“Mmhmm.” Flint looked amused, mouth curled into a smirk at Hal’s sense of humour. Well- that, and what Flint perceived to be an indication that Gates was in no mood to be fucked with today, not even by him. But his eyes flickered to the older man’s hands. Though Flint’s tone was carefully nonchalant–as if this was simply something that happened to everyone, nothing out of the ordinary–there was still that barely-detectable trace of caring in itwhen he met Hal’s gaze: “Bad again?”
Hal was honestly never in a mood to be fucked with, but he was very good at projecting an approachable demeanor that caused folk to overlook danger more often than not. That Flint could pick up on it ever would have been an enormous surprise to him – especially at a time when he was, more or less, in fairly high spirits.
At the inquiry, he huffed and just barely managed to keep back the if you make it to my age jibe burning on his tongue as he replied, “When isn’t it?” His hands always gave him hell – there were just days when they were louder about it, was all. He shrugged though, showing it wasn’t at the worst it could be and that as per usual, he would manage. “Still doing better than Dufrense’s teeth I wager.”
Damn kid kept scrubbing at them like he thought if he rubbed just right, the crew would forget he’d ripped a man’s throat out like some kind of damn animal. Or maybe ( and arguably more likely ) if he cleaned them just the right way, he might forget what he did – and how it made him feel.
Horatio could not have said how long he had stood looking out over the sea as the waves crashed in against the cliffside. He had known that between Napoleon and Tia Dalma his hands would be sure to mire themselves in blood once more – but he had forgotten for a time how truly unforgiving war could be. Though they were no longer men of the crown, living as pirates did not change the fact that the war between France and the rest of the world could leave them untouched.
He had known – even as he had called upon the water he had known some part of him would lament his choice. Fury had been cold in his breast as he had pressed his palms against the bleeding chest of one of the Indefatigable’s gun masters, the sound of canon blast deafening as the screams and groans of men both terrified and dying rose up around him.
They had been outmanned and outgunned from the start, but short of magic there had been no escaping the fight. At first Horatio thought they might have evened the odds – but as it became clear no honest men could win this fight, he had done what needed to be. Tia Dalma’s instructions were clear – and he could not afford to lose the Indy or her crew.
He had meant to draw them away – impossibly so upon wave and wind that didn’t touch another ship. It was not the usual working, and his recollection of the spell was limited at best. In the end, the Indy had suddenly surged away from the battle and toward the coast – and waves incredible in height had crashed against their enemies, devastating their ships and overturning them.
In the wake of it, the men were shaken and Horatio had not missed the way Matthews seemed to know who the responsible party was. The Indy had anchored safely, parties rushing ashore for supplies and the desperate need to hide their panic while still more stayed aboard to work on repairs and assisting the wounded.
Though Horatio knew he ought to be part of the latter, having worked a magic so powerful he had ultimately drawn off to settle his spirit and come to terms with the devastating aftermath. And to wonder how many of his own men he might have spared if only he had been brave enough to act sooner.
A firm, calloused hand slid into his own and drew him away from all of it. From horrible contemplation and guilt – for those dead unintentionally, to those dead because he had not killed sooner – to the simple act of comfort presently being offered to him, sure and steady as the man who offered it.
Turning as the wind drew upon his hair, whipping it over his shoulder and making a banner of the curly lengths, Horatio examined Edward quietly for any sign of what he might be thinking. In the end, he stepped forward, shielding himself from the wind by shifting to his knees before the man and bowing his head in a display of surrender even as he held on to the anchor of his captain’s hand.
It was not judgement that he feared. In truth, Horatio’s heart was calm – his surrender an act of choice. With his strength gone, it was his display of trust and vulnerability both, letting it be known that he was not well – and showing that he believed in Edward enough to let the man stand for him, when he himself could not.
The reaction was involuntary and immediate as Thomas jerked away from the touch and stood sharply – he was already several steps away before his mind caught up to where he was and who he was with. He forced himself to stop moving, though the tension in his shoulders did not leave and the flight response still nagged at him.
He supposed it was because he hadn’t truly lost track of his surroundings. It was more that it didn’t matter that it had been James – he didn’t want anyone touching his hair without his permission. Not even his lover – if not especially him, for of all people, he ought to be the more aware of Thomas’ feelings in this regard.
Closing his eyes, Thomas took a steadying breath before acknowledging that James had never been good at reading people. It had, admittedly, been one of his more endearing qualities in the past. That it had not changed might have been heartwarming, if it wasn’t so frustrating in this particular regard.
Setting his book in front of him, pressing it firmly against his stomach as a grounding source – as a shield of sorts – he slowly turned and remarked stiffly, “I would prefer it if you would check with me before taking liberties with my person, going forward.”
It sounded cold in his own ears, and he didn’t know how to bridge the gap between wanting James to treat him normally – and knowing that in some things, he simply wasn’t what he used to be any longer. All he knew at the moment was he didn’t want this in particular, and that he hated not knowing precisely how to illustrate the difference.
He knew from the expressions both open and repressed that Flint had reached some conclusions – likely correct, and sure to bear questions in their wake. Yet there was nothing the man could do to him now that he could not escape. There was no benefit for Flint now that his reason for piracy had ripped reality out from under him. In truth – in this life Flint had damned himself to – Silver was one of the few things he had left. It granted security in revelation, even one as significant as this and that alone was what had afforded this moment to culminate into what it now was.
Still, he had no desire to give more at this juncture than what was needed to make the hell he was presently subjected to by way of Flint trying to pick his way through Don Quixote end. “Seeing as you seem determined to hack your way into it, I feel I have little choice in the matter unless I wish to be victim to that on a regular basis,” The retort was drawled in such a manner that it was clear he was still shaking off the nonsense he’d just heard, while simultaneously offering no further substance to Flint’s little observation.
As had become customary after landing in Nassau and setting Jack and Anne in charge of distribution, payment and supply, Charles had gathered the small oilskin bundle that consisted of Flint’s share. He had talked it over with Thomas before setting it down in the books – an unofficial thing between the men themselves, notarized to spare questioning from the men on the rare account something valuable was included.
A portion of what was meant for Thomas went to Flint and Charles knew enough about the complications there to recognize that no matter which way the wind ended up blowing, it was not something Thomas would change until he felt Flint was standing well on his own two feet. Admittedly, Charles had thought the man was doing better – but it seemed that either the Ranger had been gone for far too long, or something had snapped off again.
He’d taken one step into the small house hidden away in the interior and – upon noting where Flint had hidden himself – turned and walked right back out. It took longer than he cared to admit to hassle some men into assisting him, but the supplies he needed were brought over and he took care of the rest himself. His actions were quiet, and he kept an eye on Flint the whole while – but the man either did not register him, or did not care to know what he was doing. Not until Charles finally went to gather him at any rate.
The sourness of the entire place was sharper and more potent this close to the goddamn source, and Charles bit back the urge to cough from it as Flint snarled like a cornered animal. Having no time for this bullshit, he answered by physically dragging the man to the washroom and pushing him in roughly. A bath laid ready and waiting, as did a change of clothes.
“Unless you want me to take care of this, too, shut the fuck up and wash,” The tone broke no room for argument – if Flint put up a fuss there was no doubt that Charles would find a way to force him into that tub, and it wouldn’t be a good day for anyone involved. “Don’t come out until you smell like a human rather than a bloated rat carcass.”
Seeing as that would likely take at least thirty minutes or more, Charles knew he’d have time enough to get this place in order. Some of it would have to be replaced, but that which didn’t could at least be cleaned up.
The pressure of another person leaning against him is not so unfamiliar as it used to be. In a world that was obsessed with making islands of men, touch was deemed an intimate affair as opposed to the natural order of social creatures. In the plantation, such ridiculous customs were not observed and the importance of physical contact to comfort weary spirits was often enacted.
Now, safely aboard the Ranger, Thomas found that pirates were wise as slaves, and saw no need to ignore the importance of interactions such as these – and the thought brought a smile to his lips as he turned to Joji and let his appreciation be seen. There was no need for words at the moment, and that in and of itself was a comfort too.
Tonight’s top quotes by Local Lizardman, Holmes:
I keep ripping my skin off and putting it in my pocket cause I don’t want to stand up
I think I just peed out an entire pot of coffee
Roses are red / violets are blue / I don’t know poetry / how about you?
I butchered it
It does NOT stay mainly in the plains! / I KNOW ONLY THE SHAME OF THAT SOURCE
honestly people who get their panties in a twist over the producers are too puritan to be my friend
The Labyrinth: Nonsensical Nightmare Fuel Starring Jareth’s Bulge!
Costars: A Sparkly Dress! Horrors that will never end! Decapitated furbies! And David Bowie!
THAT PROJECTS PAST ALL THE SETH ROGANING EVER
I really do like reorganizing – its a good squirrel job
*wheezes* *makes strange broken BRKAWX sound* I AM CHANNELING CHARLES VANE.
Ya’ll makin fun of my mrewol how you like me at my raspy laughter for 40 minutes later growl attempt?
Some small and irrelevant headcanons about the jungle cat tribe ( 4 / ?? )
Jack has 0 time for spiders and will nip out of an area so fast if he happens to see one moving. He has been known to shriek if caught by one unexpectedly and rapidly pat himself down as if convinced they’re crawling all over him. He also does a ( to Charles, anyway ) arcane sort of hop and jiggle followed by rapid hand flapping afterward. This escalates exponentially in the event there was actually a spider on him.
This terrible habit has lead to both Anne and Charles making a natural habit of checking an area over automatically and sweeping away any spiders they happen to notice – and to develop a manner of dealing with them once in a room without Jack noticing. Sometimes they have had to just smack a hand over his mouth while another party deals with it. His reaction is completely involuntary but it is dramatic and drastic enough that they’ve learned to compensate for it.
While not nearly as alarmed as Jack, Anne hates the sound of cicadas and will often get drunk to numb herself to the noise. More often than not she falls asleep with her head on Jack or Charles’ chest, using their heartbeat to help drown out the awful droning chorus of demons.
Charles has absolutely no issues with bugs, at least that he knows of. He’s generally the one taking care of bug problems for people who do have these issues, and has a habit of cornering creepy crawlies that are just plain funky looking to examine out of sheer curiosity, at times leading to Anne plucking it up and tossing it into the bushes because he doesn’t need to torture the damn thing.
( Note; he is never actually hurting the bug but it’s not like bugs are really meant to be picked up and turned over and squinted at for extended periods of time either. )
Ocean Archive 