he’s slumped over the edge of her desk, arms cradling his head, eyes barely open. the reclaimers shouldn’t be long now, he heard as much from the director’s stone of far speech when magnus called in to let them know they were on their way back with the relic. with the pure adrenaline angus had felt, jumping into action so unexpectedly in the midst of their candlenights celebration, it’s only now that the urgency of the moment has passed and the worry no longer sits heavy in his chest, that the boy realizes how exhausted he is.
his chair pulled up against the desk, he’s too tired to sit upright, but he remains in the director’s office, waiting to see the boys back and safe with his own eyes ( after the incident with hodgepodge, nothing less will have him convinced ). a heavy head does lift itself from the desk when angus feels a sudden weight over him- a blanket, placed by the director, who’s hand still lingers on his back. she’s offered a drowsy smile in return. “thank you, madame director.” how formal, angus, for such a quiet moment of shared relief.
he sets his head back down, curling up under the blanket, and dozes off, sure he’ll be awoken by the reclaimers usual dramatic entrance.
EDIT: it’s been pointed out to me that this was meant to be flintham but i misread the ask and it ended up as silverflint??? i’m so sorry?? this is why i shouldn’t do things while i’m sick it’s like my brain only half works
oh my god this was a hard one…i changed the dialogue slightly but the sentiment is the same sdkljghasdkgj
inspired by that one description of flint’s cabin in some early script that mentioned a half painted landscape
19. “The paint’s supposed to go where?”
It’s dark and dusty in the hold, and beyond that absolutely stifling. Silver’s sweating through his shirt after spending two minutes in the cramped room. Why he’s been asked to look through the stores on the Warship is something of a mystery: Flint had asked for him within minutes of returning with the Ashe girl, and instead of asking him to corral the men or take a headcount, like Silver had expected, he’d sent him below deck without a moment’s hesitation.
Silver suspects that Flint wants his prying eyes and inquisitive mind away from the Barlow woman for as long as possible. He can’t blame the Captain, really: he’d do the same, if he were trying to maintain some mystery.
He can’t say he particularly minds, despite the physical discomfort; better here than in the galley with Randall. Even further, Silver would rather not spend too much time with Flint at the moment. Despite the many years of practice he’s had of self-serving double crossing, standing in Flint’s presence so soon after he’d betrayed him had made Silver uneasy. Something almost like guilt had begun to settle in his belly.
Perish the thought.
Billy comes down just as he’s finishing his task, only one crate left to sort through.
“What’s in that, then?” Billy asks, peering over the siding.
“A few jars of paint, I think,” Silver says, double checking the checklist hanging on the wall.
“You should bring that to the Captain’s cabin. Call it a peace offering. Can’t have you glaring at Flint all the time, after all.”
Silver stares at Billy as if he’s grown two extra heads. “I’m sorry, you want me to put the paint where?”
“Look, Flint’s a bastard. I’m sure whatever he said to make you so cross with him was fucked up. But if the rest of the crew realizes how angry you are with him, it’s going to make our lives a lot more difficult.”
Silver doesn’t think the crew cares quite that much what he thinks of Flint, but he’s still stuck on the paint. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand what paint has to do with any of this.”
“Flint’s a painter. Back on the Walrus, if you’d bothered to pay attention, you’d have seen all those half-finished canvases scattered around.”
Silver had seen the canvases, but for whatever reason he’d never quite made the connection between the artwork itself and Flint as an artist.
Billy moves on, asking about Logan, about how Muldoon is taking his friend’s sudden departure, but Silver’s participation in the conversation is half-assed, at best.
He remembers seeing the paintings, he remembers thinking they were slightly out of place in a pirate captain’s cabin, but he cannot for the life of him remember what was on the canvases. Were they landscapes or portraits? Romantic or realist? Good or bad?
He has no idea, and he’s burning with curiosity.
It is this curiosity more than anything else that leads him to Flint’s cabin after dinner, the paints in one hand and the other hovering just over the closed door.
“You could just knock, you know,” an amused voice comes from behind him, and he whirls around to see Mrs. Barlow watching him with a smirk.
“I was going to,” he insists, though he feels himself color slightly at her raised brow.
“Well, no need to knock now,” she replies, and with that she simply walks in, holding the door open behind her. “Come along, Mr. Silver.”
Silver’s surprised that she knows who he is, but he’s distracted almost immediately as Flint stands abruptly at the sight of him, the heavy desk chair scraping loudly along the wood.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Flint demands, and (though he doesn’t break eye contact with Flint) he could swear he hears Barlow let out a put-upon sigh.
Silver thrusts the box of paint out in front of him as if it could shield him from Flint’s irritation. “I brought you these.”
And Flint - Flint actually looks surprised at that, like the last thing he’d ever expected from Silver was a gift. Silver doesn’t want Flint to think he likes him or anything, though, so he’s quick to elaborate.
“I found them in the hold, and Billy mentioned that you like to paint. I figured they’d be better off here in your possession than gathering dust in hold.”
“Oh, how thoughtful, Mr. Silver. James so rarely paints, now, hardly ever has the patience for it. When was the last time you did something other than just a charcoal sketch?” The longer Barlow speaks, the more Flint’s eye twitches. It’s truly a fascinating cause-and-effect relationship.
“I must say, Captain, I never took you for such an artistic soul. I’d love to see your work, sometime,” Silver says, like the shit he is, because he wants to see if he can make that vein on Flint’s forehead start to pulse.
He can.
“Fuck off, Silver,” Flint says, but when Barlow clears her throat pointedly, He sighs, then continues. “Thank you, Mr. Silver. Now, please fuck off.”
Silver laughs, then walks forward to place the paints on the desk. Before he can turn to leave, though, Mrs. Barlow starts to talk again.
“James, why don’t we go for a walk on the upper decks? It’s a lovely night, and it’s been ever so long since I’ve been able to look upon the sea in such a manner,” she offers Flint her arm, and the look her companion gives her seems to be a strange mix of guilty, fond, and exasperated. It’s amazing, how expressive Flint is when he’s around her.
“Fine. Silver, put that box in the empty space on that bottom shelf, will you?” Flint points to the bookcase in the corner, then loops his arm through hers. Before they leave though, Barlow catches Silver’s eye, looking between him and a leather-bound book on the far table pointedly. Silver nods his understanding, brow furrowed slightly; why would Barlow purposefully point him toward something Flint clearly does not wish to share?
Still, Silver’s always been a nosy son-of-a-bitch, and so as soon as they’re gone he all but shoves the paints away and picks up what he assumes is Flint’s sketchbook.
It’s clear that he’s only just started using it, probably having found it after taking the Warship. The first three or four pages are detailed seascapes, vibrant and lively even in black charcoal. Flint’s gifted. Out of practice, Silver can tell, but good.
Interspersed between the landscapes are little portraits, some barely more than the bare-bones of a person’s face, and some intricate and life-like. At first, it’s mostly Mrs. Barlow, in various states of repose. There’s one of her naked, and Silver nearly tears the page in his haste to turn it, cheeks aflame.
Then there’s a neat little sketch of Eleanor Guthrie, a scribbled out Gates, a kind-looking man Silver doesn’t recognize, and then -
Him.
Silver feels his brows raise, taken aback.
It was clearly drawn after one of his earliest addresses: the Silver on the page has a bloody nose, and his teeth, bared in a mean grin, are stained dark as well. It really does look just like him, Silver thinks, and he notices absently that Flint seems to have put the most effort into getting his hair just right.
Maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised: they’ve been practically living in each other’s pockets these past few weeks, and it makes sense that Flint would simply sketch what he’s been exposed to.
The next page is him, too: this time in profile, frowning slightly. The page after that is a full-body sketch from behind; he wouldn’t be sure it was him, if it weren’t for the hair and that old cropped jacket he’d left behind.
He flips through the next seven pages, until he reaches where Flint’s sketches end. Every sketch, loose or detailed, small or large, on the most recent ten pages, are of Silver: silver laughing; Silver dripping wet after swimming to the Warship; Silver pouting; Silver playing with his hair; Silver smirking; Silver climbing up the rigging…over and over again, Flint has spent his free time not only sketching him, but thinking of him.
Silver doesn’t know what to make of that. He closes the sketchbook, cheeks red and mind reeling, and only barely remembers to put the paints where he’d been asked to before slipping out of the cabin.
He doesn’t understand why Flint has fixated on him in his artistic pursuits, as he’s fairly certain the man can hardly stand him. Maybe, at most, he finds him aesthetically pleasing (something Silver would never have presumed before seeing that sketchbook), but that is a far cry from tolerating or even liking him.
Silver decides, for the time being, to put this aside. He’s got Vincent and Nicholas to deal with, and he can already tell that they’re going to be the cause of most of his troubles along this journey.
But when he spots Flint standing with Barlow and the Ashe girl on the upper deck, illuminated by the full moon, he can’t help but wish the captain had made a self-portrait. Silver can’t say he would have minded taking it; he has no artistic talent of his own, after all, and surely that would be the only way to find a likeness of Flint.
He thinks he can almost understand Flint’s urge to put pen to page, if only to preserve the memories of the ones who so define the world around him. There’s some small part of him that would have liked something by which to remember Flint, so that he might never forget that fierce look in his eyes, the sharpness of his brow, the jut of his cheekbones. He’s been nothing but vexing and confusing, yes, but James Flint is unlike anyone he’s ever known.
Silver will think of him, and his violent, artist’s hands, long after he leaves this rotten Warship behind.
Eggs. It had to be eggs. Zeke couldn't stand the taste ever since his aunt Marge used to force feed her hen's eggs to him while he hung upside down in the back yard. Who was Aunt Marge again? The man shook his head for the trillionth time. What the fuck was up with this town? While he'd come knowing that it had a reputation, Zeke certainly hadn't expected to find himself working for an Argentinean Dance Complex and paying his student loans by dancing at night at the local- NO. This had to stop.
After Neven told him about a possible cure, Zeke couldn't have gotten into his car any faster if he'd had a teleporter. What if the eggs were all gone? What if one of the monster birds was there waiting for him? Without a second thought, Zeke was barreling through the streets of Ashkent with one thing on his mind: eggs. He vaguely wondered how the kid had figured it out, or how he'd eaten them, but decided that wasn't very important if it worked. As far as he knew, Neven was still alive and that's all that mattered to Zeke. In a matter of minutes, Zeke was jumping out of his car, ignoring the silence that surrounded him. If he'd been paying more attention to the world around him rather than on just trying to spot any eggs like some twisted Easter Egg Hunt, he might've noticed the eery silence that enveloped him. The only sound that echoed around the trees was his own loud feet crunching through leaves and branches, not a bird or mouse to be found.
Even the lake was still as glass, lifeless and dark. He reached the water's edge in no time and scanned the scene for anything that resembled an egg. Neven hadn't been too detailed in his description of what he needed to look for, or even what part of the lake to look near and Zeke kicked himself for not trying to ask more questions. No location, not even a description of what kind of eggs he was looking for. Chicken? Sea turtle? Dinosaur?
The man whipped out his phone, ready to send off a message to the kid when the loud shriek threw him off guard. His phone fell out of his hand as he stared up at one of the escaped tigers from the Los Angeles Z- giant monster birds he and Deirdre had seen when they failed initiation. "Aw shit."
Leaping into action, the bird dove towards him, sending a few of it's razor sharp feathers zipping past him. A few lanced off his arms while one planted itself firmly in his thigh. Letting out a howl of pain, Zeke dove to the side, rolling quickly to get back on his feet, keeping all of his weight off the now injured leg. He grimaced, wishing for once to be the monster that hid inside him. There was no way the bird would be able to hold it's own against a wendigo, and the thought felt sour. He shouldn't wish to be a monster. But at the moment, if he could tell the truth, it sure as hell would come in handy.
The bird grew more frenzied and Zeke finally saw why: a few feet away, a large nest filled with ostrich sized eggs was nestled just out of sight. Eggs. Throwing a quick glance back to gauge the distance between him and his attacker, Zeke made the call. Launching himself forward, he managed to get his hand on the closest egg just as a pile of steaming, acidic shit hit the ground millimeters from his pinky finger. He and Deirdre had outrun one of the bastards once, now he just had to do it with a damn weaponized feather sticking out of his leg. Zeke grit his teeth and took off in the direction of his car feeling the air around him swirl with each flap of the giant bird’s wings. With every step Zeke took, the bird seemed to gain a mile. Feathers rained down around him, but luckily missed piercing through him. A couple grazed his arms, his cheek, one even nicked his ear, but he was used to getting bruised up.
His car in sight, Zeke pushed as hard as he could, the pain in his leg worsening with each stride. That was gonna be a bitch later, but other than being a hindrance, it wasn't exactly at the forefront if his mind. The bird seemed to fall behind, maybe not wanting to stray too far from her eggs, but it continued to aim projectiles with deadly force. Thanking God he was in too much of a rush to lock the door, Zeke ripped it open and hurled himself and the egg inside just as another pile of shit flew at the window. He thrust the car into drive and slammed his foot on the pedal, leaving the bird behind. Blood seemed to pour out of his leg and Zeke groaned, knowing there would be no getting all the blood out of the upholstery. He glanced down at the egg in his lap.
