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Chapter Text

Because they had won an unlikely victory in an impossible war, the crew had earned themselves a much needed reprieve. By some miracle, Captain Flint had conceded to a short rest and The Walrus was promptly anchored on foreign waters, far from England’s shadow. The tropic heat of Hispaniola had cooled pleasantly by nightfall, leaving the crew to enjoy its hot sands, sweetly-voiced paramours, and cold drink.

Truthfully, Silver hadn’t planned this. He had expected Flint to resist the prospect of allowing the men distraction. He had expected Flint to hang stubbornly to pursuing Nassau. He had expected- had wanted- Fint to say no. This lapse in momentum burdened Silver with too much time to waste, too much time to think and thinking had recently presented itself as a problem. After Flint had told him about Thomas Hamilton, Silver tried to forget about the matter entirely or, instead, regard it practically: Captain James Flint once had a torrid affair with another man. It was simple, or it should’ve been, but weeks had passed since the revelation and Silver was still thinking on it. Silver wanted to regard Flint's proclivity for men like he regarded the color of his eyes- a simple truth, weightless and mundane. 

But, Silver was on fucking Hispaniola, surrounded by all the women, game, and drink any man could ask for, and he was still thinking about Thomas fucking Hamilton. He tried to understand Thomas- to give him a face, a flaw, some sort of human dimension. He seemed inhumanely noble-hearted, impossibly clever and Silver tried to understand what sort of man Flint must've been back then, to have loved and be loved by him. He couldn't imagine it. Silver fidgeted restlessly as he sat amongst his men, a headache thudding heavy in his temple and he couldn’t explain why, but a sharp, fierce discomfort overcame him.

So it made sense, in the way that things can make sense and still be entirely shameless, that Silver had taken to drinking a little too eagerly. It quieted his thoughts, allowed him to settle into his own skin. He’d checked on the crew, at least, and there was some reassurance in that, even if they were more than capable of orchestrating catastrophes in the blink of an eye. Yes, Silver thought as he stumbled in the darkness, he’d at least done that.

John Silver really wasn’t all that drunk. Truly he wasn’t. He fondled blindly through the darkness for the door to his lodgings and even managed to let himself in without falling over. The intoxication did no favors to the already difficult task of walking- his bad leg was sharp with painfulness, gnawing at him with every step to bed.

He undressed with little struggle, throwing his clothes to the wayside of the bed. He hastily worked at the prosthetic. No amount of alcohol could dull the blinding hurt of his injuries, but he swallowed the pain dutifully and tried to get comfortable. Strangely, John couldn’t recall ever lying on a bed quite this soft. He nestled into the cool, thin sheets, stretching lazily as his hand trailed pointlessly down his stomach.

When was the last time Silver had gotten a moment’s privacy? He palmed at himself in the dark, purposeless and only half-committed to working himself into arousal. The brothel girls had looked on him sweetly, offering themselves indiscriminately to him as if unfazed by his invalidity. He had rejected them and now, touching himself in the darkness, Silver couldn’t quite remember why.

Silver realized, half-dazed, that the crew would think him strange for his disinterest.

He laughed to himself, breathless and drunk, remembering the tales the crew had spun about Flint: he was incapable of love or lust, forbidden to lay with anyone lest his tempt some sea-witch’s furious jealousy. No one would have imagined that their ferocious, horrifying captain could love more than most, could look onto men and women with wanting, could touch them, hold them, want to take them whole-

Silver felt himself grow stiffer at the thoughtless fondling. Closing his eyes, Silver took himself fully into his hand and worked at himself into a steady rhythm. Then, intrusively, he thought on the native men he had seen amongst the brothel girls, slender and brown-skinned and beautiful. He thought on the beautiful drawl of their Spanish and French. He wondered if Flint had seen their warm eyes, their golden skin; where had Flint disappeared to, anyways? They had settled onto land and he was gone without explanation. Had he fallen into bed with someone after all? Had speaking of Miranda and Thomas broken some dry-spell, reopened some age-old hunger? Silver wondered if any of those sun-brown men recognized a desire in Flint that the crew could not. He wondered if any of them had offered themselves to Flint in their beautiful, broken English and he wondered, too, if Flint found them tempting.

Silver halted, stunned by his own thoughts. He felt the weight of his cock in his hands, the wetness that had gathered beneath the pad of his thumb. He felt his face heat up spectacularly, blood rushing to his ears. What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck was he thinking?

After Flint had told Silver about Thomas and Miranda, a silence had settled between them. Flint looked at him long and hard, his usual scowl replaced for something much more exhausted and sore. “I need to know if what I’ve told you will present itself to be a problem,” he spoke, slow and deliberate.

“Of course not,” Silver had replied, shrugging noncommittally, feigning nonchalance as he lied. This wouldn’t be the problem Flint anticipated it to be, but it gave rise to a problem nonetheless; Flint wouldn’t have felt the tiresome drag of some secret, forbidden question nagging at the darkest recesses of his mind if he hadn’t been.

Panting in the darkness, Silver tried to forget Flint entirely. He couldn’t allow himself this- not when he had already conceded to being Flint’s eventual end. This secret, terrible hunger he harbored for Flint was juvenile; tolerable, maybe, years ago when he was younger and still soft-eyed, desperate to make himself relevant to The Walrus, her crew, and her captain. Silver wasn’t blind and he most certainly wasn’t deluded: He recognized his dull attraction for Flint, could feel the goddamned evidence of it throbbing in his hand. But Silver had to forget this, forbid it, smother it down- he could not allow himself to make the same mistakes that Thomas and Miranda had made.

Exhaling sharply, Silver squeezed at himself, tight enough to hurt. He bit his lip violently, forbade himself to continue, denied himself the climax his body yearned for. He wanted to dismiss Captain James Flint. He wanted to entirely forget the warmth in his voice as he spoke of Miranda and Thomas, the sorrow that darkened his expression as he spoke on their loss. But Silver couldn’t forget and he couldn’t stop thinking about it, fixated over the what they were to each other, what they did to one another, how they must’ve loved and panted and thirsted over each other. He felt bitter and twisted with it, discomfort settling over him like an anchor.

John Silver wanted desperately to forget but it was always the things he tried to ignore that most worked against him, spiraling out of control. 

It was entirely too bright. The morning spilled forward from the windows and pulled John out of the deep waters of sleep. He felt soft with rest and when he stretched across the soft mattress and the wonderful, impossibly comfortable sheets, John heard himself hum with pleasure. He rolled over across the bed, utterly and blissfully happy.

Then, that moment decidedly ended. Silver opened his eyes to Captain James Flint, glaring at him from across the room.

“Oh, fuck –” Silver squawked. His eyes quickly scanned the surroundings- those weren’t his windows. This wasn’t his bed. Silver had gotten so goddamn drunk last night he stumbled into the wrong fucking room. “Jesus Christ.”

“Not exactly,” Flint said tersely, visibly irritated. He drew closer to the bed, shifting where he stood so he could look Silver in the eye. “Can you explain to me why I've come to find you sleeping in my bed?”