Chapter Text
They wait together quietly in the dark, listening to the crew argue in the distance. Silver is sitting against the rail with one hand to his forehead, eyes hidden, so Flint cannot read what emotions or thoughts might manifest there. Though it's a fair guess he'd find resignation, exhaustion, fear, as Flint himself is experiencing some measure of each.
He wonders if he should say something. Silver had proven himself surprisingly competent in taking the warship, his quick thinking serving to save Flint's life… apparently the second time in under twenty-four hours. But Flint doesn't know exactly how to express gratitude for this without it sounding awkward, so he keeps quiet, staring out over the dark surface of the ocean as they await their fate.
Finally, Dufresne climbs the stairs from the lower part of the ship to address them.
"The crew has commuted your sentences by the narrowest of margins."
Silver finally sits up, flicking Flint a look of unmistakable relief, before his face smooths out again. Flint feels his own chest loosen. Despite having let himself sink before, he's discovered a new fervor to see his plans for this ship and the gold realized.
But then, Dufresne continues speaking. "With one caveat. Mr. Silver, as the instigator of the fight which sank the Walrus, must submit to a flogging."
"Wait, what?" Flint snaps, far more harshly than he may have intended.
Silver draws in a sharp breath at Dufresne's words, but otherwise doesn't react. And as seconds pass and he doesn't say anything, doesn't try to smooth talk his way out of it… Flint finds himself getting more and more indignant. Well, if Silver isn't going to defend himself, then apparently Flint has to. What a strange turn of events.
"He just risked his life to capture this warship the same as I did! How does that warrant a flogging?"
Flint finds Silver's wide blue eyes staring at him strangely, like he didn't expect the other man to be arguing on his behalf in a million years, and, well. Flint isn't going to dwell on it. It's just… unfair is all.
Dufresne has raised a hand to hush Flint, which just makes Flint want to yell more and perhaps remove the offending hand while he's at it.
"Yes. Both of your efforts in taking this ship convinced them not to hang you," and fucking Dufresne has the gall to sound long-suffering, "but the crew believe Mr. Silver should receive some punishment for starting this mess at all."
Silver isn't looking at Flint anymore, but down at the deck. Though, even in the dark, Flint can see how tense he is, how his shoulders hitch up near his neck and one hand is clenching at his side.
Flint feels suddenly enraged and helpless, knowing that Silver fired that cannon for him, when he couldn't, acting as an instrument of Flint's will. And then he'd pulled him out of the sea and helped him take that ship... and for what reward? To be beaten and humiliated in front of everyone?
Dufresne clears his throat. "It's best to get this over and done with. Mr. Silver, if you would?"
Flint is trembling with his anger. He's getting ready to say or do something else probably reckless, but, as Silver passes he stops next to Flint, touching his sleeve briefly.
"Calm down Captain," Silver murmurs so as not to be overheard by Dufresne.
And Silver is still calling him Captain which is… it gives Flint a feeling he can't fully articulate and doesn't necessarily want to presently.
"Don't worry about it," Silver is saying, "it's hardly the first time. I can take it."
Flint almost growls that that's not the fucking point, but Silver has walked on to follow Dufresne. Flint's treacherous feet march down after them. Even though he really doesn't want to see this, doesn't want it to happen at all, the least he can do is offer Silver some solidarity by being present.
As acting bosun, the deed falls to Logan to carry out. In a brisk, no-nonsense manner, he has Silver remove his shirt and jacket, then lashes him to the main mast.
It's decidedly not the time to be noticing how Silver's lean muscles flex pleasingly as he adjusts to this new position or how the lantern light makes his tanned skin glow nearly golden. Flint reprimands himself. It's very inappropriate, especially since the other man is about to be beaten. But none of this stops Flint's eyes from drinking in what really shouldn't be such an exhilarating picture.
Silver's arms are wrenched upwards to encircle the mast, throwing his shoulder blades into sharp relief and accentuating the sloping line of his back, which tapers into a narrow waist. The position forces Silver to stand with his feet wide apart in order to accommodate the mast between his knees. His new trousers hide nothing, stretching taut across what Flint has to admit is a really fantastic arse. Silver's face is completely obscured, facing the mast as he is, those ever-present unruly curls falling to cover his profile and any glimpse of his expression.
Silver looks extremely vulnerable, tied down and exposed before the whole of the crew… and the sight is making something in Flint ache: half anger, half interest. Under other circumstances, he might like to stare at Silver like this indefinitely.
"Ten strokes of the cat o'nine to be distributed for insubordination and endangerment of ship and crew," Dufresne announces, then nods to Logan.
The first whistle of the cat's leather claws through the air makes Flint grit his teeth in horrid anticipation, as if he were the one getting whipped.
It lands with a solid snap. Even from his spot in the back, Flint hears Silver suck air in sharply. The second blow follows swiftly, and Silver's whole body judders in response, instinctively trying to shrink away even though there is nowhere to go.
Thankfully, Logan is not a cruel man, and thus makes no attempt to crisscross the strokes nor go out of his way to break skin. However, by the fourth strike, a thin line of blood has welled up on Silver's skin regardless, eliciting a yelp, and then the man is crying out with each new blow.
The sight of real injury on that golden expanse of skin has Flint losing any heated interest he may have previously held for the proceedings. The idea of Silver scarring from this ordeal, a permanent record of the indignity... The thought of the open wounds pressing excruciatingly against his shirt for days--it all makes Flint feel sick again with overwhelming anger.
After the first sound, it's like the floodgates are opened. Silver makes many varied cries and Flint finds himself helplessly cataloguing them all: a high-pitched keen on the fifth strike, low groans on strikes six, seven and eight, and a truly horrible wail at the tenth.
Silver is panting heavily by the end, sagging against the mast now, his bindings holding him up more than his feet. Several long cuts are weeping blood, rivulets gleaming ruby in the lantern light, running sluggishly down Silver's ribs. Flint can hear that each breath is accompanied by a small hitching whimper that Silver is trying and failing to suppress.
"The sentence has been satisfied, you can cut him down now," Dufresne orders Logan.
Before Flint can register the action, he is striding across the deck with fierce intent, really more like stalking forward. A truly pissed off beast. He feels Dufresne staring at him with what's probably incredulity or irritation or whatever the fuck. Flint really doesn't care right now.
"I'll do it," he growls.
Flint glares down both Dufresne and Logan, the look brooking no argument, really just daring them to protest. He may not be Captain right now, but he can still scare the shit out of them with ease.
The other men just back away from the mast without a word. Smart move, Flint thinks viciously.
He goes to untie Silver's bindings, trying to be as gentle as possible. Flint knows from experience that the sensation of circulation returning can be extremely painful if not tended to correctly. Silver seems largely insensate to his actions, barely moving as Flint loosens the bindings, which is… a bit worrisome.
"Hey," Flint says softly. "I need to get you down now. Are you with me?"
Silver groans and one half-lidded blue eye fixes in on Flint. "...Captain?"
"Hopefully again soon, yes." But you can keep calling me that all you like, he doesn't say.
Flint eases the other man down off the mast, careful not to touch his back. Then, as gently as he can manage, Flint leads Silver below decks, offering his one undamaged shoulder as support. And what a pair they make, hobbling down the stairs with their respective injuries. The movement must pull at the broken skin on Silver's back, who hisses in pain with each step. Flint finds himself grimacing as well from the strain of supporting the other man, who is heavier than Flint expected. Today's exertions have not been kind to Flint's bullet wound and he is fairly exhausted.
Finally, they reach the relative privacy of the gun deck, and Flint settles them both to sit, listening closely for any more pained noises. Sitting facing the other, he finds himself rubbing the feeling back into Silver's hands on instinct, massaging firmly up to his wrists and then his forearms, corded with muscle. Silver has large hands, but rather small wrists, Flint notices, methodically working the warm skin there, his brain on autopilot.
Silver has stayed uncharacteristically silent. Flint suddenly realizes how loud their breathing sounds, Silver's still slightly faster than normal.
Flint looks up from his task to find the other watching him with a strange and intense expression. Silver's eyes are luminous in the low light, wide and rimmed wetly with tears. He must have been crying earlier, Flint registers, and the moisture makes his eyes even more blue if possible. Silver's cheeks are blotchy still, tracked with tears, mouth bitten red at some point during the ordeal.
Flint is completely mesmerized by the sight, distractedly tracking one tear that clings to Silver's eyelashes and hasn't decided whether to fall or not.
Jesus fucking Christ how is someone allowed to be that beautiful, drifts through Flint's head.
Then Flint realizes he is still just… holding Silver's wrists, fingers curled lightly around the delicate bones, though Flint has long since finished his efforts to return circulation. Oh. And Flint has also forgotten, somehow, that Silver is bare from the waist up. But he becomes very aware again all at once as Flint finds himself desperately trying not to look at Silver's nipples or stomach or anything.
"I'll uhhh… I'll go get you some water for your back," Flint mutters awkwardly, nearly leaping to his feet.
He quickly gathers a bucket of fresh water and a cloth. Flint tries to focus on the task in front of him, the practicalities, endeavoring to shake off the weird feeling from earlier that is aching through him again. It is tinged now with protectiveness and, more distressing perhaps, possessiveness.
What the fuck is he doing. Flint sighs to himself, at himself. Definitely getting too attached to a mouthy little shit of a thief.
A thief who keeps saving your life, who just took a beating for it without complaint. A very pretty thief.
Flint returns to the gun deck to find Silver sitting where he left him, swaying in place, eyes a bit unfocused. He approaches, sitting next to Silver again. Flint dips the cloth in preparation to squeeze water over Silver's injured back.
Flint speaks up, clear and firm, trying to get Silver's attention again. "So, I'm sorry. This is going to sting, but it really is best to clean it immediately."
"Captain," comes the soft entreaty. Flint stops with the bucket and looks up. Silver seems a bit dazed and still in pain, but he offers up a small and genuine smile. "Thank you."
Flint swallows thickly. The look Silver is giving him with slightly glassy eyes verges on adoring. Flint won't lie and say it doesn't warm his insides like a draught of whiskey.
However, he quickly chalks it up to shock. Yes. Silver is clearly in shock and not in actuality truly gazing at Flint like Flint hung the fucking moon or can perform minor miracles. Because that would be… too much.
Instead of addressing any of this out loud, Flint finally replies, "You're welcome. Uh. Thank you too… for volunteering… y'know. With the warship."
Thank you for saving my life multiple times, he should have said. How is that so hard? Why didn't he just say that?
Silver seems to understand anyway, reading between the spaces of Flint's words in that perturbing way he has. He smiles again, and Flint's heart clenches painfully with the desire to wrap Silver up and just… take him away from here. Which is… completely absurd.
Flint shakes his head, attempting to blank his mind, because this is getting out of hand. He holds the sodden cloth aloft and glances to Silver for confirmation. The other man takes a deep breath in preparation and nods, leaning his weight against Flint.
Flint blinks. Perhaps Silver needs moral support or comfort… or something. Whatever the case, Flint doesn't tell him to move. Instead, he just squeezes the cloth, drizzling the clean water over the lacerations on Silver's back.
Silver is burying his head in Flint's shoulder now, at first letting out a low groan, then quieting. Flint continues to repeat the rinsing action, resolutely not thinking about the fact that Silver has brought his hands up to grasp Flint's shirt, or that Flint can feel the other man's breath against his neck.
Dunk, drizzle, dunk, drizzle. He continues methodically, until there is a puddle of rose-tinted water on the deck. Silver is practically curled into Flint's lap at this point, warm and solid.
"Okay, you're all done," Flint says, voice not at all breathy. Silver doesn't budge.
Flint wonders how the hell he's supposed to detach the limpet that is a pain-addled John Silver without risk of aggravating his injuries. Either of their injuries. Because Flint certainly can't just let him stay here, nearly in his lap, shirtless, when they're now both a little more than damp from all the splashing wash water.
"Mmmm," comes his answer, at last, from somewhere deep underneath a pile of curls. Silver's face is pressed into Flint's chest so closely that Flint feels more than hears the sound, as it rumbles against his skin.
Flint tentatively places a hand on Silver's head, just to get his attention and not to test the softness of the hair he has been wondering about for weeks now. It is indeed very soft, silken almost, and… springy.
Flint pats the soft curls a few times, tucking one behind Silver's ear. "Hey. Are you conscious?"
Another "mmmm" emerges. It's a nice sound, happy, definitely not borne of pain, which is a marked improvement. Flint wants to hear it again. So, like a man possessed and against better judgement, Flint finds himself weaving his fingers into Silver's hair properly, running a hand through repeatedly in gentle stroking motions.
His reward is Silver sighing deeply and going almost totally boneless, breath huffing across Flint's skin. Flint braces his other hand on Silver's side, curling around his hip bone, so there's no risk of him tipping out of Flint's lap.
A deep contented feeling has settled into Flint's chest. Rarely is he allowed to touch another person like this, with any tenderness. And though Silver may be an ill-advised recipient, the potential problems it raises seem rather far away right now.
So, perhaps they can stay like this for a little while longer, Flint decides. It's probably just shock, after all, and Silver likely won't remember any of this anyway.