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John loses sight of Flint somewhere between the table and the festivities that follow; the crews and Madi's men have been itching to solidify their allegiance, and with the battle and what appears to be the first of many successes out of the way - with all immediate responsibilities relieved - they set about doing it, loudly and vigorously. He'd thought their stores of rum more depleted than the current mood running through the village would seem to suggest, but - perhaps it's more than just the rum, tonight. Survival, he knows, is a powerful intoxicant all on its own. John should join them, knows he should; even does, for a while, taking a seat at the end of one of the long benches, drinks from the carafe that's passed to him - but his attention is elsewhere, and judging by the weight of the men's gazes when they land on him, it's obviously so. He spots Flint once or twice, a spot of darkness against the firelight, a mug always in his hand; but the captain disappears after an hour or so, maybe less, and John, for once, isn't interested in answering questions nobody has the balls to ask. He excuses himself after the next pass of the carafe.
Their makeshift camp on the edge of the Maroon settlement is less makeshift than it had been a few days before. Some of the tents sit on raised wooden platforms now, others under construction. They're carving a place for themselves here, for better or for worse. John's own tent had been one of the first to be raised out of the muck; whether the men were concerned for him, worried about his leg or the fever he's just managed to keep at bay, or maybe thinking only that ensuring their quartermaster might sleep in comfort could improve their own prospects - whatever the reason, John's tent could almost be called more of a hut, a steady platform and canvas walls lashed securely to the deep-seated poles in the corners, a cot that could almost pass for a real bed. He isn't surprised to find Flint there, though part of him still feels like he should be. Flint has his own tent, after all, just as comfortable as John's, for the very rare occasion he forgoes the trek back down through the jungle to the Walrus and deigns to spends the night on land instead.
But on the other hand, perhaps it shouldn't surprise him at all any more. He's recognized for a while now that they're drawn to each other, found himself unable to resist the pull in spite of his best - and not exactly insignificant - efforts. Maybe it shouldn't be such a wonder that Flint might feel it, too.
In any case, John is almost expecting the sight that greets him as he comes through the flap - Flint sat on the rough-hewn floor, his back against the frame of the bed, one knee drawn up toward his chest. He doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge John's arrival, stays still and silent as John crosses the room, stepping carefully over the slight ridge between the center two floorboards, comes to sit on the bed. "That went well," he says, once he's settled. Flint does look up then, almost, just a quick half-glance, just enough for John to see his eyes. John leans forward, elbow on his knee. "Don't you think?"
Flint half-shrugs; John wonders if it's the wound from his duel with Teach still bothering him, or some new memento from the British. There's a stiffness in the way he's holding himself. John had thought it was bravado, earlier, in front of the others. Now he's not so sure. "About as well as could be expected," Flint says.
John shifts, just a touch, just until he's sat mostly behind the captain, his good knee nudged up against the hunched curve of Flint's shoulder. Flint lets out a breath, but doesn't pull away. "Are you hurt?" John says. A few days ago the question would have been strange, would have earned him a sharp look and probably an insult to go along with it. A few days ago, he wouldn't have asked it at all.
"I'm fine."
"Is that what I asked?" There's still dirt and dried blood caked around the cuts on Flint's forehead. He'd cleaned himself up enough to sit at the table, enough to be passable in the firelight, but not much farther. John doubts Howell or anyone else with any sort of training or knowledge had managed a look at him, though someone had been by; there's a clean cloth and a bowl of barely-steaming water on the small table near the head of the bed, and John reaches to pull it into his lap. "Let me see."
"I'm fine," Flint says again, but he doesn't pull away from the touch of the cloth against his skin, instead tips his head to give John a better angle. The motion leaves him resting more solidly against John's leg, and he doesn't pull away from that either.
"You've got them right where you want them," John says. "Jack and Anne, Madi. Teach." There's a few particularly stubborn grains of sand wedged into the deep bit of the largest scrape; he pauses for a second, letting the captain brace himself before he goes after it. Flint doesn't react until it's done, keeps even the one tiny hitched breath he allows himself tightly under wraps until John pulls the cloth away. "Shit, you've even got the Urca gold on your side, sort of," he says. He's not sure if Flint appreciates the levity he tries to force into his voice or not. He's not completely sure Flint even hears it. "At least what's left of it. And still, you're not happy."
Flint grunts, leans his head more firmly against John's leg. He's never really known Flint to lose himself in the drink - not habitually at least, not like some of the men - but maybe he's a bit farther gone than John had thought. The contact certainly suggests it. It has a secondary effect, though, of exposing another gash low on Flint's shoulder, curved down onto his chest, hidden just under the collar of his shirt. It had been a nearer miss than John likes, just now. He wets the cloth again, reaches toward Flint slowly, ignoring the warm pressure against his leg, only half wishing he knew for sure which target Flint had been aiming for there.
"Rackham may be a problem," Flint says. His voice is tight, hitches a bit as John nears the edge of the cut; it's shallow, scabbed over, but the tension humming under Flint's skin says it might not be healed for some time. John reaches down, rests the hand that isn't occupied with the cloth against the point of Flint's shoulder - and perhaps John himself is a bit farther gone than he'd thought, too, if he's letting himself indulge in shit like that.
"Jack?" he says, more to give Flint the conversational thread he's so clearly hunting than out of any real interest. "Not Teach?"
"I'm not worried about Teach," Flint says. "Teach wants the war; he wants revenge for Charles Vane. He wants blood." Another of those quick half-glances, just to make sure John is still with him. "Jack wants to be king."
"And you see that as your role."
"Jack Rackham isn't fit to lead Nassau," Flint snaps. "He's barely fit to captain a ship, and in fact even that's questionable."
"And who placed him at the helm?" John says. Flint huffs out a short, irritated breath, looks away. "He's earned his place at that table. Just like Teach. Just like Madi. Just like you and I. Allies, Captain, are not something we have in abundance right now. Perhaps we shouldn't start carving up the ones we do have just yet."
"Perhaps we shouldn't rely on them too heavily, either," Flint says, after a while - and there, John thinks, there it is, the creak of a door swinging on hinges rusted from disuse - the particular tone in Flint's voice that says, here is a truth. That says, this is John's in.
The tone is familiar, as is the thought; the sharp spike of guilt in John's gut, however, is new.
He ignores it. For now.
"Move," he says instead. "I can't - you've got some - dirt or something in there, I don't know, but if it doesn't come out it'll fester."
"Then let it fucking fester," Flint says, but he also moves his head where John guides him, so. Progress.
"Don't think we have much choice in the matter, anyhow," John adds; Flint is tense and barely breathing under his hands, and it's the fucking rum, but for a second John half-thinks that maybe if he just keeps talking he can breathe for the both of them, just for now. "I can't say I'd be overjoyed about the prospect of going to war with the entirety of the British navy armed with only the Walrus."
"You're not overjoyed about going to war at all," Flint says, like that's a problem, and John laughs, soft.
"Well, I'm sorry." The cut will scar; there's nothing to be done about it. It isn't the first one Flint's earned, and it won't be the last. John sets the cloth aside, and if his movements are slow, it's only because everything seems slow just now, hushed and hesitant. Like they're both trying to keep from disturbing it, the small fragile thing that's been growing between them, taken root in earth they both had thought too barren, too unstable to support anything. It might be for the same reason - the fear, the sense that dislodging whatever it is could be disastrous, the urge to stay the course and not do anything that might in the future prove to have been rash - that he lets his hand return to Flint's shoulder, digs his fingers gently but firmly into the corded muscle that curves up into his neck. It might not, but John decides he isn't going to be inspecting that too closely just now. Flint doesn't shy from his touch - indeed, arches into it, just a bit, just enough John can feel the press against his hand. He won't shy from it, either, no matter what the reasons might be.
This isn't what he'd expected. He hadn't planned for this, the terrible and fearsome Captain Flint sat on the floor beneath him, allowing John to clean his wounds, rub his fucking shoulders. But he hadn't planned on being here at all - he hadn't planned for this war, for Charles Town, for his leg, for any of this. If he'd had his way he would have been gone long ago, free of the sea and this war, of this crew and particularly this man.
And yet.
"If this war is unavoidable," he says, quiet, instinctual. He doesn't mean to. It finds its way out on its own. "If this war is - if this is what you need." He isn't sure how to finish it. Isn't sure what the next words out of his mouth should be. It's an unfamiliar sensation.
Less familiar, even, than Flint under his hands - and there's a thought he really should investigate, perhaps, but.
"This war is necessary," Flint says, just as quiet, and it's still not an answer to what John had asked, but he lets it go this time. He's about to sit back, tell Flint they should both get some rest, send him on his way, back to his own tent or in search of more rum or where the fuck ever, as long as it's elsewhere - but as he's drawing breath to start, Flint nudges his shoulder up against John's hand again. Firmer this time, deliberate, an invitation or a request - hell, coming from Flint, it's practically a plea. Don't stop.
Oh, John thinks. Oh, that's.
He likes that. He's - he's a bit shaken by how much he likes that, honestly. Not because it's unfamiliar; he'd learned long ago that the best way to keep himself safe, keep the upper hand, was to create a need for himself, wait to be asked to fill it.
He's just never wanted anyone to ask quite this badly, before.
There's always a backup plan, always an idea of what he'll try next. But just now, he has no next; there are no other options. They've all turned to ash, disintegrated between his palm and the solid curve of Flint's shoulder through his shirt, and he's fucking terrified - thrown back in one corner of his mind to being left at the Home, no idea what he'd do, no idea how to pull himself free, the gates shut behind him and no real way forward.
But as it turned out, he'd been wrong then; it's not unfathomable that he could be wrong again now.
He'd meant to move his hand away. He brings the other down to Flint's shoulder to join it, instead. Flint sighs, just barely, leans a bit more heavily against him - and he could be imagining things, could be conjuring up what he wants to see, but he thinks Flint might actually be relaxing, just a little.
Perhaps this, too, is progress of a sort. Even if it's not the sort he'd planned for.
"What we spoke of that night," Flint says, after a few moments. "Before the battle. You said there were three people other than you who had truly known me." John waits; the collar of Flint's shirt has shifted, and his hands are on skin now, warm and pale and softer than he'd expected. "You were concerned you were the only one still alive."
"I was concerned their not being alive might have more to do with - "
"I'm concerned that you're one of two I haven't fucked."
He is, indeed, very drunk; John can smell the rum on him, the clinging earthy hints of spice and tobacco and woodsmoke. A pattern is a pattern. "You think that's funny?"
"Don't you?" Flint says. He turns just enough to catch John's gaze, and John sits back; the angle is wrong to look Flint in the eye, is all, but something changes in Flint's posture, the contact suddenly gone, his chin dropping farther down toward his chest. Fuck, John thinks - is there no end to the new and interesting ways he can find to fuck up, here? "Though I suppose you're probably right, and all that means is you're more likely to die by my hand than someone else's."
"Christ," John says. "Has anyone ever told you that you can be awfully hard on yourself?"
Flint huffs out a breath, turns away before John can see the hint of a smile he suspects the captain can't quite keep down - but he leans into John's thigh again, his head warm and heavy, a solid, unassuming weight. After a moment, John leans forward, his hands returning to Flint's shoulder. It's quiet for a while; the lamp on the table is burning low. He navigates by the feel of Flint's bunched muscles under his fingertips, the soft hitch in his breath when John finds a spot that's particularly bothering him.
"Thomas," Flint says, suddenly; it's been long enough since either of them have spoken that John has to still his hands and think to remember where they'd left off. "He used to tell me to keep in mind I was not in fact responsible for every action taken in the entirety of the fleet."
John takes a breath. Careful, he thinks. Flint is still and quiet under his hands. He's known - he isn't stupid, he grew up in a fucking orphanage, he's been at sea for years now - he's known. He'd seen this starting, even encouraged it at first, before he'd understood what it was. Before he'd understood what Flint was. Back when he'd thought perhaps they could use each other, when their individual interests had temporarily fell into line, and maybe he's partially to blame - he'd thought he'd known what he was doing, when he'd decided to stoke this particular fire.
He should snuff it out. He should stop this, and now, before it goes any farther. He knows that, too.
Instead, he smiles, squeezes Flint's shoulder. "And did you ignore him when he said it, too? Or am I the only one who's earned that particular honor?"
Shit, he thinks, as soon as he hears himself say it; Flint might have let him in, might have told him about Thomas, but he's seen the barely-contained reaction that other men invoking him usually prompts, even if he's only just now able to realize what he'd seen. Flint will strike him, at the very least, and he braces himself for the turn, for Flint to come up off the floor at him, all snarling and teeth and clenched fists.
But Flint laughs. Turns to press his cheek more firmly against the rough cloth of John's breeches. "Perhaps I'm just not a very good listener," he says.
"No," John says. "You most certainly are not."
"You going to stop?" Flint says, after a minute, and then it's John's turn to laugh.
"I will, if you want me to."
"Did I say that?" Flint almost growls, and John feels his smile soften, the humor bleeding out of it, replaced by something - warmer.
"No," he says, "you didn't," and he digs his fingers hard into the most stubborn knot, right at the curve of Flint's collarbone.
"Fuck," Flint whispers, and something flutters in John's chest.
"Sorry - "
"No," Flint says, "no, I - do it again."
It will consume them - it will consume both of them, will consume him, and for what might be the first time in his life, John isn't entirely sure he minds the prospect.
He does it again - puts his weight into it this time, bears down firm but gentle until Flint groans and arches and practically fucking melts under his touch, and before he can stop himself John's making a soft noise too, one breath escaping just a little harsher and louder than the last.
Flint freezes under his hands. Takes a breath, another.
"Tread lightly, Mister Silver," he says, very soft. "You need to think carefully about your next move."
There's caution in his voice; John recognizes that tone, has heard it aimed at him more than once over the past few months. But there's something else, there, too - a new note, something small and unsure. Fear. Recognition twinges sharp and strong in John's gut. He leaves his hands where they are. "I think if you can manage to rest it for a while, that shoulder will feel better, now," he says, lightly, as though Flint had said something else entirely. One last chance, he thinks; just a few more seconds for Flint to pull away, back out. For either of them to back out.
Flint doesn't. So John doesn't, either.
"You have to know you're starting something here," Flint says; his voice is so low John almost feels like he needs to lean closer to hear him, the tension John had managed to ease away spreading again through his shoulders, up through his neck, humming thick and bright in his voice. "And I'm - I'm not sure you intend to finish it. I don't think you know - "
"Oh, I know," John says - and he's close to Flint, suddenly, even closer than they'd just been, bent in half to lean over Flint's shoulder, mouth just shy of brushing against Flint's ear. "I know a lot more than you give me credit for, apparently." Flint's face tips toward his, minutely; as close to an invitation to continue as he's going to give, especially after being interrupted. "I've known this door has stood between us almost since the beginning, when we met. I know you've kept it closed to me, though I don't think it's always been as easy for you as you would have liked. I know that we've been coming toward it for a long time now; since Charles Town. Mrs. Barlow. Maybe even before." Flint's breaths come loud and quick now, warm where they ghost across the corner of John's mouth; he's turned, just a little, not enough to make a real difference - not yet - but John knows him well enough by now to recognize the victory for what it is. To recognize it means he's right. "And I know you opened it to me," he says. "That night in the jungle. When you told me about the only other person to walk this earth who you've ever even let near it."
"John," Flint whispers, and John leans forward just that tiny bit more, fingers slipping across Flint's chin, pulling him around to kiss him.
For a second - a long, terrifying second - Flint is still. Motionless, so perfectly frozen in place John would almost swear the lips under his own were carved from stone, and he's half starting to wonder how Flint's going to explain it to the crew, having killed their quartermaster - but then Flint shifts, turns toward him, a hand coming up to rest on John's knee, and the sensation that John thought might have been coldness proves itself something else entirely.
He'd known - Christ, he'd known what Flint was, knew the man was a damned tempest, thought maybe he was the only one who truly knew it - he'd known, and he shouldn't be surprised by it now, should be braced against it, prepared for the pull as it crashes over him. Instead, he's more than half sure he'll be swept away. Flint's mouth is hot and wet and demanding, teeth scraping across John's lip, one hand tangled in John's hair, and John reaches up, curls a hand around the back of Flint's neck, just to keep his balance. Flint lets out a soft choked sound, shoves at John until he turns, lets Flint haul them both up onto the bed, knees on either side of John's hips.
"Fuck," he says, when Flint releases his mouth, "oh, fuck - " He's licking down John's neck, nipping at his collar, tugging his loose shirt free from his breeches - and then there's a warm hand on his stomach, sliding upward, and something twists in his chest and he says, "Stop."
Flint does.
It's immediate, the hand on John's chest withdrawn so fast he's left gasping at the loss of it - he drags his gaze up to meet Flint's eyes, and - Jesus, he looks wild, teeth bared, shoulders heaving with his rough uneven breaths, with the sheer will it must take to keep himself contained. It's not the first time he's looked at Flint and imagined a caged animal, though perhaps the association is clearer, closer than it's ever been. More thoroughly understood. It could be applied to all of them, any of them, at some times and in some ways - it would be foolish for John, for someone who prides himself so deeply on tales, to miss that association.
But this is different. This beast has been starved.
Where are you?
"Sorry," he says, "shit, I'm sorry, I didn't - it's okay, come here, just - " and Flint won't move, he isn't fucking moving so John moves instead, shoves himself up on one elbow, gets his hand around the back of Flint's neck again and kisses him, hard and solid and sure until Flint moans, sags into it. "I want this," he whispers against Flint's mouth, and it's the truth - he hadn't been expecting it to be, but here they are. "I want you."
"You don't know - "
"I do fucking know," John says - his hands on Flint's back, fingers stroking along the muscles in his arms, desperate to keep him from pulling away farther, ease the panic in his eyes, sure if he can just keep his fucking hands on him he'll stay, he'll understand, maybe at least one of them will - "I know perfectly well what that fucking means, I'm the only one who does, could you maybe stop fighting it for one fucking second and just be here, be here for fucking once - "
"John," Flint says, only it comes out sounding more like a sob, raw and ragged and wrenched, "John," and then his face is against John's shoulder, his beard rough against the soft skin of John's throat, and John wraps his arms tight around Flint's back, kisses his ear, his hair, every bit of him he can reach.
"It's all right," he's whispering - unbidden, uncontrolled, the words falling from his mouth all on their own, "It's fine, it's all right, I'm here, you're with me, it's all right," and Flint's fingers are clenched in his shirt, his breath warm and wet against John's neck, and he sees it then - sees the plan, the way forward, the only one he's got left, the only one he can stand to entertain, at least just now - stay.