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One evening not long after the events of Charleston, Silver awoke to the soft sounds of scissors snipping. He’d been sleeping more than not, recently, and usually felt disoriented and hazy when he woke. A feeling that was not eased by seeing Flint standing at his desk, hacking at what little remained of his hair. He realized with a start that there would be no salvaging this; the front half of Flint’s skull was wholly shaved, and the back was unevenly clipped.
Apparently he’d been rustling loud enough to be noticed, because Flint whipped his head back with an intensity that instantly filled him with fear.
He’d expected Flint to look distraught. Look angry, look filled with grief, be in tears.
(The fact of the matter was, between the loss of his leg and Flint’s loss of Mrs. Barlow, at least one of them had been in tears more nights than not. When they’d arrived at Nassau, Howell had come to the conclusion that they should move Silver as little as possible, and so in Flint’s cabin he’d remained. Flint himself spent his days ashore negotiating, but always returned in the evenings. He never offered up why, but Silver assumed he didn’t want to return to wherever he’d lived with Mr. Barlow. Why Flint chose the ship over some other location in town he wasn’t certain. Perhaps to protect the warship from recapture, maybe to be less visible to the men in his weakness. The fever-addled part of his brain fantasized that he was watching over his recovery, but he repeatedly disregarded that, particularly given the reason Flint was participating in those negotiations.
Regardless, Flint would return at the end of his rope, and Silver's own feelings were just as volatile. Thus, they’d quickly and nonverbally determined a way to politely ignore the other’s upset. They’d pretend to be asleep, or steadfastly keep their eyes on the page of their book, or, in Flint’s case, would conspicuously leave the room. And that didn’t include nightmares, or leg cramps, or whatever Flint did when he would sequester himself into some tight corner of the cabin where Silver couldn’t properly see him. On occasion, Silver had stealthily awoken Flint from his nightmares, and Flint would pour him a glass of rum or grab Howell if it was truly necessary, but they otherwise kept to themselves as much as possible.)
The point being, Silver was used to strong displays of expression between them. It was an uneasy balance they’d found, and so far it had been working.
Flint was not crying now. He did not look upset, or angry, or anything. His face looked as flat as he could imagine in the moment. And that terrified him.
“Oh, good.” Flint said without tone. “You’re awake.”
He pointed to the unshaved part of his head.
“I need you to do the back part.” Flint said.
“What?” Silver asked. His mind had been foggy, recently, and he didn’t always follow what others were saying, so surely he was misinterpreting what Flint meant.
“I can’t reach the back.” He replied, and he walked over to the bench and put the razor into his hands. No room for disagreement.
“Alright?”
Flint had pulled up a chair and set the bowl of water, the bar of the soap, a towel, and the pair of scissors (had he stolen those from Howell?) next to him on the window seat by the time he’d managed to be sitting upright, the stump of his leg carefully hanging over the lip of the seat. He had spent a lot more time horizontal than vertical recently, and the transition always left him feeling nauseous and sweating. The fevers had been receding recently, but they’d left him shaky and with a persistent headache. His leg throbbed, like it always did.
If he’d believed Flint was in a place to be complained at, he would have explained all of that to him, maybe jest that having his precious sleep interrupted in this way was counterproductive. But he didn’t understand this side of Flint yet, and he was going to tread lightly until he did.
He gestured for Flint to sit the chair in front of him, and he did so, carefully and quietly. Silver watched as he set his shoulders straight, tucked his chin, and leaned his head back.
The hair in the back was really still too long to be properly shaved by a straight razor, and so he grabbed the scissors to his side. He grabbed a length of hair, pulling it away from his skull. He held his breath as he carefully snipped it off, with no response from Flint. He did this with the remaining sections of hair, until there was an unfortunate patch work of varying lengths left on the back of Flint’s skull.
Privately, he regretted the loss. In the greater scheme of things, it was a minor loss at best (particularly for them both). But it had been beautiful hair, and he had to wonder if Flint would miss whenever he exited the state he was in.
“I’m going to take the razor to it now,” he muttered. Flint said nothing, just moved almost imperceptibly back.
He’d never shaved a head before, but he assumed it was similar to shaving a face, so he took the bar of soap, lathered it, and worked it into what was left of Flint’s hair. When Flint lightly exhaled, he felt more relieved than he could have imagined. A relaxed Flint, however slightly, was a Flint he could manage.
Silver put his left hand along the side of his skull, before carefully dragging the razor. He was terrified of nicking the other man’s skin, unsure of how he would (or wouldn’t) react. He continued on and was over half-way through before his wrist slipped and lightly gouged his scalp.
“Shit, sorry, sorry,” He said, checking the damage. It was a small cut, though it bled steadily for a moment.
No response. Not even a flinch.
“Alright,” he sighed, and continued shaving, tilting Flint’s head as needed. Eventually his head was fully clean of hair, and he dabbed off the remaining soap suds with the towel. He brushed the hair off his shoulders, then left his hands still for a moment.
“There. Finished.” Silver said.
Flint continued to sit, but brought his hands up to his head, moving over it slowly and efficiently. When he was certain there was no hair left, he nodded.
“Good enough?” Silver asked.
Flint nodded, before turning and looking at Silver, face still blank. He looked for a long moment, before he blinked.
“Do you want me to do yours?” Flint asked, eyeing Silver’s hair.
His gut twisted in fear and he reflexively brought a hand up to his head.
“Absolutely not. No.” He started, leaning away and suddenly feeling protective.
Flint brought his hands up in surrender.
“It was just an idea. I don’t have to shave it." Flint quirked his head. "When was the last time your hair was washed?
He was ready to think about it before he realized the answer was much easier than that. In his hesitation, Flint said, “Exactly. It looks bad.”
“Fuck off,” he bit back. It wasn’t as if he’d been purposefully neglectful.
“Didn’t say that was your fault.” Flint shrugged, “But it does.”
He knew Flint was right. Now that he was aware of it, he noticed it was oily and clumping together, that it smelled rank.
“You shaved my head; I’ll wash your hair. Its fair.” Flint offered.
What he really wanted was to lie back down and go to sleep, but he had to wonder if it would make him feel better. He also knew that Flint wouldn’t offer this again, and that he wouldn’t be able to do it himself later. But he was so tired.
Flint must have sensed his hesitancy, because he added, almost gently, “I know you care how the men view you. If they’re going to be visiting more, taking orders from you more, don’t you want to put an effort into your appearance? The part you can control?”
It itched under his skin that Flint understood him well enough to know exactly where to poke, exactly where to manipulate, to get him to agree. And it itched even more that he knew Flint was doing so for Silver’s benefit, and not his. Silver sighed, then nodded.
“If that razor comes anywhere near me, I will stab you with these scissors.” He added, too weary to really sound threatening. Flint nodded sagely.
“Understood.”
Flint stood, and he helped Silver trade places into the chair. He collapsed in the seat and leaned back while Flint went out the door, sweating and somehow out of breath. Flint returned an indeterminate number of minutes later with more water in his bowl.
Flint came back and sat behind him, apparently figuring how this would work. Between the twinge developing in his lower back and the exhaustion he felt from being upright this long, he was already regretting his choice. Until he felt Flint’s hand across his forehead and nearly wept.
“You’re still warm, but better than before,” Flint observed, before gathering Silver’s hair into his hands and gently pulling it so it rested behind the chair. He’d grabbed a cup at some point when Silver wasn’t paying attention and used it to wet the hair at his roots. Silver could sense that he was working soap into the tips of his hair.
He was in genuine danger of bursting into tears. It had been since before Charleston that anything relating to his body had felt pleasant, or calming, or good. He exhaled through it, but Flint gave no indication at his distress. Instead, he started working through the knots in his hair, tugging with more gentleness than the job required. Silver could feel himself slipping into a hazy half-sleep, Flint’s fingers occasionally brushing his scalp.
“Tilt your head forward,” Flint instructed, and as he did so Flint lightly toweled his hair, somehow doing it without jarring his headache.
Silver felt Flint comb through his hair with his fingers again, before he started sectioning his hair. Silver snorted when he realized what he was doing.
“Are you plaiting my hair?” He asked, and Flint hummed in response.
“It’ll stay cleaner that way.” Flint stated, before tying it off with a piece of leather cord, and patting at Silver’s shoulders with the towel
Silver’s hand reached up to the braid, satisfied with how tightly it was bound. “Thank you,” He offered sincerely, “And no hair removed.”
Flint stood up and started putting the supplies back on his desk, and Silver saw the moment that Flint caught himself in the mirror across the room. Watched as he brought his hand to his now bald head and watched as his face betrayed its first real glimpse of emotion through the whole ordeal. He looked lost, like he was truly grasping what he had just done for the first time. Silver wanted that to stop, immediately.
“Captain?” Silver asked tentatively, and Flint turned back to look at him. “Can you help me back into the window seat? I really need to lie down.” He wasn’t exaggerating; the room was spinning more with each passing moment, and he wasn’t in the mood faint in the chair.
Flint stalked back over, helped him out of the chair, even helped him settle back into the window seat. He looked like he was debating whether or not to tuck him in, before he pulled the blanket over him, gently patting his shoulder. Silver could feel sleep coming for him quickly, feeling both exhausted and clean.
“Captain?” he said while sleep was pulling him under. Flint was back to gathering the items on his desk, and he looked over.
“Yes?” he responded.
“If you need someone to shave your head again you can ask me.” He murmured.
A few moments passed in silence, and the last thing Silver heard before he succumbed to sleep was Flint murmuring back.
“Alright.”