Chapter Text
Prelude
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He didn’t save them when it counted, but in his mind he saved them over and over again, countless times, in countless different ways.
Flint awoke in the middle of the night, as he had almost every night since the raid on Charlestown. Sometimes he got lucky and whatever nightmarish visions were running through his head dissipated with the opening of his eyes. Other times he wasn’t so lucky and the visions remained, burned into his skull and searing away at what little remained of his ability to care.
They were dreams of Miranda but also of Thomas, both now taken from him. He wept at first when the most savage parts of his dreams remained with him; wept quietly into his arms until his chest hurt and his throat was too tight. But he had spent the better part of ten years coming to grips with Thomas's death—he could not do it all over again for Miranda. He was too exhausted, and now, too numb.
Needless to say he lost some sleep on their return journey to Nassau but he kept himself as in check around the men as ever. He became even more rigid, more calculated around them. He put all his energy behind one thing and one thing alone—how to deliver revenge.
It helped. He could still deliver a speech that would drive the men’s desire in his direction, get them to continue taking risks for him without too many questions. And he presented himself as a pillar of strength to them as well as to the margins of civilization they attacked in the coming weeks.
It was only when he was alone in his cabin (though Silver was there, bed ridden but mostly asleep or sedated) that he could truly relax. Everything ached. His shoulders ached from his age, his arms ached from whatever manual labor he’d done for the ship or from manning the helm. His head ached. His heart…
Fuck his heart. He didn’t need one for the mission he was going to set himself on; set all of them on. He would allow himself just a pinch of mourning time for Miranda a little longer, just until he could actually control himself when he was alone and blot out everything about her—her soft smile, her liquid brown eyes, her integrity, her honesty—everything, except that bullet ripping through her head, splattering his face with blood. Everything except her collapsing like a dropped doll onto the floor, dead. He would most certainly need to blot out the memory of himself dropping to the floor next to her, staring at her still face as the last vestiges of James McGraw were brutally ripped from him in that moment.
All of it would have to cease to exist, at least for a time. He needed to remember only the brutality done against her to carry out his mission. It would give constant fuel to the fire that raged within him so hot and violent at times that he swore it physically hurt him. It needed an outlet. He needed an outlet, a way to calm the storm within, lest it overtake him completely.
I.
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Silver wasn’t sure what roused him from his heavy sleep—the violent rocking of the ship or the heated voices coming from within the cabin. His head felt heavy and his limbs—what remained of them—even heavier. Dimly he realized he was still under the effects of the laudanum or opium Dr. Howl had given him as a cushion against the pain.
He opened his eyes. The ship’s turbulence was not an effect of his sedation, however; a look outside the stern windows he lay up against revealed they were travelling through a storm. Nothing too severe, but strong enough so that he could hear all manner of small objects rolling around and clanking together in the cabin. Most of the sounds were no doubt coming from Flint’s desk, including Flint’s own angry voice and that of Billy Bones.
Silver perked up his ears.
“…and I’m so glad you are aware of my continued mourning, Billy, so I’d appreciate it if you’d let me do it in peace,” Flint was saying.
“You’re not yourself, and I don’t mean from just mourning,” Billy shot back. “You’re treading down dark waters, captain, and I’ve got the crew to look after.”
“You’re a glorified bosun, Billy,” Flint said flatly.
The cold sentiment surprised Silver. He had been the subject of such sentiment from Flint before, only after the captain had truly been provoked. This argument of theirs had been ongoing and probably had started long before this moment, he figured. He wanted to turn around and see them but was afraid that any shift in his position would give him away and they would both abruptly end the very interesting conversation, so he stayed put.
“…you were shit-faced in Tortuga. In front of the men. That’s not like you and frankly I’m worried you might turn on one of them in that condition,” said Billy.
A heavy sigh. From Flint, Silver guessed.
“What do you want, Billy? You’ve hounded me on this and we’ve not yet made it home. Say what’s really bothering you and leave me alone.”
There was no immediate retort. Silver held his breath. Evidently Billy was caught off guard by this. He heard the floorboards creak and boots shifting their place. He desperately wanted to see, though he wasn’t certain why it was so important to do so.
“I told you,” came Billy’s voice, now quieter. “I’m concerned about you. You don’t have to believe me. But I am just the same. I…”
Billy’s voice cut off. Silver pushed himself up against the stern wall ever so slightly as though he might hear better that way.
“What, damn you!” bellowed Flint.
“Fuck it. You’re fucking hopeless.”
Heavy thud of boots, then Flint’s voice:
“Wait…”
Silver swore he heard a touch of interest in his voice. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he liked the direction this argument was heading in. He swallowed and tried shaking off the effects of his sedation, inching his head closer to the edge of the wall. He was so close to being able to turn and see them. Still he did not. Then Billy’s voice again, sounding guarded:
“I see the way you look at me.”
Silver fully opened his eyes and gripped the edge of the window seat hard. What was this? The silence that followed the statement seemed to tick on an eternity.
“Oh? And what way is that?” came Flint’s reply. His tone reminded Silver of sharks circling prey. It was an obvious challenge—but it carried no shock or surprise at the boson’s implications.
Silver, however, was both shocked and surprised at Billy’s words, but strangely even more so at the captain’s response, as though Flint expected it! What the fuck? Billy’s next words were so low he had to strain to hear them:
“Nothing. Forget it.”
More boot steps across the floor. The boards creaked loudly and finally Billy came within Silver’s line of sight as he crossed rapidly to the door, powerful leg muscles carrying him there in a few long strides. He slammed it behind him. Silver let out a breath and slumped against the wall. Why had he been so tensed? He didn’t like Billy Bones at the moment, not one bit.
**I see the way you look at me.**
The words echoed in his head but he soon lost the ability to mediate on them any further. He tried to understand their effect on him but it all sifted through his mind like so many grains of sand. The sedation gripped him again and he closed his eyes, the rocking of the ship hypnotizing him into sleep once more.