Chapter Text
*
“We won’t be going any farther.”
Something in Silver’s chest twists to hear those words, even if he’s not surprised. He doesn’t want to be here, in this moment, doing this, having this conversation. He desperately does not want this to be the end of their journey together, but that feeling is matched in intensity only by how desperately he does not want to take another step further along this path of theirs that seems to lead inescapably to ruin. He feels stretched thin, pulled in so many different directions by people he loves and the causes they love and his own heart and its wounds that he’s surprised he can function at all, can pick a direction and still walk without toppling. But at the center of this web of obligations and loyalties and loves is a cold, hard knot of pain and fear lodged underneath his breastbone that pulses enough, enough, enough with each beat of his heart. And the harder the lines tug, the tighter that knot twists and the stronger that echo becomes.
Enough of this war.
“Won’t we,” Silver says, just to delay. He doesn’t bother to make it sound like a question.
The first confrontation he’d had with Flint in this jungle had not gone as Silver had expected. Not that he’d been in any state at the time to plan too far ahead, or think especially rationally about anything. The way he’d thrown himself at Flint, sword in hand, had proven that much; even Silver wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been trying to accomplish there, just that he was angry and needed an outlet and attacking Flint was…safe. He couldn’t defeat Flint, he knew that very well, but Flint would also never hurt him. Ever.
He hadn’t been sure of that moments before. To the extent that he’d thought about it, he’d assumed that Flint had turned on him entirely, that he’d now been sorted into the same category as Gates in the captain’s mind, someone he’d once cared for but who had now become an obstacle and would be removed without hesitation if necessary. That assumption had allowed him to send the men after Flint, despite knowing that while they probably wouldn’t be able to touch the man, there was a chance. He had sent them, and there had been a chance that they would succeed, and Silver would have had to live with that. Assuming that Flint saw him as an enemy made that easier.
But then he was there, with Flint, and there was a gunshot, and as Silver whipped around to see Dooley falling to ground, that assumption had shattered and his whole worldview shifted sideways with it.
In that moment, he realized he’d been seeing this all wrong. That maybe it had been a mistake to group Gates in with the list of people who’d died from getting too close to Flint. Gates hadn’t died because he’d been too close to Flint.
Gates had died because he hadn’t been close enough.
It was too big an idea to grasp all at once, in a moment that was already so chaotic and emotionally fraught. He would find time for that later. Right then he was still angry, and abruptly aware of his own invulnerability when it came to this monstrous legend among men, and so he drew his sword and charged.
The moment their blades clashed, Silver was ensnared by the familiarity of it. He tried to use his anger to lash out, move unpredictably and break the pattern their bodies had learned together, but Flint would just knock him safely back in line with an expert parry and then fall back on the defensive, always leaving Silver the option to withdraw. Silver’s rage flared at being handled so easily, but beneath that, there had been gratitude too. Flint was allowing him this safe space to let his anger burn out, and on some level Silver had been aware that was exactly what he needed.
I will see you through this. I swear it.
And then they’d heard the shots on the water, and had wordlessly pushed the personal conflict aside for more pressing concerns.
“I won’t take another step towards that chest until I know for sure that I am wrong about what I suspect is happening here,” Flint says now.
Silver doesn’t bother to dissemble. He hasn’t been looking forward to this conversation, but he has been preparing for it. He hops around Flint – crutch, step, crutch, step – and turns to face him.
“Rackham has made a deal with the Guthries,” he says.
Flint’s expression hardens immediately. “Eleanor and Richard Guthrie are dead.”
“The elder Guthries,” Silver specifies. “Eleanor’s grandparents. Richard’s parents as well I suppose, although that seems less relevant.”
“And what did they promise him,” Flint growls, more a threat than a question, “in return for his betrayal?”
“Nassau. Of course.” Silver hops a step closer, as if increased proximity to Flint will somehow contain his fury. Even knowing he has nothing personally to fear from this man, the tension in the air between them feels deadly. Just as Flint has proven he will never kill Silver, nor allow him to be killed, so Silver will allow no harm to come to Flint. He has always tried to match the level of regard his captain has shown him, let Flint set the high watermark and allowed the disturbingly bottomless seas of his own affections to rise that far and no farther. But there are many other ways this conversation could end that would hurt just as much.
In planning his approach to this conversation, Silver had realized that on some level he had never really trusted his captain. Not entirely. Flint was his friend, his partner, the one person in the whole world who was closest to him, but there had been an element of manipulation in their relationship from the moment Silver stole the Urca’s schedule. He hadn’t always been conscious of what he was doing, but the survivor in Silver had always known to be wary of the tyrant in Flint. The spectre of Gates had hovered always in the back of his mind, driving his efforts to weasel closer, to insinuate himself into Flint’s weaknesses and win his respect. Warding off that fear for good had only been possible when he’d realized that he’d accumulated power enough to match Flint’s, if not exceed it. But that wasn’t trust; that was a deterrent to war. Mutually assured destruction if either were to act against the other. And even so, the thought of Flint turning on him in that way, of seeing the betrayal and deadly intent in his partner’s eyes even if he knew he could survive it…well, if he was honest, Silver feared the pain of that just as much. And the tension of that fear had always made their relationship uneasy, as if they balanced perpetually on a razor’s edge.
Now, though. Now he sees things differently. Gates was not part of the pattern. Thomas and Miranda had never had reason to fear death by Flint, and judging by recent events, neither does Silver. He is in more illustrious company than he’d guessed, and knowing that changes everything.
“A Nassau under colonial rule,” Flint growls. He sounds distinctly unimpressed.
“Only officially.”
Flint scoffs, but doesn’t press for details. Silver’s not surprised. He would’ve considered it a very good sign indeed if Flint had wanted to know more, but of course the details don’t matter to Flint. No details of any plan would matter to Flint if he detected even a whiff of concession to or subjugation by the British.
“And you? Did you…” and here Flint pauses to snarl, lip curling up from his teeth like a wolf warning of an impending attack, eyes never wavering from Silver’s, “…agree to this deal?”
Silver hesitates, but only for a moment. “Rackham asked me to kill you.”
The effects of that sentence on Flint are horrifying. Silver’s stomach swoops with dread and guilt as he watches Flint’s face contort in rage, pain, and something like desperate disbelief. His hand drifts down to his cutlass hilt but he doesn’t draw it, and although his teeth are fully bared now and his whole body seems primed to spring forward at any moment to slit Silver’s throat, his eyes are wide and wounded. Vulnerable.
Silver lets out a slow, quiet breath. In the silence, he continues.
“Apparently, your removal is the proof the Guthries need to believe that Nassau is a sound investment. They seem to think the dread Captain Flint will pose too persistent and irreconcilable a danger to their efforts if not dealt with in a very final way. Why they didn’t make a similar ultimatum over Long John Silver I don’t know, but I suppose your reputation continues to proceed mine, for the time being. Congratulations on that, by the way.”
Flint still does not move or speak. The rage and pain in his eyes burn like dark suns, and Silver can’t bear to look at them any longer. He has no doubt that if he were anyone else, he would be well on his way towards bleeding out on the forest floor by now. Slowly, almost painfully so, Silver draws his sword. He hears the answering hiss as Flint finally draws his own, but keeps his eyes on the ground.
Silver tosses the sword away.
Flint doesn’t move.
In the echoing, oppressive silence, Silver pulls out his pistol and tosses it in the same direction. The weight of it carries it farther, and they both listen as it crashes through the underbrush and drops into a small gully with a splash. Silver winces at that; the weapon hadn’t been cheap. That was a significantly bigger gesture than he’d intended to make. Warily, he peers up at his captain.
“I think we’re a bit beyond all that,” Silver says, hushed but confident Flint will hear him. “Don’t you?”
Flint is still staring straight at him, eyes fearlessly meeting his own when Silver gives him the chance. Silver doesn’t think the man has ever backed down from eye contact in his life; it’s one of the things that makes him such an incredibly effective leader, the ability to demand a man’s attention and hold it, make him feel like you’re looking straight through to his very soul and grabbing it, bending it to your will. It’s an ability Silver also knows how to exploit, of course, but he’s always been more comfortable with its subtleties: knowing when to catch a man’s eye and hold it for a critical heartbeat, just long enough here and there to inspire trust. Flint’s technique requires too much honesty for Silver’s tastes; the baring of your own soul in return for the ability to command another’s is a bargain that Silver’s never been comfortable making. He’s always had too many secrets for that.
But even so, he meets Flint’s gaze steadily now because they are beyond this, too. Honesty and openness is no great sacrifice with someone who already knows all of his secrets worth knowing.
And besides, in this moment, Flint’s bargain is backfiring more than anything. The pain in his eyes still stabs at Silver with more than a glancing blow, but there’s still vulnerability there too, and something that seems almost…lost.
“Then tell me,” Flint says, hoarsely. “What is happening here?”
Silver hops a step closer, carefully watching the way Flint’s expression flickers as he nears. “I’m trying to show you another way.”
Flint seems to shut down at that, and Silver feels his heart lurch sickeningly. He is keenly aware that Flint is still holding his sword in a white-knuckled grip.
“After all we’ve done,” Flint spits, eyes hard like shards of green ice, “after all we’ve accomplished together, all we’ve sacrificed, now when we’re so close—”
He’s picking up speed, gaining volume and momentum and Silver can’t allow that. He can’t let him fire himself up with one of his impassioned speeches; that is not the direction this conversation must go. He hops another step closer, keeping his own expression carefully open and honest and almost pleading, and watches the motion ripple through Flint, bring him to a startled pause. Silver makes the most of the momentary silence.
“You love me,” he says, hushed, letting his own naked awe at the revelation shine through. Flint’s eyes widen, and the violent light in them is shrouded over by shock. It’s possible Silver is making a very big mistake, but he’s committed to his course now. “I know you do. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to think of it, but now that I have it’s so clear. You don’t even try to hide it.” Silver pauses, swallows hard. The anger is returning in Flint’s eyes, but Silver thinks the new tension in his jaw speaks of fear, too. And he’s still not denying it.
“You let the world see you as a villain, but I know you,” Silver presses. “I see you. I know what drives you, and I know how boundless your heart is, how deeply you feel. I don’t know if you…I don’t know if I could be enough for you. I doubt I can be what they were to you. I’m not a good person, not like they were. Before I got swept up in all this, in you, I never cared much about other people. I think that was pretty obvious.” Silver risks a grin, just a little, but enough to hopefully call back to that idiot in the blue jacket. Flint’s expression still looks frozen. “I know you were hurt that I didn’t want to tell you about my past, that you saw it as my way of keeping an advantage over you, but that’s not it at all. Who I was back then…I’ve made up so many stories it’s hard for even I to be sure of what’s true. And I’ve changed, you’ve changed me so much that who I used to be isn’t relevant anymore. I’m not like you; I don’t carry my past with me like an albatross around my neck. I’ll tell you what I remember one day, if you still truly want to know, but the me that matters is your partner, the one who found you in your darkness and made himself your equal. That’s who I want to be, who I choose to be. That’s the history I choose to remember. And I think that’s who you need now, more than someone who is good.” Silver pauses, licks his lips. “I think we could make a life together, a real life. I’d like to try.”
Flint looks…Silver’s not quite sure. Angry, maybe. Confused, definitely. But he’s not foaming at the mouth about the evils of the British Empire, nor is he hauling off and shooting Silver on the spot, and that’s the main thing.
Silver hops a step closer. He’s almost close enough to touch now.
“We will have Nassau,” he says, softly like a promise and an attempted seduction all together, and has no idea how well it goes over. He can only keep pressing forward blindly, in hope. “Under another’s name, yes, but make no mistake, we will have it. The legends of Long John Silver and the dread Captain Flint will not die that easily. Piracy, freedom, will not die that easily. We don’t have to wage an endless, doomed war to ensure that. We need only stand guard. If Rackham ever loses his head and they start persecuting people in Nassau Town for who they love, you know I will be right by your side to remind them why they should fucking fear us.”
Silver hops a step closer, and now they are practically breathing the same air. Flint’s face is still unreadable, but Silver thinks he see something new there, some fire banked for the moment but flaring. He takes that as a good sign and hopes it’s something other than anger.
“And we will have each other,” Silver breathes, and he’s sure Flint feels the warmth from his words. “I find that’s all I really want anymore.”
“And Madi?” Flint growls, his first words in what feels like an age. Oh, he is definitely still angry. “She won’t forgive this.”
“I know,” Silver sighs. “This war is different for her and her people. I don’t think we can ever truly understand how much it means to them, not even you with your crusade. But Rackham has promised to continue to supply her people, and offer safe harbour in Nassau for those who wish it. The plantation owners have already been driven out or killed, and Rackham is looking to place former slaves in charge of new production. There will be no slaves on the island anymore. I know she had begun to dream of something more, with all your talk of a grand revolution, but once this would have been enough for her. Maybe one day it will again, but if not then she will at least be alive to hate me for it.”
“And what about me? What if I hate you for it?”
“You can’t,” Silver says, almost apologetic. He leans in a fraction of an inch closer and carefully, ever so softly, rests his palm over Flint’s jaw. The muscles skitter under his hand, but Flint doesn’t pull away. “Just as I could never hate you. We are too much a part of each other for that.” Silver dares a small caress with his thumb and Flint’s eyes drift partway closed. He’s still tense as a main mast in a strong wind, but Silver’s becoming more confident that this particular wind is blowing in his favour.
“I can’t lose you,” Silver’s voice cracks on the last word, the brutal honesty harder to admit than anything else he’s said so far, “and you can’t survive this war. I don’t see any other way this ends. So I’m asking you. You started this war for Thomas. For love. Will you walk away from it for me?”
There is a long, frozen moment while they stare at each other. Silver has no idea what his own expression is doing for once, but Flint’s eyes contain a tempest. Looking into its heart is dizzying, like he’s trapped in the crow’s nest with a storm on the bow and no choice but to cling fast and hope he can ride it out. The tension grows thicker between them with every heartbeat, and fear raises goosebumps on Silver’s arms. And then—
Flint kisses him.
Silver crumples, completely unprepared for the ferocity of it. It is more a violent assault than a kiss, and were it not for Flint’s sudden vice-like grip on his biceps, it would have sent them both straight to the ground. Even so, it sends him reeling back until one of Flint’s hands creeps up to the back of his head, weaving into his hair to better hold him in place. For his part, Silver manages a clinging grip on his partner’s shoulder, only dimly aware that at some point his crutch must have joined Flint’s cutlass on the forest floor, while his other hand scrabbles uselessly at Flint’s bare head, not for the first time cursing his lack of hair. The hand comes to rest on the back of Flint’s neck instead, and his captain gives a growl of approval.
Silver is—lost. He’d expected this…seduction…to go according to his own terms: he the one always pushing, Flint the one accepting, or perhaps fleeing. Now he’s reduced to reacting on instinct, completely swept away by the gale that is Flint. He should have guessed; he’d backed Flint into a corner, demanded he make a decision, and Flint had made it with the same massive amounts of violent emotion with which he seemed to confront all major life events. Nothing about this should have been surprising.
Flint kisses to conquer; to devour; to lose himself in Silver as though if he tries hard enough he can crawl inside to share Silver’s skin and slough off all the baggage James McGraw carries with him, as if that would finally let him slip the albatrosses from his neck. Silver hopes that’s true. But there’s only so long he can let himself be bowled over, and he feels something waking inside his breast, some answering darkness that snarls and starts to push back against Flint’s. His blood is roaring in his ears and his entire being is focused on the man in front of him and he feels like he has two legs again, he feels alive and desired and powerful and free.
When they finally break apart, they are both panting and Flint—Flint is glaring at him.
Silver can’t help it; he bursts out laughing.
“You little shit,” Flint snarls, nothing at all like an endearment. Silver laughs harder, nearly doubling over while still clinging to Flint's shoulder for balance.
He suspects his relief might be making him slightly hysterical.
“I swear to God, if you do not stop laughing this instant—”
“I can’t,” Silver gasps out between the laughter, “You are—such—an angry bastard—”
Flint cuts him off by jerking his head up and pressing their lips together once more. Silver feels the giggles bubbling up again in the back of his throat but the tenderness of this kiss, once he registers it, quickly sobers him. It’s like night and day to the previous kiss; where the first was fire and desperation and challenge, this one is water, gentle and generous. Silver can feel the love in it. He’s momentarily staggered by the depth of the emotion, but just as with the first, he rallies and tries to convey as much love back as he receives. He’s not at all surprised that Flint is capable of both extremes, even in such close succession.
When they break this time, both of them are breathing evenly and they remain close, sharing air.
“I see I should have believed you,” Flint breathes, eyes clear without a hint of resentment or even anger. “When you said you’d be my end.”
Silver quirks a small smile. “You should always believe me,” he says, just to hear Flint’s disgusted scoff. He leans in, resting their foreheads together. “You are everything to me, James. Everything. Say you’ll let us have this. Say you’ll walk away with me. Please.”
In a rare show of something like acceptance, Flint closes his eyes. Silver waits, filled with endless patience in this moment. He feels none of the tension or uncertainty of before; he knows the answer he’s going to get. And he will wait however long it takes – an hour, a day, a year – for Flint to say it aloud.
“Yes,” Flint says, and Silver kisses him to seal the promise.
Captain Flint is dead. Their new lives are just beginning.