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When Silver first tells him of Solomon Little, it takes all of Flint’s considerable restraint not to visibly react to the name.
At most, he clenches his hands more tightly, but the usually observant Silver is too caught up in weaving his tale to pay much attention to such a small thing. His eyes have a faraway look, as if he’s reliving the story as he speaks, but it’s clear to Flint as he listens that this particular anecdote is filled with holes and half-truths, a fabrication rooted only slightly in reality.
Still, he can’t help but pause as he goes to leave, turning back to Silver curiously. “And Solomon Little? What became of him?”
A shadow seems to pass over Silver’s face, all traces of his smirk fading away. “He died. Scarlet fever.”
Flint frowns at the blatant lie. Well delivered it may be, but true it is not. “I’m sorry to hear that. It seems he left quite an impression on you.”
Silver shrugs, his mouth lifting into a stiff, discomfited smile. “It was a long time ago.”
Then he reveals to Flint that Randall, Randall , is the key to his gossip-fueled scheme, and Flint tries not to laugh in his face. It wouldn’t do to kick a man while he’s down, and Silver’s still spitting out blood. He’ll mock Silver later, after his fragile ego has recovered some.
Flint sighs, scratching his beard absently. “Good luck. With… whatever this is.”
He leaves Silver to stew, lost in thought as he approaches his cabin. It’s only once he’s alone with the door bolted firmly behind him that Flint, for the first time in years, hesitantly removes the dark band covering the soulmark on his wrist.
He very gently traces the familiar name, stark against his pale skin: Solomon Little.
*****
Silver brings up Solomon Little twice more in Flint’s presence, but it is the third time that cements his growing suspicions.
The second time is not dissimilar to the first. Billy, standing some feet away from Flint on the beach of Nassau, asks Silver how it was he came to be so integral to the crew in his absence. The man begins to weave a tale not unlike the one he’d told Flint himself: he’s spent his childhood in a home for boys, and there he’d met an unfortunate lad named Solomon Little…
But when Billy (out of curiosity, not the desperation Flint had felt to know more ) asks after the fate of the famed Solomon Little, the stories diverge.
“There was a riot,” Silver says, voice so soft Flint nearly misses it from where he’s eavesdropping. “He got caught up in the crowd. Didn’t make it.”
Flint frowns at that. Silver sounds just as haunted as he had when he’d told Flint about the scarlet fever, and yet this, too, is a lie. It has to be, for Flint’s mark is still there, dark as ink against his skin. Why fabricate another end for Solomon Little? Why not keep to the same story, for posterity’s sake?
It’s the third time he hears Silver use that name that things really begin to fall into place.
Flint’s up on the quarterdeck with Miranda, caught between listening to Silver’s probably fabricated story about the first time he’d seen Charlestown and wondering what she thinks of his unlikely ally.
That is, until: “...and we watch as they haul up a man named Solomon Little.”
Miranda’s reaction would be comical if it weren’t for how caught off guard Flint is himself. She sucks in a sharp gasp and whips her head to face him immediately with wide, shocked eyes.
“Did he just say - ”
Miranda has known the name on Flint’s wrist nearly as long as she’s known him. She is as sure of its place on his skin as the faded, dull gray Thomas Hamilton on her own (though Flint has never seen it himself, nor has Miranda; they read the news of Thomas’s death and neither could bear to look and see for themselves the proof that he was truly gone). Moreover, she knows just as well as Flint that Solomon Little was certainly not strung up and hanged over Charlestown years ago, that the name scrawled on his wrist is still black and stark, not faded in the least.
He shakes his head, cutting her off as he takes her hand and leads her down the steps to his cabin, where they can speak in private. He figures he can leave Abigail on her own up on the quarterdeck for a few minutes; he’s certainly put the fear of god in his men when it comes to her safety and comfort.
The door has barely latched closed before she’s on him.
“Solomon Little.”
“I know.”
“Solomon Little?”
“I know.”
Miranda is clearly flustered, floundering for something to say. “I - you - I don’t - ”
“It might not mean anything. It could be just a coincidence,” Flint says, but even he can hear how little conviction there is in his voice.
“Surely you don’t believe that,” she retorts, an incredulous look on her face.
He doesn’t.
So he tells her. He tells her about the other times he’s heard Silver say that name, about the changes in his story, about his odd dedication to keeping Solomon Little dead and buried.
The conclusion Miranda reaches is one he’s been actively avoiding.
“It must be him. Mr. Silver must be your Solomon Little,” she breathes, eyes wide with excitement. “James, it makes sense. How many men create a new name for themselves when they go on the account? You did yourself! He’s telling these stories and putting his old identity to rest. Or - I don’t know - he wants to hold onto the memory of whomever first called him Solomon Little, so he spreads the name in his tales.”
Probably both, Flint thinks.
“It’s… possible,” he eventually responds, hesitant.
“James, you have to tell him.”
“What? No!”
Miranda gapes at him. “What do you mean, no? He’s your soulmate .”
“He might be my soulmate. And even if he was, do you really think I should spring this on him now? For all we know, I could be dead in a few days. What good would it do?”
“James…”
“No. I - this is for the best. He needs to keep his focus on the crew, and I need to keep mine on Peter. I’ll address the issue when all this is over.”
Miranda gives him a stern glare, her hands on her hips. Flint hates that glare. It’s her I’m-right-and-you-know-it glare. “This is not some minor issue. We’re talking about your life. Your future. Maybe even a second chance for happiness! It’s what you deserve , James.”
Flint isn’t so sure that’s true. It seems to him all he deserves, all Thomas deserves from him, is the slick of blood on his hands and the throbbing of his old wounds and for the aching, gaping hole in his chest to bare its ugly maw at the world.
“Perhaps,” he says instead, “But right now I’ll focus on what you deserve. The life I promised you, all those years ago.”
She huffs out an irritated breath, though she smiles, too, like she can’t help herself. She walks over to him, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“You’re a stubborn fool,” she says, like she’s resigned to his pig-headedness. “But I suppose I wouldn’t love you if you were anything else.”
*****
It’s been seven days since Flint saw his own name on Silver’s wrist, and his mind has not known peace since. He’s done nothing but try not to stare at Silver for the past week. It’s a difficult task, one he fails at near constantly.
Howell’s to blame, really. He’d insisted that they needed to find Silver a set of clean clothes, fearful that his dirty, bloodstained trousers might cause an infection.
And so, between the two of them he and Howell had undressed and redressed an unconscious, feverish Silver. Flint had spent the entire affair trying not to let his eyes wander over the expanse of smooth, tanned skin before him, but, despite any rumors to the contrary, he is only human after all, and he’d found Silver infuriatingly attractive from the moment he’d first seen him.
But then Howell, fucking Howell , had made a face at the band on Silver’s wrist, the one covering his soulmark.
“Might as well change this, too,” he’d said, no doubt concerned with how caked in blood the leather had become.
So Howell had reached into his bag and pulled out a new strap and, with practiced ease, averted his eyes from Silver’s bare wrist as he undid the clasp of the old band.
Howell was a professional, determined to give his patient this privacy, but Flint had had no such qualms. It might have been his only chance to ever truly know , and so he’d taken it, peering quickly at the pale patch of skin on Silver’s wrist. He hadn’t been able to see at first, but Silver had suddenly shifted in his sleep, trying to escape the foreign pairs of hands holding him down as Howell worked. His arm had twisted just enough for Flint to catch a glimpse of the name scrawled along the inside of his wrist, there and gone as Howell replaced the old band with the new. That bare moment had been more than enough, however. There, clear as day, had been his name.
James McGraw.
If Howell had noticed the way Flint’s hands had begun to shake as they’d finished tending to Silver, he didn’t say.
He did mention, though, as he’d been leaving, how good it was of Flint to let Silver stay in his cabin, and how very grateful the men would be to him for taking such careful care of their new quartermaster.
It was and still is incredible to Flint that he could gain favor with his ( his ) crew simply by being nice to Silver.
And so here he is, pretending that his entire world has not suddenly started to revolve around the man at his window.
He’d found him. Against all odds, and perhaps when Flint needed him most, he’d found him. How they’d managed to do so in spite of not one but two false identities between them was nothing short of astonishing.
He’s yet to tell Silver: the man flitted from maudlin brooding to righteous, claustrophobic anger so often it was hard to get a read on his mood. Perhaps it would alleviate Silver’s near constant boredom (he’s already gone through almost all the books on the Spanish captain’s shelves, save for the science texts, which were “dull as fuck, Captain, honestly.”) if Flint were to tell him. He doesn’t know how Silver would handle the shock, if he’d be able to deal with the emotional burden of finding his - extremely damaged, certainly not ideal - soulmate so soon after the trauma of losing his leg.
And, to be frank, he’s concerned that if he were to reveal what he’s learned to the other man, Silver might try to bolt, leg be damned. Silver doesn’t seem too eager to be tied down, and what is a soulmate if not a life sentence?
“Do you think they felt it?” Silver’s quiet voice pulls Flint from his musings. He’s more soft spoken now; all that cocky confidence he’d worn like a second skin has faded away. “My soulmate, I mean. Do you think they felt it when Howell took my leg?”
Flint thinks back to the battle in Charlestown; he’d been surrounded by smoke and rubble and bloodshed when suddenly he’d felt an unfamiliar thrill of fear. At the time he’d simply pushed it to the back of his mind, instead focusing on the adrenaline of the fight. He’d been baffled, in an absent, distracted way, at his own feelings: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly horrified by violence, be it at his own hand or another’s. It hadn’t made any sense. He’d felt little jolts of it as they’d made their way back to the warship, brief moments of panic that left him even more enraged and aggressive in his confusion.
And then, just as he’d prepared to fire on what was left of Charlestown, he’d felt a wave of terror so intense it had nearly sent him to his knees. He’d attributed it to a hindbrain, instinctual reaction to his effectual declaration of war, to what his actions spelled for the future. It had slipped away soon after, eclipsed by an overwhelming anguish that had brought tears to his eyes. It had felt as if his grief over Miranda had taken hold of his senses, like he could feel nothing other than that despair. Even the righteous vindication he should have felt at seeing Charlestown burn hadn’t been present.
Only the sorrow.
It had taken several long minutes for that pain to pass, for him to think clearly again.
It’s only now that he looks at Silver’s thoughtful, concerned face, sees the way he clutches at his half-drunk bottle of rum, that he realizes what those unfamiliar, intrusive feelings had been: Silver’s anxiety as he’d been cornered and attacked by a madman; his terror as Howell had told him what had to be done; his anguish at the thought of becoming a cripple.The sudden disappearance of those feelings had presumably been Silver passing out from the pain.
He doesn’t know how to respond to Silver’s query. People don’t talk about soulmates, especially not that strange bond which ties their emotions together. It’s just not done, even among the societal outcasts and pirates in Nassau. And people like Flint and Silver, who until very recently were reluctant allies at best, certainly don’t talk about these things.
“Perhaps,” is what he settles on, in the end.
Silver nods, accepting the evasive answer. He shifts slightly, then he winces and hisses in pain as the movement jostles his leg. Flint looks away, turning to his desk for a moment to give the injured man at least a facsimile of privacy as he lets out a shuddering exhale.
Flint feels a sudden surge of hopelessness, of despair, so unprompted it must have come from Silver. He turns, expecting to see Silver crying quietly, or perhaps on the brink of some fit of panic, but instead Silver is simply staring at the space where his leg used to be, a blank expression on his face as he takes another swig of rum. If Flint didn’t know any better, he’d think Silver was simply lost in thought.
If there’s one thing his time with Silver has taught him, it’s that the man is far more than meets the eye. There’s always been a huge disparity between what Silver lets others see and who he truly is behind his charming smiles. This moment serves as a powerful reminder of how many masks Silver wears, and how little Flint truly knows him, soulmate or not.
He walks over to the window bench, pulling up the chair Howell had left behind after his last visit, when he’d re-bandaged Silver’s stump. He shouldn’t press, not when Silver’s drunk and still feeling the effects of the laudanum. His guard is lowered in a way that Flint ought not take advantage of.
Still...
“What made you think of that?”
Silver’s eyes shift to the open window, a faraway look on his face.
“I feel him all the time,” he says after a moment; his voice a fragile, soft thing.
And Flint freezes. “...I’m sorry?”
Silver shrugs, still not meeting Flint’s gaze. “It’s easy to tell when the emotions aren’t yours, the more often it happens. I suppose my soulmate just - feels things more intensely, more deeply than others.”
Flint swallows around a sudden tightness in his throat. “You can really tell so easily?”
“Sometimes it’s harder, when we’re in the same frame of mind, but it’s only in bits and pieces. A flash of anger, usually, and then they’re gone.”
Silver’s being careful about what pronouns he uses - he must not realize the slip up he’d made just now.
Flint’s floored by these revelations. Before Charleston, he’d never noticed the supposed emotional link between himself and his soulmate. To hear that Silver’s been this attuned to him for so long is unsettling.
“When did you first…?”
He trails off, letting the questions hang unspoken in the air. He knows he’s stepping over some invisible line of propriety, asking about this, but Silver is either unconcerned with societal boundaries, or too distracted and drunk to care at the moment.
“I mentioned, before, my time in the home. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences, to say the least. But then there was this burst of light, just this - incandescent happiness, like I’d never felt before. I had no reason to feel anything other than lonely, and yet, for all too brief a moment, I was genuinely happy,” he smiles faintly, as if he’s trying to remember an echo of that same joy. “I’d heard stories about the link between soulmates, even when they’re apart. I’d thought they were old wives’ tales. But there was just no other explanation for it.”
“When was this?” Flint asks, although he suspects he already knows the answer. The last time he’s felt any sort of real joy had been…
“Ten years ago, give or take.”
Thomas.
“It must be quite a connection, for you to feel them so strongly.”
Silver lets out a snort at that, though there’s no mirth in his eyes. “Hardly. I’m fairly certain they hate me.”
What?
“Pardon?”
Silver laughs at the look on Flint’s face, but his expression once it fades is wistful. It’s not a look he’s seen on Silver’s face before.
“Have you ever felt something from your soulmate, aimed directly at you? It’s like someone has gone from shouting across a distance to screaming in your ear.”
“I… I can’t say I have.”
Silver leans forward, resting an elbow on his good leg, the rum long forgotten.
“Imagine, if you will, that you have for the first time in your miserable life felt true happiness. Not your own happiness, of course. Secondhand joy, at best. Then, not long after, a sudden wave of resentment washes over you, strong enough to knock you over. It’s so much more intense than before, so much more focused . It makes you want to crawl out of your skin, hide under your bed until it goes away. And this pattern just keeps happening: over and over again, moments of light followed by this unbridled anger. It’s not yours, you know it’s not, but it’s enough to give you whiplash nonetheless. It takes a few weeks, but you, ever the clever boy, figure it out in the end.”
Flint feels, faintly, a twinge of sadness, and he knows it belongs to Silver. Silver doesn’t look particularly upset, but then again Flint can hardly ever tell what the man’s feeling.
“Your soulmate is in love, or something like it, and they resent you for being - well, not the person they want. So they spend their time with that love, happy as can be, but once they’re on their own they glare down at your name on their skin, desperately wishing you were someone else. Hating you for being born theirs.”
Flint gapes at Silver, horrified.
“I can’t say I blame them,” SIlver continues, oblivious to the effect his story is having on his audience. “I was directly in the way of their happiness. I’d hate me too, if I were them.”
Flint is reeling, trying to process what Silver’s just admitted to. The guilt he feels, sharp and bitter, is like a knife to the gut.
When he’d first begun his affair with the Hamiltons, when he’d first realized how truly happy he could be, he had indeed resented his soulmate. He’s stare at his wrist and hate Solomon Little for not being born Miranda Barlow or Thomas Hamilton. Every moment he spent with them had felt tainted; he’d see their names on each other’s skin and think: what right have I to this? They had belonged to each other in a way Flint had longed to be a part of.
He knows now, of course, that their love for him had not been defined by what names they’d been born with, that his love for them was not somehow less valid because he had someone else’s name on his wrist. But at the time he’d all but loathed his soulmate for creating that imagined barrier.
To think that somewhere far away from him, Solomon Little - Silver - had been feeling every trace of that misguided anger…
A thought strikes him, horrifying in its likelihood. This had been a decade ago, when Flint had been twenty-eight. One look at Silver when they’d first met and Flint had known he was at least ten years younger than him, if not more. Which would mean -
“How old were you?” He asks, a tad desperately, praying he’s wrong.
“Hmm?” Silver asks, distracted from his hundred-yard stare out the window. Flint hadn’t realized how long he’d taken to process. “Oh - fifteen, maybe?”
Flint closes his eyes at that, exhaling harshly through his nose.
Christ above, he’d directed all that resentment toward a child ; driven a fifteen year old boy to believe himself unlovable.
What a wretch he is.
*****
Flint’s not surprised when Silver develops a fever; the risk of infection was too great, and they’re none of them lucky men. What does surprise him is the terror he feels at the thought of losing Silver so soon after he’s found him.
He tries not to hover, but he ends up spending nearly the entire duration of Silver’s illness in his cabin instead of out on deck doing the things he was meant to. He’s taken to reading the few English books the Spanish captain had kept, seated just next to where Silver lies on the window bench.
It is during one such reading session that Silver finally, truly wakes, blearily asking where they are.
Flint answers easily, updating Silver on what news he’s heard of Nassau since the fever. Silver’s reaction to being made quartermaster, however, is not what Flint expects.
He seems almost angry, though not precisely about his new role. Silver’s hands are trembling with the force of this unnamed, impotent rage, and - well, Flint doesn’t miss the way his eyes keep flitting to his amputated leg.
Silver clenches his jaw, overcoming some silent struggle before he speaks. “There's something you ought to know before we reach Nassau,” he starts, hesitant.
The rage Flint feels as Silver tells him of ‘Vincent’s’ betrayal is a familiar beast. Flint has met this rage before, has spent most of his life trying to tame it; it takes a good deal of effort, but he manages to push it down and think more rationally.
There’s no doubt in his mind that Silver was the true force behind this scheme; Vincent may have been many things, but clever had not been among them. For the first time, Flint thinks Silver is lucky that he’s his soulmate: had he been anyone else, who knows how Flint might have reacted.
It’s clear to Flint, too, that Silver knows he can see through the lie. There was far less effort put into this story than any of the others, and Flint can read the writing on the wall: Silver wants Flint to kill him. He doesn’t want to live as a cripple, and in his self-hatred and sorrow he’s opened himself up to Flint’s wrath.
Flint sits back down on his chair, sighing deeply.
“I am not a fool. You are more than aware of that. So why is it, I wonder, that you would tell me such a weak story? Knowing that, presumably, if I knew of your betrayal, you would face severe consequences.”
Silver stares at him, fisting the blanket on his lap almost convulsively. He doesn’t speak.
“Furthermore, I wonder how it is that a man so willing to betray his fellow shipmates would, not days later, go through unimaginable pain and suffering to protect them?”
“He sounds like an idiot,” Silver snaps, staring down at his clenched fists.
“He sounds,” Flint says softly, perhaps with more care than Silver deserves right now, “confused. He sounds like a man at a crossroads.”
Silver lets out a derisive snort. “Hardly. There’s nowhere for me to go. I’m stuck here, now, with these fucking men who think I’m - who think I’m something I’m not.”
“You could be a rich man, with all that gold you’ve taken from us.”
“A rich cripple,” Silver corrects bitterly.
Flint shrugs. “Better a rich cripple than a poor one.”
“I wouldn’t take it. Couldn’t,” Silver says after a long pause. “Those men out there are the only people who will ever see me as more than an invalid.”
Flint disagrees, but he supposes Silver’s not really in a state of mind to be coddled. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to catch Silver’s eye. Silver won’t look at him, but he still has to try. For Miranda’s sake, if nothing else.
“Your life here doesn’t have to be some terrible cage, you know.”
“I can’t go anywhere. Couldn’t run even if I wanted to. How is that not a cage?”
“It could be a home, too,” Flint says, testing the waters.
“Oh, really? Tell me, how did that go for you, when you tried?” Silver retorts, though going from his grimace he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
The pain Flint feels at even the most indirect mention of Miranda is profound. It’s as though every time she crosses his mind (which is often, and always) he’s been stabbed in the gut.
He stands with a slight groan - the battle had not been overly kind to him, no matter how minor his injuries were - and gives Silver a disappointed look. “You’re not ready to hear this.”
Silver frowns, mildly indignant, but Flint cuts him off with a raised hand before he can respond.
“When you can manage to think past your own anguish, then I will tell you.” Flint drops the book he’d been reading on the edge of Silver’s bed - in case he gets bored - and heads to the door. Silver calls out to him, though, just as he’s about to leave.
“What if - ” Silver hesitates, biting his lip. “I don’t know how long that will take.”
“I can wait.”
*****
It takes nearly a month for Silver to approach him.
Flint’s honestly surprised it takes him so long; one of the first things Flint ever knew about Silver was that the man needed to know everything . In another life, one might have called him a busybody.
He can tell as soon as Silver enters the cabin that this meeting has nothing to do with their roles as captain and quartermaster. Silver hobbles in on his new peg - recently acquired, much to Howell's chagrin - makes eye contact for a brief moment, and immediately glances away. This is itself is an indication that something is amiss with Silver: he most times makes a conscious effort to meet Flint’s eyes, and keep meeting them. He’s almost never the first one to look away.
“Something on your mind, Mr. Silver?”
Silver shakes his head, lost in thought. He sits in the chair opposite Flint’s desk, seemingly searching for his words.
“Silver?” Flint prompts again when the silence stretches at tad too long.
“Something Muldoon said, while I was…” Silver doesn’t finish that particular thought. “It keeps rattling around my head, like loose coins in the cup of some beggar.”
“And what’s that?”
“‘We’ll take care of you.’”
Flint nods. He’s overheard similar sentiments shared among the rest of the crew, especially when they retell the events of Charlestown to any new recruits. There’s a long pause as Flint waits for Silver to get to his point.
“It’s only recently occurred to me,” Silver begins hesitantly. “You might not have been referring to the crew when you spoke of a home. For me.”
It’s only then that Silver looks up at Flint, his eyes cautiously hopeful. It’s the hope that gets to Flint, that prompts him to speak.
“I wasn’t.”
Silver lets out a shaky breath, running his hands nervously along his thighs. “I think - I think I’d like to hear it. Whatever it was you were going to tell me that day.”
Flint stands, moving around his desk until he’s leaning back against it, looking down at Silver. Now it’s his turn to mull over his words; he’s not sure where to begin.
“There are a great many things I need to tell you. About who I was before I came to Nassau, how I came to be who I am today and the people who led me here. Miranda - Mrs. Barlow - is just one of those people. But perhaps for now I should just be forthright, and tell you that my name has not always been Flint. It was once, many years ago, James McGraw.”
The effect his name has is instantaneous. Silver freezes completely, his eyes wide as saucers. His breath starts to come quicker, as though he can’t quite get the air into his lungs. He’s beginning to panic, Flint realizes with some alarm; no doubt his brilliant mind is spinning, wondering why Flint hadn’t told him before and coming up with dozens of probably inaccurate ifs and whys.
Flint kneels in front of him, putting his hands on his knees and trying to catch his eyes.
“Silver.” He says firmly. “Try to calm down. Count your breaths, with me.”
Flint’s no stranger to these attacks of anxiety, to the feeling of strange, inescapable weight pressing down against one’s chest. In the months - and years, if he’s being honest -following Thomas’s loss (both times), he and Miranda had taken turns in looking after each other when the strength of their pain grew too much to bear. He doesn’t want Silver to retreat into himself, to get lost in his fears.
It takes some time, but Silver finally calms. Flint stands, goes to lean back against his desk again, but Silver grabs his wrist.
“You never…” Silver looks so lost, looking up at him. So young.
Flint shifts until he can hold Silver’s hand loosely in his own. “At first, I wasn’t sure. And when I was, we were mere hours away from Charlestown. After - I don’t think either of us were ready for what this might entail. I was adrift after losing Miranda, lost in my own grief and rage, and you weren’t much better off.”
Silver’s grip tightens on Flint’s hand. “It wasn’t because of me? Because you were -”
Flint tugs on his hand, and Silver cuts himself off as he’s tugged to his feet. “No. Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
“But you hate me, you wouldn’t - ” Silver’s shaking his head in disbelief, almost to himself, but Flint’s not having any of it.
“I don’t hate you.”
“The gold, Rackham...there’s no way you’ve forgiven that betrayal.”
Flint sighs. He’s not sure if he’s to blame for Silver’s doubt, or if it’s some amalgamation of a lifetime of mistrust and maltreatment.
“It’s a rare person who can outmaneuver me. It only makes sense that the man I was meant for is one such person. I’ve met my match in you, you see.”
Silver is quiet for a time, mulling this over. He grimaces at the pressure on his stump, and Flint without thinking nudges him along until he’s sitting on the desk itself, so he can rest his leg and still remain at eye level with his captain. Silver settles with only the smallest glare at the manhandling, and again Flint is left to wait for him to speak.
“Can I see it?” Silver finally asks, quiet and curious, and Flint without hesitation removes his worn leather band and offers his wrist to him. Silver runs his finger along the letters of what was once his name, smirking slightly as Flint stiffens at the touch. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, having Silver touch his soulmark: like sunshine and heat, sending a shocking thrill running through his blood.
He’s so caught up in the feel of Silver touching his mark that he misses what Silver says next. “What?”
“I wanted it to be you,” Silver repeats quietly, his cheeks pinking at the admission. “I heard Mrs. Barlow call you James, on the warship, and I hoped, for a moment, that maybe you could have been my James McGraw before you were her James Flint.”
Flint stares at him, astonished, and Silver’s face flushes a darker red.
“Obviously it was ridiculous and childish and I could have smacked myself for thinking it but...” Silver shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly.
Flint kisses him, unable to fight the surge of affection and relief he feels at Silver’s words. Silver, though startled, tentatively raises his hands to Flint’s chest, but Flint pulls away before he can truly respond.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. You’ve only just learned all this, you have to adjust and decide for yourself what you want. I wouldn’t force you to - ”
For the first time, Silver cuts Flint off, cupping his face in his hands and returning his kiss tenfold. Flint responds with a low groan, fisting his hands in Silver’s shirt at his waist, pulling him closer.
Silver pulls back only slightly, so that their lips still brush together as he speaks. “I’d thank you not to make my decisions for me, Captain.”
He kisses Flint again, smiling into it, and Flint finds himself grinning as well. Kissing Silver feels like flying, feels like falling. It feels like it could be home .