To say he had not expected this outburst would have been an understatement. Thomas’ temper was not new to him, exactly–he’d seen the man rant and flail and seethe before, as captivating in his anger as in all else–but James had never before felt as though that anger was directed at him. He found it an unpleasant experience, to say the least- but knowing himself to be undeserving of such an outburst, there was no trace of guilt or retreat. James’ hands tightened behind his back, jaw set as he lifted his chin a little, staring frostily back at his lover.
He would have to ask Miranda, when he saw her, what situations like this required: if there were ways to ease Thomas’ temper short of simply leaving the room to avoid it. James debated on dismissing himself there and then- a few months prior, he would not have dared, but he was no longer just a lieutenant in this house.
Thomas, however, relented. James tilted his head slightly at that, his expression carefully contained (though his eyes were still hard), and gave a curt, understanding nod. As much as he adored Thomas–so fiercely it scared him, at times–he could not deny that in his irritation, he wanted Miranda’s company far more at the moment, and he suspected she’d be glad for the company.
“Certainly, my lord,” James replied coolly. The title had most certainly not been one of the usual slip-ups: not with James looking like it cost him something to keep from saying something far more scathing, even in the wake of Thomas’ apology. He stepped back, starting to turn away–then paused, like he was considering something.
“So that you and I are clear,” he said, turning slowly back to him. “You are forgiven. But I want it known that as your partner, that is absolutely not something I’ll allow you to subject me to on a regular basis.”
It was in truth for the best that James did not relent or flinch in the wake of Thomas’ anger – there were many things he could tolerate when he reached this point, but to be feared or worse, managed at such times only served to fire him higher. In the case of the former, there was a vicious and cruel desire to give that fear a reason for being there – and in the case of the latter, the idea of silencing himself for the comfort of another in his own home when he was so fettered as it was outside of it only ensured he would become louder in sheer rebellion.
To face him, unaffected and coolly uninterested in the matter as a whole – that, at least, Thomas could respond to. It was familiar and something he knew how to be himself in front of no matter what he was feeling at any given moment. It was so much like home that it registered only as someone is in the room as opposed to a cause for offense or frustration.
What did catch his attention was the deliberate use of his title as punishment. He straightened, startled enough that he forgot his anger for a split second to be genuinely thrilled by that unexpected bit of training on James’ end. It was effective – not only did it catch his attention, it ensured that Thomas knew his lover was quite displeased with him, without devolving the scene into an argument.
If he weren’t wholly aware of what he would be taking care of the moment James left the house, he might have been completely tamed by that act alone, and the desire to swiftly ensure that things between himself and James were alright. As it was, the envelope in his hand and James’ reprimand were both insurance enough against the idea, and he inclined his head in an abashed manner.
“Of course,” He agreed, knowing full well the demand was reasonable and seeing no reason to debate it. Nor to excuse himself further, when forgiveness had already been offered. “I will send for you when I return.” In future, Thomas knew he would need to dismiss himself from wife and sweetheart both, and hope that would be enough to maintain them all when Hell came rising once again to his door.
Flint had risen instinctively just after Thomas did, unsure of what he’d done wrong but deeply concerned; he couldn’t tell if this was anger, or upset, or something else entirely, and therefore could not predict how Thomas would proceed. If he left the room, James decided he would not follow- it was usually better to let Thomas come to him, and not go searching.
But Thomas turned, and Flint watched him warily, concern etched into his face. Thomas’ voice–the cool stiffness of it–made something in his gut twist unhappily, made him want to stare at the floor. He didn’t–Thomas would likely notice such a dramatic shift in demeanor–but both hands came to fidget with the hem of his loose shirt.
“Ah,” James nodded once in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” In all of his dreams of what this life might be like, he had never accounted for just how drastically the two of them might have changed. He would not have given Thomas up for the world–it was still a struggle to have him out of sight even briefly–but sometimes, the man was all but unrecognizable. He had no doubt that he was often the same to Thomas.
Such drastic change between them both meant that the rules had changed, and James was still unsure of what they were (for both of them- and some rules could not be known until they had already been broken)–but this, this he could remember. No touching without asking first. He could do that. He had been adept at keeping his hands to himself, once upon a time: he could become so again for Thomas’ sake.
Expression smoothing out into something more measured than the worry and guilt from before, James stopped fidgeting, and folded his hands behind his back.
“If you need a moment–by all means. It’s alright.”
“Neither did I.” He could not tell if that admission cost him something, or if it was simply a relief to acknowledge something broken in him with someone who recognized that it was broken. James seemed to collect himself, for which Thomas was grateful enough that he slowly lowered the book, and finally set it at his side with an acceptance for the fact that the alarm in him had already caused the damage – and James was giving him the space necessary to build the bridge they both needed.
He inclined his head at the offer of a moment, though more out of gratitude for the offer of it than the intention of taking it. He stepped over, setting the book down and reaching for James – not taking hold, but simply offering a truce of his own, in the form of himself. He didn’t know what else to offer, if truth was to be examined, but if nothing else it should at least indicate that he was not cross with James because of this.
“It – “ Hmm. Strange to find himself without words to describe precisely what was wrong with a situation, when painting such visages had been his gift and downfall. But then, he’d rather been trained out of that in some ways – for days and weeks that had stretched on too long, words stolen from his lips, a mind too muddled to function –
“Its the hair. Nothing else.” Words thrust down, if only to drag himself away from the dark path his mind wished to tread. “At least – nothing else that bears mentioning, at this moment.” He had always insisted that James use his words – through coaxing, training and command – and for the first time he wondered if perhaps he had been cruel for doing so, when he thought himself kind.
“Exactly!” The word was sharp, snapping from him with force enough to strike if only words could land physical blows. “I was dead to you so what fucking purpose did killing her serve? Damn you James,” The curse of his name hurt, was agony to spill – for so long it had been Flint he spat into the dirt when he needed something to direct his hate upon – but to know that Flint was his James, that the two were one and the same – !
“Why.” There was a dangerous precipice here, notable mostly by the suddenness of his calm. “My father, I could forgive. My father I could understand.” Indeed, he did. On both counts, in fact. He forgave, unquestioningly and without fanfare, the death of his father at James’ hands. He understood it, completely and without any need for explanation – but this – what harm could she possibly have done?
Whom would care that Flint was McGraw, even if she did speak of it? McGraw was disgraced and Flint was a pirate what fucking damage could she have done with that knowledge? Had he given her a chance – for all they knew all this pain, and bloodshed, and anger and loss would have been averted. She could have told him the truth if she’d been granted the chance to recognize what was happening and why. Thomas had barely recognized the man before him, and they’d been on quite intimate terms. His mother had only met the man once, for Heaven’s sake!
“But not her, James.” His voice was still in that eerie calm that promised only that the storm was not over. Only that where the clouds settled, was still being determined. “How do I forget that her blood is on your hands? How do I – how do I let those hands touch me, knowing the stain they carry?”
Thomas jerked away sharply, rising to his feet and turning – ready to fight, ready to run – and it didn’t matter that there was nowhere to go on this fucking ship. He was ready to fly straight into the ocean’s embrace if he had to. Anything was better than this – hell – inside of himself.
For a time he simply stood there – staring at James through the sting in his eyes and dragging in breath that clawed at his throat and left him feeling more and more raw with each and every intake. He was torn in the worst imaginable fashion. He wanted to be alone, he didn’t want anyone to see him, let alone touch him. He wanted to scream, to rage, to hurt something, anything but himself..
Yet beyond all that – beyond that tempestuous, self-guarding fury – he wanted to lay his head down in a familiar lap, to feel hands combing through his hair and hear the songs that had calmed him ever since he was a boy. The songs that had rescued him time and again, from pain and anger and grief. The scent of perfume still lingering against a skirt that felt like home, and the awareness that the storms could be put to sleep. To know that it was safe to weep, until the clouds cleared, and the world was made whole as rest overtook him in the greatest peace he had ever known in his life.
He missed her – he had missed her ever since that incident, and the mutual agreement not to seek one another’s company. To protect themselves and what was left – and he had found hollow echoes since. Miranda’s soothing hands, the lap of a lover, the songs of paid entertainers – there had always been bits and pieces in place to tame the storms, but none had amounted to what he needed.
There had been something close, on the plantation. How he had found her, and how she had known what he needed he could not say. He’d found solace, and another reason to be grateful for that cage, to be glad of it. There was much to be said about learning to love a prison, and none of it could be understood by the man in front of him, who had spent so long hating the world in the name of a ghost forged by lies and the will to believe them, despite knowing their source had never known truth once, let alone the capacity to speak it.
Taking in another sharp, aching breath, Thomas accepted that what he wanted and what he could have would always be two seperate things. No rage, no grief, no pain could change that. He would, as he has always done, have to adapt. To alter himself, and compromise, again and again, for even an echo of what he needed would always, and ever, have to be enough.
Stepping forward, he reached out and clasped James by the wrists – though who he meant to anchor in that moment, was anyone’s guess.
“Can we – lay down, for a time?” His voice was quiet, if only to mask how raw it was. “Or are you – are you busy?”
The smile that flit across his lips was entirely unintentional – and he knew it would only provoke her further, no matter how swiftly he managed to suppress it. It was there – as clear as her rage with him – that it was an impotent emotion. There was nothing she could do to stop him – nothing she could say that would change this outcome. It was over – and her absolute refusal to accept that she could not hurt him for refusing to stay in this house was just further proof that they were no longer compatible.
It was perhaps for the best that Miranda did not voice her opinions in regard to his mother – for his will not to strike back would surely wither, and he would feel obligated to point out the bitter truth that the only one who had fought for him as opposed to their own damaged pride was in fact his mother! She was the reason he was not in Bedlam, she was the reason he still remembered his own name, and by God, it was she who had pushed Alfred out of society to make it at all possible for Miranda and James to even access him in the first place, but oh yes – let it be believed that the ones who only took action after they believed him dead were the fucking righteous in this affair!
As it was, all Miranda had to offer was an attack on him – a will to blame him for all of it – and a display of her own pride in the power that she now wielded over James. He saw no reason not to let her if it meant she would cease mourning a man she had buried well before he was dead. Let her have her rage, let her burn him down until there was nothing left, and perhaps by some remaining grace she would move on. His role in these tales was over – and that was the fact of it all. Whether she liked it or not.
He stepped forward without a word – he had nothing to say to her, nothing he could say that would not be biting or cruel, and she was right about his pride. Ten years at war with the idea he could even have such a thing, that he could make any decision for himself, had him quite frankly thrilled with the power of making this call. Yet for all that, his posture was neither defiant nor threatening – there was a readiness in case she lashed out physically, but beyond that he seemed to be maintaining an effort to keep himself smaller so as not to tower or loom as he simply made to walk past her.
He would dismiss himself, and if she fought that effort, what came next would be of her own making.
“Damn it all James – if I wanted to be fucking placated I would not have sent my wife to manage meaningless errands! Unless you wish to join her the next time I have to deal with this I strongly suggest you make yourself useful. I’ve enough on my plate as it is without you two fluttering about insisting that I calm down. Do you seriously think that is in any way a productive method of managing me?”
Even as he snapped, Thomas knew he wasn’t angry with James. Christ, this was why he sent Miranda off the moment he saw the fucking crest on these damnable missives. Why he had thought for a moment he could contain himself better with his lover than he did his wife, he could not fathom. If anything this was far worse – Miranda, at least, was used to the tempestuous nature of Hamilton tempers, but James –
Closing his eyes, Thomas gripped the back of the sofa viciously, leaning into it as he bowed his head – displaying defeat, and surrender in the other man’s direction if for no other reason than to assure James that all temper aside, his rage was not, in fact, directed at him.
“Forgive me,” The words seemed to sigh from him, and he glanced up grimly to meet the other’s gaze. “I am in no proper space to be good company to anyone, it would seem. That was ill done of me – and for the sake of ensuring it does not repeat itself, I would like for you to go. Miranda should be —- somewhere down in the market, I can’t recall what I asked her to do, and chances are she’s wandered off to do her own thing anyway. If you catch her perhaps the two of you can do something.”
Straightening, he resisted the urge to rake his hand back and drag the wig from his scalp, just for distraction and the need to feel something other than the itch of powder. “If you do not see her – please, can you call on her tomorrow for me? I – believe it best if I take my leave of the house for a few days.”
“Is that it?” Sarcasm dripped from his lips as surely as frustration rattled at the corners of McGraw’s, bringing a notable twitch to those damnable whiskers – a tic that cast his mind afield of this argument for but an instant – a flicker of memory as fast as the initial shift that caused the recollection.
“Is this the best that you can muster – or am I meant to be so beholden to you that you don’t feel the fucking need to try? Am I supposed to beg, my dearlieutenant,” Like venom, the words spat from behind his teeth with all the force of violence necessary to cripple – words that had once been so meaningful, so adoring, now laced with only the most poignant contempt. “How dare you.”
“Please – “ A deep, shuddering breath racks through him, and it is all he can do not to lose what little he has retained upon the plate so kindly offered him, “Don’t help.”
The last thing he wanted was for these men to think that he was weak. He understood that he had a very great deal to prove to Captain Vane, regardless of the kindness inherent in the quartermaster’s offer. Seasickness he was sure was understandable to some measure – but it had been two weeks at sea with no sign of issue from Thomas until now.
He was not ill – not in the sense of having eaten something wrong, or having been turned up by the sea – but in the mind, in ways that could not be seen. This morning’s breakfast – the consistency of it – had damn near broken him, and now it was all he could do to maintain dignity, and pray that he could overcome this before it marked him as a detriment.
Thomas stiffened, glancing over at James sharply as he just stood there – and if it weren’t for that fucking expression on his face he might have torn a strip from him for hovering like that – but as it was, he just snapped his tongue irritably.
Some habits never died.
Flipping the covers back, he remarked bluntly, “Typically speaking when a man lurks above a bed like that it doesn’t mean good things. Use your words next time.” Though he managed to keep it from being as visceral as he’d initially intended, it was still harsher than he now wanted. So in a softer, more entreating tone, he added, “Please.”
Oh Heavens, look. The dear thing thought himself clever. Thomas maintained an uninterested expression – his focus seemingly on the sea, and the horizon it reached to. When James was just close enough he couldn’t escape, he turned what had likely been meant as a sweet kiss on the cheek into something a little more – intense.
They had plenty of time, of course – with the night settling in, there was little to be done but rest. Leaning away, Thomas gave his dear lieutenant – ah, captain, – a wink before patting his chest and moving to step past him. Admittedly expecting him to be frozen enough not to react just yet – but, then, it had been ten years….
Who knew what else might have changed, aside from a simple surname.
Ocean Archive 