Chapter Text
The wind whistles through the eaves and the candles flicker. It’s late November and it’s been black as pitch since 4pm, the frost that barely thawed this morning already setting in again around the window-panes. The Bristol streets are unusually quiet. The promise of snow had sent the last few patrons of the Spyglass Tavern home long ago and its proprietors were close to turning in for the night.
The bell above the door rings and Long John Silver looks up from his ledger to glance towards the other room, cursing himself for having not locked the door yet.
“We’re closed!” he calls.
The footsteps continue, accompanied by murmuring.
He gathers his crutch and pulls himself up, huffing as he heads for the bar.
“I understand that literacy is not something everyone is possessed with but we’re quite clearly closed,” he frowns at the figures illuminated by the fire.
“I was told we could expect a warm welcome at the Spyglass.” Familiar eyes meet his and he stops in his tracks.
John stares as the wry half-smile he knows so well emerges from behind the hood, dumbstruck.
“Or was I misinformed?” Captain James Flint raises an eyebrow, sharing a glance with his companion before looking back to him.
He doesn't speak, unable to comprehend. He just stares, forcing himself to shut his mouth so as to seem less gormless than he feels. His leg moves almost without him realising and he wraps an arm around James’ neck, holding him close to him as his breath gets unsteady. He feels him hesitate before returning the embrace, exhaling slowly.
Time stands still for a moment as they clutch each other.
John had truly believed that he would never see Flint again. For a long time he had convinced himself he hadn’t wanted to see Flint again. Flint and his damned gold had almost cost him everything, the war had almost cost him everything and he had clung like a drowning man to the chance Madi had given him to make things right.
The years had been kinder to them than he had expected. Neither of them had adjusted well to England's climate but their business was healthy and they had begun to rebuild together. With Flint in Savannah, he had thought there was a minimal chance his past would catch up with him. Changing his name again had occurred to him but so far from Providence Island he felt a strange fondness for John Silver and kept it, a small memento of his short-lived career as a ship’s cook.
Flint looks well. Remarkably well. He had let his hair grow again; the beard that had been the product of his mourning groomed. Many times Silver had wondered if he had done the right thing in exiling his captain, but looking at the man now, he was certain that he had.
James’ companion removes his own hood, looking with a sort of fondness at the pair of them. “And to think you had me believing that I would have a hard time getting a word in edgeways.”
John moves away, sniffing and roughly dragging a hand across his face. He wipes it on his jacket before offering it to the other man. “My apologies, I appear to have forgotten my manners. John Silver.”
“Thomas Hamilton,” he shook his hand. “I wasn't aware manners were of importance amongst pirates.”
John quirked his lip. “Perhaps not. However it is a tavern keeper's job to make his guests feel welcome. Especially when his guests include gentlemen.”
“Now that's something I haven't heard in a while,” Thomas snorts. He looks around, gesturing to the table where James has made himself comfortable. “May I?”
“Of course,” he nods as he crosses to the door and locks it. “I take it you're not venturing out again this evening?”
“Not if it can be avoided,” James says, his eyes never leaving John. “Providing we're not intruding.”
Footsteps on the stairs draw John from his thoughts and he looks up to see his wife.
“My husband said we are closed, please-- oh.” Madi stops in her tracks, pausing at the foot of the stairs to take in the room and the two arrivals. Her eyes meet John's. “You did not tell me we were expecting visitors.”
“I didn't know we were,” he replies weakly.
James stands, his eyes warm. “Madi.”
“Captain Flint,” she says. She only pauses a moment before crossing the room to press his hands in hers. “I was told we had lost you to the pages of history books.”
“I found myself on Savannah.” He squeezes her hands and he looks to Thomas. “I had an appointment to keep, it would seem. May I introduce my partner, Thomas Hamilton”
John remains standing after serving James and Thomas bowls of soup. It’s not hot, he apologises, but it won’t poison them. James chuckles and the sound is so alien coming from his mouth that John has to take a moment to recentre himself. It’s been years since he’d heard him laugh and that does not sit well.
“You don’t want him here.”
John doesn’t look up, focussing on undoing his prosthetic. “What makes you say that?”
“I know my husband and I am not a fool.” Madi latches the door behind her and turns back to face him.
“You are not but your husband is,” he mutters and he grunts as he pulls it away from his leg, propping it against the chest he is sat on. “A damn fool. What are they doing here?”
“They wished to come home now that they are free.” She removes her boots and belt, beginning to wrap her hair. “You would do the same. You have done the same,” she adds after a moment’s pause.
“Bristol is not their home.” He sighs deeply and leans back against the footboard of the bed, closing his eyes as he stretches out his legs. “He’s come to haunt me, Madi, I can feel it.”
She huffs a laugh and shakes her head, touching his shoulder briefly as she passes him on her way to the bed. “You were right, my husband is a fool - a paranoid old fool who is entirely too self centered.”
“And my wife will have no one to say ‘I told you so’ when I end up with my head smashed in, in a shallow grave.”
She doesn't respond, pulling the blankets up around her.
“You don't believe me?”
“No, I don't,” she says wryly. “I believe him when he tells us he has come home. Is he not home here?”
It's John's turn to go quiet as he joins her in bed, sighing deeply as she settles against him and he wraps an arm around her, his hand carefully cradling her slightly rounded belly.
“He can be home here if you let him. Him and Thomas.”
“Mm.”
“They could make their life over here.”
“Mm.”
“And you love him still.”
His thumb that had been making small meandering strokes against her skin paused in its tracks.
“There is no shame in that,” she tells him quietly, lacing their fingers together, “do not be afraid.”
“He doesn't want us here.”
“You're fretting.”
“I was wrong to suggest we come.”
“James--”
“Where else can we go, it's hardly as if we have an abundance of friends--”
“James--”
“And did you see the look on his face throughout dinner? We must leave tomorrow morning. It'll complicate things, I know, but--”
“James!”
“What?”
Thomas closes his book with eyebrows raised. “You're pacing in your underthings.”
James flushes, glancing down at himself before joining Thomas in bed. For a moment they're quiet, luxuriating in each other's company and a bed to share big enough for the both of them. Fingers card through thinning hair and gentle kisses are placed on weather-beaten brows, and James briefly forgets what he was stressing about. He sighs quietly, relaxing against Thomas’ chest.
“I don't know what I expected.”
“So you said,” Thomas murmurs, “but this is hardly a negative reaction to our arrival.”
James hummed. “You don't know him like I do.”
“True. However, I doubt a man who welcomes us in, makes us food, introduces me to his wife and then allows us to stay is imminently plotting your demise.”
“You've been away from London society for too long if you truly believe that,” he smiles faintly and Thomas chuckles.
“You may have a point.”
“I usually do.”
“Mm,” he says thoughtfully. “... I can't say I miss it though.”
“Then be wary of Silver. Everything is politics to him.”
Thomas smiles fondly. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
“You couldn't sleep either?” Madi looks up from her seat by the fire, smiling at James as he pads downstairs.
“Something like that.” He returns the smile and pulls the blanket he has draped over his shoulders tighter around himself. He gestured to the chair across from her. “May I?”
She nods her assent, putting her book aside as she tucks her feet up underneath her. “The wind is so violent I fear it may take the roof with it one of these days.”
“Let's hope not.” He makes himself comfortable, resting his feet by the hearth. “But I’m sure your husband has something tucked away that can hire a few thatchers.”
Madi sighs quietly. “If he did, we would not be leaving it in the state it's already in.”
“You're sure about that?” he asks, meeting her eyes as she looks at him quizzically. “Thomas and I can help fix it should that happen however.”
“That's kind of you,” she says. “John is in no position to climb a ladder and he has an aneurysm whenever I do anything more strenuous than climbing the stairs.”
James laughs quietly. “I can imagine,” he pauses, “he's going to be a good father.”
“He doesn't think so but he will,” she agrees, her voice fond. “I would say that he thinks too much but I won't cast stones in glass houses.”
“No, I suppose neither of us can speak to that.” He settles back against the chair, watching the fire smoulder away. “...he's not happy I'm here.”
“He’ll be happy when he's slept on it,” Madi reassures him.
“You sound so sure.”
“He's paranoid, more so now than he ever was.” She leans forward to stoke the fire, pulling her shawl closer around herself. “I had thought the further he was from everything, the more he would relax but it seems to have had the opposite effect. But he is always better after he's switched off for a while.
“And he has thought of you often in your absence.”
“Has he.”
“You haven't met the parrot yet.”
James blinks. “The parrot?”
She laughs at his bemused expression, closing her eyes as she leans back in the chair.
“Still. Even if he were not eager to see you, I am certainly glad of your return.”
It's James's turn to smile. “I can take solace in that, at least.”