw,” he whispers, and the sound goes straight through James, a shiver followed by the heat of arousal.
“You’re right,” he murmurs, eyes closing. “I don’t want any other.” Thomas grins against his ear.
“How about Love?” he questions. “Or Darling? Or -”
“How about,” James says, his voice a low rumble, “we stop talking and go to bed?” Thomas grins and turns without another word, beckoning over his shoulder and he goes, bare feet padding over the floor boards, and closes the bedroom door behind himself with a gentle thud.