So this idea that after eight years Hal “didn’t know” anything about James and the Hamiltons is just – wild to me and having spoken to @intolerablexsacrifice it is pretty much canon on this blog that Hal knew. Which then leads to the question of – if Hal knew why did he seem confused at times, or like he didn’t know – and why would he knowingly trip into the one thing certain to get Flint to snap on him?
We’ve established that when something is important for Hal to remember, he takes measures to make sure that he does. And when he learned Flint’s backstory, he did take down some very basic notes on it just so the most salient points wouldn’t slide off on him.
The truth is though – it wasn’t that important at the time. The fact Flint was a homosexualist who was exiled from the Navy on account of his practices with a young and idealistic lord meant – jack shit to Hal in the long run. Who Flint loved, how he fucked, had nothing to do with his capacity as a captain. It had nothing to do with his skills in leadership or sailing, no impact on his capabilities as a fighter or a negotiator – so why hold on to it?
This is why his realization and understanding of Flint as a very Dramatic Gay tends to be pretty consistent and repetitive. He’s encountering that realization anew rather frequently. Dude didn’t even write it down, to be perfectly frank with you. His notes, if anyone deciphered them at all, would simply come down to love lost, only family is Barlow, very angry at England and admiralty for it.
Which, really – what more does he need to remember? It paints a clear enough picture, after all.This does mean that Flint’s secrets are safe with Hal – but it also means he Knows Everything but never uses it, never mentions it, and tends to trip over it unintentionally in ways that look planned BECAUSE he knows.
Something nagged at him – something more insistent than guilt or even frustration. He was intimately familiar with the sensation that he had forgotten something important, and knew better than to chase it. It would come or it wouldn’t, but if he tried to grasp onto whatever his mind was trying to tell him, it would inevitably become impossible to obtain until days after it was actually relevant.
So he kept speaking, insisting that they would not kill Flint, merely depose of him. That he would personally see to it Flint and the Barlow woman were secured in the wake of it, sent off with their pardons. It was an ideal solution, the best option available in light of the brewing mutiny and the fact Flint was losing all track of how to exist without a fight. There were men who would kill to be pardoned, to be offered the chance to live the quiet life this hell robbed them of.
Still, that nagging, hassling sensation –
Wait. He had it – or rather, it had him. Flint was a man who killed to appease the fact he would never be sorry for what he was robbed of, only that he didn’t fight to keep it then. To threaten him with exile was crueller than the promise of mutiny – if only he had thought of that sooner!
“No – I suppose that won’t work for you at all, will it?” He deflated – as much as he hated this situation, he also had no intention of making an enemy of Flint. The situation was fucked, but he had spent too long beside this bastard not to want to see him off well. “So we’re back at an impasse then.”
There was only one thing for it – if he couldn’t exile Flint –
“I resign. When this is over – how you get out of it is your business. As for me – I’ll find my way elsewhere.”
An important thing to note about Hal is that he is getting on in years – he’s in his late fifties and has lived a very hard life at sea for nearly forty of them. He has – as a result – varying troubles that come with that advanced age.
His sleep isn’t what it used to be, his bones ache more than ever before ( especially when the barometric pressure shifts ) and his hands – which have been arthritic since his late thirties – are getting quite bad.
His eyes have deteriorated – he needs glasses to read, and in fact this deterioration is what forced him to retire from his position in the nest taking the long shots needed to turn the tide of battles.
These are all things a man can suffer in silence or grumble about. What he can’t keep quiet is the fact that his memory is not what it used to be. He forgets conversations entirely – can confidently hold the exact same dialogue on multiple occasions with no real awareness he is repeating himself. He shares the same stories, and when confronted on it, forges forward with that story stubbornly. If he doesn’t address it, then it isn’t there. It can’t affect him.
It is a short term memory affliction above all else. And while bad days can see him frustrated with it, for the most part he has found ways to cope by focusing hyper intensively on the things he deems important to remember, and dropping the rest. This can mean he is not as observant as he once was, and he is easier to manipulate because he forgets grievances and his particular reasons behind certain arguments because he didn’t deem them pressing enough at the time, and has lost them when it comes round that they might be more relevant.
However, for the most part, he has perfected his way of coping with it to make it appear like he is just fucking with people – and as long as that keeps working, he sees no reason to worry about it.
A fun note: When he deems something important, he plays it over and over in his head, and sometimes, will write it down in a journal he keeps on his person. The notes are all in a shorthand of his own devising from his Navy days, which means that – due to how he built it and how long he has used it, he is unlikely to forget his meanings for a great deal of time to come.
“ is it bad i really want to kiss you right now? ”
“ do me a favor, kiss my ass. ”
“ they can all just kiss my ass. ”
“ i kissed someone today. ”
“ i kissed a girl/boy and i liked it. ”
“ kissing burns calories you know. ”
“ my lips really want to meet yours. ”
“ so are we going to kiss or not? ”
“ i sent you a bunch of kiss emojis. ”
“ don’t talk, just kiss me. ”
“ i really enjoyed our kiss last night. ”
“ you make me want to kiss you. ”
“ you owe me a kiss. ”
“ pucker up. ”
“ read my lips, no. ”
“ your eyes say no but your lips say yes. ”
“ i just want to kiss you. ”
“ i miss your lips. ”
“ give me a kiss. ”
“ blow a kiss my way for good luck. ”
“ ever kiss in the rain? ”
“ ever kiss under water? ”
“ it was just a kiss, that’s all. ”
“ a kiss doesn’t mean anything. ”
“ i love when our lips meet. ”
“ where do you want me to kiss you? ”
“ i want to either kiss you or kill you right now. ”
“ did you really just kiss him/her? ”
“ friends aren’t allowed to kiss one another. ”
“ kiss me one more time. ”
“ want to make out? ”
“ you’re a terrible kisser. ”
“ teach me how to kiss? ”
“ i remember our first kiss. ”
“ your lips are calling my name. ”
“ let’s just kiss already. ”
“Oh? Makes sense.” His hand drops from where he’s been nursing a bloody nose, leaning forward to spit out the remainder that had made it’s way down his throat. He takes a minute to collect himself, pinching the bridge of his nose again before turning back to the other. He seems to pause, as though taking stock of Charles for the first time, marrying the image of him to the words spoken over ale and tavern rumour.
The rough features, handsome and worn, the faint air of calm before the storm, all things that more or less matched his imagination. Yet there’s something almost magnetic about Charles Vane that he hadn’t taken into account.
Interesting.
“So, question.” His tone has dropped, syllables slurred but still detectable, he knows how to steer the conversation towards secretive well enough. “Which do you like better? Iguanas, or, gold?” He raises an eyebrow, demeanor nothing but curious. There’s motive to his innocence, though, and Patrick coughs again, another subtle reminder that he’s injured and is more than happy to keep breathing thank you.
There was very little by way of sympathy from Charles as the man dealt with his bloody nose. The decisions that had lead to that damage were not his problem and frankly he had no reason to be interested.
Though some part of him understood it was customary to ask pointless shit like are you alright or what happened the answer to both of those things were obvious and the stories that they might prompt did not interest him in the slightest. So when he found himself confronted by the other man’s gaze, he didn’t offer anything in return – customary or otherwise.
Apparently, this man could read him about as well as Flint – which was to say, not in the slightest. “I have a better question.” Leaning forward, Charles dipped the fiery end of his cheroot into the dirt, snuffing out the burning tobacco without ever taking his eyes of the other. “Who are you that I should care enough to answer your stupid fucking questions?”
For all he knew, this was some new partner of Elenor’s. He looked soft and posh enough to be exactly the sort of idiot she’d twist around into serving Nassau’s interests in cleaner markets, so it wouldn’t do to fuck with him just yet. Not until his value had been determined, at any rate.
The click of the tongue made his eyes snap up, meeting Thomas’ in the dark. He thought himself rejected at first, and twitched as if to withdraw- but stopped as the covers were flipped back, and Thomas addressed him with a tone that James recognised as decidedly displeased. That alone was incentive enough to break his silence.
“Sorry,” he murmured, and meant it. It was a valid complaint, after all- Flint, too, knew that particular brand of justified paranoia. But James slipped in beside him, burrowing in close- there was no pretense, no suppression of the desire to be as close as physically possible (though naturally, this was not always the case- Flint, too, frequently needed space). He draped an arm across Thomas’ chest, looking up at his face in the darkness, the curve of his jaw. Gazing at him, as he sometimes did, as if Thomas was the only thing he wanted to look at from this moment onwards. Smiling slightly, James added, only half-joking: “Sometimes I forget you can’t read my mind.”
The niggling sense of frustration that continued to linger drifted away both in wake of the apology ( for it indicated to Thomas that the man understood the sentiment enough to be genuinely contrite ) and in the face of the easy way in which his lover tucked against him despite the cold invitation.
It was in moments like this – when James treated him normally and yet somehow still managed to remind him of all the time they had lost, and all of the love that had driven them into their reunion – that Thomas found there was no room in him to be angry. The worst of those storms had passed – and now, they had only the smaller things to weather, things any couple needed to face when getting used to being a couple.
Huffing softly, Thomas settled his arm around James and drew him in, pressing a kiss to the man’s fiery hair before returning his attention to his book and asking, in a much softer tone that betrayed the fondness welling within him, “Would you like to read with me, or shall I read to you tonight?”
Ocean Archive 