#there’s a little bit of whump going on but it’s punctuated by his purposeful and deliberate optimism and I feel like when it comes to the | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whumping-every-day · 5 years

Text

Vampire Whump 6: The Journey

I’m back at it again with more vampire whump!!! Have another 4k words of Callum and this nameless vampire, traipsing through the desert and being dumbasses.

Content Warnings for this one: Conditioning, aftermath of torture, using ‘it’ as a pronoun, blood, fear, some comfort, reluctant caretaker, kindness, but the whumpiest kind, ??? It will get fluffier as we go, also, it’s fluffier than it sounds

Tagging the amazing @jay-whumples @pepperonyscience @learningtowhump @robinshouseofwhump @shameless-whumper @whumpingmydarlings @whump-em and @silverinkgoldenquill, who asked for more :)

Masterlist

The journey is long, and the vampire spends most of it totally numb and disconnected. Something horrible is waiting for it back in its own body, it always is. But it has not struggled, and so far, it has not been hurt. The very idea of mercy in return for obedience is ludicrous. And yet, Callum’s hand has remained, soft and gentle on its back, seemingly with no purpose other than to comfort. It had frightened the vampire, at first, thinking it was being held down. But time is trickling by, and the hunter’s hand has stayed.

It’s the longest the vampire can ever remember being touched without pain.

But as the hours tick by, even the vampire’s distance from its own body can’t ease the growing discomfort. With its arms bound behind its back, most of its weight rests on abused ribs. The pressure from being slung over the saddle is becoming harder to ignore.

The transition from uncomfortable to painful takes several hours, and as it happens, the vampire only clenches its jaw shut tighter. The creature doesn’t understand what is happening, or where it is being taken. But it is determined to stay quiet, and still, and obedient. The muzzle could be put back on at any time. Its ribs are broken, and the discomfort spikes into agony with every sway of the horse. But the creature is still covered by the bag, keeping away from the scorching sun. This is still better, the vampire reminds itself, even as tears of pain start to prick at its eyes. This is still better.

“Hey. You alright down there?” The vampire flinches at Callum’s voice. It’s immediately tense, and its fingers flex fearfully behind its back, feeling the pull and tug of the rope. It hasn’t moved, hasn’t made any noise. It’s trying to behave. But somehow, it’s still managed to do something wrong. The vampire’s breath hitches as the horse slows, biting the inside of its cheek.

“You’re shaking,” Callum murmurs, and this time it sounds like he’s talking to himself. The vampire hangs there in petrified silence, swaying slightly with the motion of the horse. “Hmm. Maybe we’ve been going long enough…” The sun it gone, the vampire realizes belatedly. The warmth sinking into the fabric has been slowly easing, and now there is a breeze nipping at its feet through the end. “Alright. Just another few minutes. I’ll find somewhere to stop.”

When the hunter pulls them to a halt next, the sound is different. It echoes slightly, distorting the clack of hooves on stone, and there is the babbling of fresh water. Callum pulls the mare to a stop, and there’s a few moments of silence as the vampire just dangles there, waiting for the inevitable.

“Alright. Easy does it…” The hunter has dismounted, and he is unusually gentle as he pulls the vampire from the saddle. “There we go. That was a long ride, I know. Jeez, you’re going to need more blood, aren’t you…” It doesn’t feel like the hunter is talking to it, and the vampire just curls into itself. It is fully expecting to be dropped, or thrown, and so is surprised when instead, it’s carefully set on the ground. “Stay.” It’s said with a hint of warning, but punctuated with another one of those little pats. The vampire whines softly and immediately goes limp, and its breath is frozen in its lungs as the hunter’s footsteps move away.

The creature is still bound within the fabric, and it can’t do much more than lie on its side, but that is still a relief. How many times, during its existence of torment, had it longed to simply lie down? The outside air is fresh in its lungs, on its tongue, and the vampire takes a moment just to feel it. There are no shackles grinding against broken bones, no muzzle burning into its mouth, no unexpected kick to its unprotected stomach. It still can’t see, or move, and its broken knees were never healed to begin with… but that is a small price to pay for the moment of rest.

There is a soft thump as something is dropped onto the floor. Then there’s the sound of shuffling, a faint clinking, and then the hunter is crouching down over it again. The vampire’s whole body tenses, and it quickly squeezes its eyes shut. The gentle handling will stop now, surely. There was no reason for it to begin with.

Instead, the man speaks. “Careful now. I’m going to take the ropes off.” The bindings begin to loosen, ankles first, then knees – and the ropes were tied more carefully there, for reasons unknown to the vampire. The hunter’s hands are cool, and his fingers are calloused and rough, but they are careful while he works at the rope.

Once the materials fall away, the creature isn’t restrained at all, save for where its arms are tied behind its back. The vampire is still naked, and the air is cool on its skin. It doesn’t dare look anywhere near the hunter’s face. Callum does not need a reason to hurt it, after all, and the man has several… even besides the obvious. It is evening now, edging into night. Soon, the hunter will have to make sure the creature cannot run.

“You with me?” There are fingers waved in front of its face, and the vampire jolts away with a pathetic little whimper. There’s no hesitation, just blatant fear, and Callum sighs. “Yikes. Alright. You just sit tight, then.”

The man pushes upright and walks away, and the lack of pain is dizzying.

The creature is left alone, and it isn’t chained down. Callum is moving about the camp, and the vampire’s gaze lingers on his back, wide-eyed and wondering. The hunter is tall, and broad, and he excludes confidence and strength. He is also scarred, and while the only visible weapon is the knife at his belt, something deeply instinctual tells the vampire that this is a man accustomed to violence. This is a hunter just like the others, with anger and wrath in his blood. But the vampire glances down at itself, and at its lack of new injuries, and it can’t reconcile the information. The confusion hurts, thinking hurts, and soon enough the creature just squeezes its eyes shut and hides behind its knees.

The hunter has left his pack by the old, discarded firepit, sitting there so innocuously. There are chains and a muzzle in there, the vampire knows, and probably other things. It wonders, absently, if all the hunter’s implements are iron-free, or if that is a mercy reserved for when the man is feeling generous.

There’s a small commotion from where Callum has tied the horse, and the vampire flinches again, abruptly snapping back into the present.

“Whoa there, steady girl. Steady. I know, I know.” The hunter is murmuring to her, soft, soothing little nothings, and it’s familiar. It’s the exact same way Callum has been trying to soothe the vampire, and it is… bizarre. Some humans are kind to their beasts of labor, of course; those certain humans with more empathy or compassion than others. But it makes no sense directed towards a captive vampire. A vampire offers no labor, only sick, twisted amusement.

The creature can only watch as Callum dips the bowl under the shallow cut in the mare’s shoulder… which must have been the source of the commotion in the first place. The hunter is slipping his knife back into his belt, and the horse stamps a foot, clearly displeased, but she lets the hunter stroke her neck. When Callum offers her a bit of sugar, she accepts the bribe.

The bleeding stops quickly, and Callum rubs a bit of salve into the tiny slice as the mare nickers and swishes her tail. It is only when the hunter approaches with the full bowl that the vampire understands. It hardly dares to look up, as if looking at the bowl will give away how hungry it is. There will be a price to pay, it is sure, before it will be allowed to drink. Its knees are nearly whole again, and its hip is no longer grotesquely out of place… it can crawl, it thinks, if the hunter wants it to. It can grovel and beg.

“Here.” Callum sits, and he’s so close so abruptly that the vampire jerks, whining softly. Such proximity brings punishment, always. Especially when it’s feeding time.

From where he’s sitting, Callum can only watch the vampire as it cowers in place. It’s so skinny, and the creature is still visibly broken in places. Its lower legs don’t sit right, and there is an old ring of bruises around its neck, mottled yellow and green. There’s so much filth and grit covering its skin, Callum can’t even tell what color it’s supposed to be. The hunter sighs again, and the creature flinches and immediately goes silent.

“I’m going to untie you now,” Callum says, setting the bowl aside for just a moment. “No funny business.” The knife is in his hand again before he even thinks about what he’s doing. Were it any other vampire, Callum wouldn’t have even considered letting it free. These things weren’t human, after all; they were just human bodies, dead and come back again, overwritten with mindless bloodlust. This creature would kill him in a heartbeat, as soon as it was able to. And yet, Callum looks down at the poor thing, quivering in place and face still half-healed from the muzzle, and he can’t do it.

“Steady,” he murmurs, and slices the rope. The vampire squeezes its eyes shut until the knife is put away, and even then, the creature is huddled low to the ground, eyes darting fearfully between the bowl of blood and Callum’s feet. It still hasn’t looked up at him.

If anything, it seems like the creature is more scared now that its arms are free. They fall forward automatically when the rope is cut, and the motion earns a pained gasp. They’re still very much broken, Callum notes, as the creature cradles its brutalized wrists in its lap.

No matter the case, there’s no way it can drink on its own. Callum just shakes his head and picks up the bowl again. “Okay. Come here.”

He keeps it as brief as possible, but there’s no way to feed the creature without touching it. Callum steadies it by leaning it against his side, and the vampire is thin and fragile against him, quivering like a small, broken bird. It is difficult to imagine this creature as one of the monsters he hunts.

“There we go,” Callum murmurs as the vampire downs the last of the blood. There’s a faint flush staining its cheeks, and it is a little out of breath as Callum pulls the bowl away. Horse blood isn’t much better than pigs, in terms of how much it will heal the creature… but it is better than nothing, and Callum knows he can’t give any more yet.

It is entirely habitual to reach up and pat the creature’s head once it finishes, just like Callum does with his horse, or the stray dog he sometimes feeds in the back alley. It feels natural, and he realizes only after that it is not something he should be doing.

The vampire, for its part, seems almost drugged. Its eyes are hazy and distant, and it slumps against Callum, leaning the entirety of its weight – which is almost nothing – against the hunter’s chest. It is a startling display of trust, or perhaps simply of vulnerability. The vampire has proven that it understands its position; it has not made a single aggressive move since Callum laid eyes on it, and it doesn’t seem inclined to do so now.

“Well.” Callum is mostly nonplussed, and it is vaguely uncomfortable to have the vampire’s fangs so close to his skin. Really, he ought to have the creature muzzled… doing otherwise is foolishness, any hunter would tell him so. And yet.

The man sighs, and the vampire whines softly in response, curling its injured wrists more closely to its chest. The creature doesn’t seem that old, for a vampire. Of course, age could be difficult to tell with these things… but if Callum had to guess, he’d call it young. Very young.

“You didn’t even do anything to deserve this, did you,” he murmurs. He can feel the creature hesitate against him, but there is no response.

Considering the state of its body, the vampire should still be starving… and a starving vampire should be trying to rip Callum’s throat out. But the creature is only sitting there curled into him, meek and completely docile. It’s trembling against him, faint but present, and the moment is far more intimate than it should be.

“Okay. Alright.” Callum firmly pulls away. The creature is still kitten weak, and Callum pushes back to his feet and leaves it by the firepit. It’s still unrestrained, and somewhere, somehow, Callum knows that’s a bad idea. But instead of rectifying the problem, the hunter just fixes the vampire with a warning look and jabs a finger in its direction. “You had better stay where you are.” The words or else are perfectly clear, if unsaid, and the creature flinches and nods frantically.

This was not how Callum had seen this going. When he’d first set out, he’d been expecting a vampire like the vampires he hunted; strong, fast, and absolutely hellbent on bloodshed. He’d been expecting a mission of containment. But this creature he finds himself in possession of… none of the old rules apply. The old rules can’t apply, or Callum won’t be able to live with himself.

In the end, the hunter can only sigh, again, and dig into his pack for dinner. He eats, then collects firewood from the surrounding area. It’s the dry season, and he doesn’t even have to let the vampire out of his sight to find enough wood. The creature seems to have taken his words to heart; it hasn’t moved since Callum told it to stay, and it flinches and shrinks down smaller every time it sees Callum checking on it.

The perfect obedience is unsettling.

The hunter is pulling out his bedroll and blanket when a new thought occurs. He can’t leave the creature free at night, that is too far, even for him. But Callum can still see how red and raw the vampire’s wrists and ankles are, even from the other side of the fire.

Silently, Callum digs out a less-used shirt from the bottom of his pack, and then fills his traveling pot with water. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters to himself as he tears the shirt into thin strips and sets the pot to boil. It takes some time to heat up, and Callum pretends he doesn’t hear the terrified, bitten-off gasp when the liquid starts to boil. He waits while it cools, and once it is no longer steaming, Callum takes both items and comes to crouch in front of the vampire again. Its eyes widen as he approaches, and the creature whimpers and flinches away… but it’s trapped against the log. It can’t go anywhere, and it twists its face away when Callum lifts a hand.

“Let me see your wrists.” The vampire trembles, and it lets out a frightened, choked sob. But it still offers its bloody wrists, and Callum winces at the sight of the distended flesh. They aren’t even set properly, and there are still open wounds, weeping blood and puss from where the shackles had bitten into skin. “Okay. Breath, buddy.”

The vampire is still expecting to be hurt, but its terror of displeasing him seems stronger than whatever it fears Callum might do to its wrists. It is deathly still, aside from the initial cowering. Callum is as gentle as he can be as he dabs at the torn flesh, making sure the water isn’t too hot. When the wounds are at least mostly clean, Callum carefully winds the strips of cloth around the creature’s wrists. He’s got nothing to set the broken bones with… but the wraps will provide some support, and protect the open wounds from irritation. Infection is a long-lost battle, but hopefully being immortal means he doesn’t have to worry about that.

“There we go.” The vampire stares at its bandaged wrists for a long moment, and its expression is flat and uncomprehending. But its gaze flickers slowly from its wrists to the empty bowl of blood, then back to its wrists, then up to Callum, and the naked gratitude in the creature’s eyes hits him like a punch to the gut.

It’s the first time the vampire has willingly looked up at him. Caring for its wrists is a small kindness, but clearly, it’s more than the vampire is used to. Callum’s throat bobs as he swallows, and in the end he has to look away. “Right. Just… just sit tight for a sec.”

Callum uses the trip back over to his pack to clear his head. He can’t leave the creature unrestrained during the night, no matter how harmless it seems. Even a weak vampire can crawl across a camp site and slit his throat. But Callum had been expecting a vicious beast, and he’d packed accordingly. He isn’t prepared for this tiny waif of a vampire that flinches and cowers at every sudden move. He’s not going to muzzle the creature or clap it in iron chains, there’s no way.

But the vampire, when he returns, is clearly expecting both. It has shifted to its knees, palms held loose in its lap, even though Callum knows the position must be agony. It’s waiting for him, head bowed low, and it flinches when Callum drops his pack. He’s already got the rope out as he crouches.

“I’m in a pit of a pickle, here,” Callum says absently. “See, I can’t leave you free during the night… But I don’t really want to chain you up.” The vampire is frozen, and it is projecting fear with every ounce of its body. It dares a glance down to its unshackled wrists, then up to Callum as the hunter lowers himself to the packed earth.

It still hasn’t spoken, hasn’t tried to form anything except gasps. But it watches Callum, and eventually its eyes fix on the rope. There is silence for a long moment. Then it moves, very, very slowly, to hold out its wrists. They’re visibly swollen under the wrappings, and Callum knows that even the faintest pressure would bring agony. Yet still the creature holds them out in offering, head down, like it’s trying to appease him. It’s quiet for a moment, and then the vampire makes a soft, questioning kind of noise.

Callum just stares at it for a long moment, and then groans and drags a hand down his face. “Jesus, kid. You’re making this hard on purpose, aren’t you.” It’s said without any real malice, but the creature still flinches in response. It’s trembling again, and it won’t look at him, but it is still holding out its brutalized wrists. Callum stares some more, and suddenly, out of the blue, he’s frustrated. This isn’t how this trip was supposed to go, and this one vampire has somehow managed to fuck the whole thing up. “Fucking Christ, put your hands down,” he snaps. “What kind of vampire are you, anyway?”

The vampire folds under his tone like a stack of cards. One second it’s kneeling, silent and waiting to be tied up. The next it’s flat on the ground, whimpering and shielding its face. The creature doesn’t understand what it’s done wrong, but it understands that tone. That tone heralds a flurry of kicks and blows, and the creature bleats in terror as the hunter stands. It remembers those boots, heavy and spurred, it knows how much being kicked will hurt.

There’s silence, and it quivers, and waits. There’s a lot of waiting with this man, it seems – waiting to be hurt, waiting for the hunter to snap, waiting to be treated the way it deserves.

So it waits.

And waits.

And – and there is nothing.

The vampire is sobbing against the dirt, curled into the smallest shape it can possibly manage. The position protects its vulnerable innards from the hunter’s wrath, but leaves its back and sides exposed. But there is still nothing, even as the vampire’s breath comes in panicked heaves. At some point, abject terror starts to mix with confusion. Perhaps the hunter is waiting for it. Or perhaps punishment will come the next day, when the sun rises again.

There is a faint clank nearby, and the vampire jumps like it’s been electrocuted. It wheezes in alarm, and it collapses in on itself, trying to curl its arms more around its head. But there is nowhere to go, and even if it could run… the creature knows better. How could it have forgotten so soon? Pain will come for it, no matter what it does. Pain will always come for it.

“Easy, bud.” The hunter speaks from somewhere nearby, and even though the voice is calm, it still has the vampire absolutely petrified. It thrashes and screams when it is touched. “Jesus, kid – still! Hold still.” The grip on its ankle tightens, and the vampire gives one last terrified moan and goes limp. “Holy fuck,” the hunter mutters. The vampire can’t think, or see, or move. It is consumed by the fear, and there is nothing left to do but be still and wait. “Still,” the man repeats, and the vampire whimpers.

In the end, there is no pain dealt. Instead, something closes around the vampire’s ankle, cold and rigid. The creature knows what a manacle feels like, but the metal does not burn. And that means… that means it isn’t iron. That means that even after the little scene it had caused, the hunter is still showing it mercy. There’s no burning, just cold steel, and the vampire covers its face and cries with relief.

The hunter, it seems, is done trying to talk to it. The log it is lying under is ancient and gnarled, and Callum loops the attached chain through one of the many openings, and locks it closed. It leaves the vampire with only a few feet of loose chain, but it is only bound by one ankle. It is an almost unimaginable amount of freedom.

The vampire expects to be left like that, curled on the ground and still shaking. Instead, the human’s footsteps approach one more time. There’s a pause, and then a quiet sigh.

“I’m… I’m sorry, kid. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Try and get some sleep, okay…?” Something soft settles against the creature’s skin, and its eyes fly open, flinching back hard enough to hit its head on the log. It winces at the dull pain, but the thing covering its skin is bizarrely soft. A blanket?

The vampire’s thoughts grind to a halt for a solid ten minutes, during which Callum hesitates, tucks it in, and goes to bed.

There is blood, singing warm and soothing through its body, and exhaustion looms, heavy and foreboding. But the creature cannot quite tear its attention away from the blanket. It’s so soft, and so warm… and it smells like Callum. Even after everything, after the trouble it has caused, and after knowing what it deserves… the hunter has still chosen to give it a blanket.

The creature does not fault the hunter for ensuring his own safety. But for some unfathomable reason, Callum has decided to bind it in a way that does not hurt. The vampire is… astonished. It is reminded, suddenly, of that morning, when it had felt Callum crouch down above it for the first time, with his gentle voice and careful hands. It remembers thinking that it had felt a lot like mercy.

It is slow, and fearful, but eventually the creature’s fingers wind into the blanket. It’s like holding onto a cloud, and the vampire whimpers and immediately clutches it closer. The blanket is big enough to cover its whole body, and it is softer than anything the vampire can remember touching. It’s comforting. It’s soothing, of all the things, and the vampire is greedy in how it latches onto the comfort. It rubs its cheek against the fabric, and shudders silently at the softness of it.

In the end, the vampire is completely covered, save for the tuft of hair that peeks out at the top. The creature has crunched itself up into a tiny ball, and the blanket is tucked carefully underneath all the edges. The only thing sticking out is its ankle, and it’s the most comfortable the vampire has been in months. Or maybe ever. There are bruised fingers wound into the blanket in a death grip, and that grip is the last thing to loosen as sleep approaches.

Morning will bring a new swath of horrors, the vampire knows, because it always does. But in that moment, it is warm, and comfortable, and fed. The hunter has been so gentle with it, and the vampire can’t understand. But it does not need to understand to be grateful, and the creature tucks its nose against the soft blanket and closes its eyes. Maybe now it can rest. Just for a little.

[END]

Previous Next

#whump #my writing #vampire whump #fear #reluctant caretaking #callum is trying #this is a monster #how long does it take u guys to read through this??? like i am genuinely curious #i cant stare at it any more but i wonder how much time it takes to consume #on that note i appreciate everyone who write for free so so much #hhnndfgfdjhgkjhfg

508 notes · View notes

twofrontteethstillcrooked · 6 years

Text

"You should stay with him tonight," Thomas whispered in James's ear.

James pulled back. "Oh? And where will you be?"

"In our bed, sleeping peacefully, I should think."

James gave him a long look. "You could join us, you know."

"No," Thomas said, kissing behind James's ear. "Not yet. He's not...there yet."

"But you are?" James held Thomas's head in his hands.

More summarized summary: Germs and pining. Snippetfic, silverflint/flinthamilton/silverflinthamilton. Angst, humor.

(snippet is over at AO3 too but like every other thing I’ve tried to post today anywhere on earth, the AO3 share function isn’t working correctly. wow this year! just keeps going.)

The knife clattering to the table punctuated the end of the paragraph Thomas was reading, and he sat his book aside.

"Carrots fighting back," he asked, "or are we about to be invaded?"

James was squinting out the window like he'd expected it to be sunny and fair instead of falling dark now for at least two solid hours. His posture was that of a man about to pick up the knife and charge at whatever attacker might kick down the door.

Of course it would be Silver arriving home for the evening. They hadn't seen him since the day before yesterday. He'd come home late and so had they. The sounds of him getting ready and leaving in the morning had been proof of his being alive and Thomas hadn't thought to worry. Before, anyway.

"What the hell happened to you?" James said the instant Silver had breached the doorway.

Silver paused in removing his outer garments only enough to throw him a puzzled glance. "Nothing?"

Thomas was puzzled as well, likely for different reasons.

James strode over and grasped Silver's shoulders, patting him down as Silver tried to finish unwinding his scarf. "Are you hurt somewhere else?"

The banked panic in James's tone would have amused Thomas if it hadn't been so plaintive.

Silver, for his part, continued to look baffled -- but also strangely younger than the last time Thomas had seen him.

"I'm not hurt at all," Silver said, shaking off James's grip. "Have you gone mad?"

"What the fuck happened to your beard?" James demanded. And then he hiccupped, as if hearing how histrionic his question had been.

Thomas took a sip of scotch and tried not to laugh out loud.

"I shaved it off two days ago," Silver said. He had hold of James's hands, to keep them otherwise off his body. "Well, the razor slipped, actually, while I was trying to trim one side, and my attempt to, um, even up the other side didn't really work, so anyway, it was just easier, in the end, to shave all of it off and start over."

James took back one hand to rub a thumb over the little scab low on Silver's right cheek. Thomas held his breath, watching the way that smallest of touches made Silver go utterly still, his eyes on James's as if they were negotiating the next salvo in some long-standing argument. Or: something else entirely.

Thomas could not quite believe how different the lack of beard -- well, the old beard of two days ago -- made Silver appear. Silver was young, younger than Thomas had realized; young with so little effort. It made Thomas feel desperately old, for reasons he could not begin to understand, while inversely the sight of James's hand cupping Silver's now only slightly rough jaw just made Thomas feel warm, like someone had snuck in and built roaring fires in every room, had lit three dozen candles in the kitchen alone.

James's voice was now tempered with something like wonder. "It's been a long time," he said to Silver, "since I have actually seen your face." He smiled, as though at some joke he and Silver shared.

Silver breathed out a small laugh. He still seemed a little confused, but game. "Well. It's been here the whole time." He broke the eye contact with James to wave at Thomas. "Good evening, Mr. Hamilton."

His eyes were exceptionally blue, Thomas thought. But he'd known that already, hadn't he?

"Good evening, Mr. Silver. Nice to see you."

James spent the rest of the evening glancing at Silver with barely concealed lust that far outpaced anything the lively debate over card games should have caused. (Thomas was officially on the record as finding lanterloo stupid.) Silver didn't mind James's attention, Thomas could tell. But within Silver's return glances were also an odd sort of timidity that ought to have been out of place by this stage in his relationship with James. Silver, Thomas deduced, was good at pretending, and in the absence of the need to do that he was being forced to confront the continual fact of someone's genuine desire. Thomas almost wanted to tease him about it.

That was not all Thomas increasingly wanted.

"You should stay with him tonight," Thomas whispered in James's ear.

James pulled back. "Oh? And where will you be?"

"In our bed, sleeping peacefully, I should think."

James gave him a long look. "You could join us, you know."

"No," Thomas said, kissing behind James's ear. "Not yet. He's not...there yet."

"But you are?" James held Thomas's head in his hands.

Well, Lord Hamilton, are you? In the corner of the kitchen Silver was putting away bowls and trying not to look like he was eavesdropping. Thomas felt a surge of affection for him.

"Soon," he told James. He picked up his papers and pen and bottle of ink. "Goodnight, Mr. Silver," he said on the way out.

"Goodnight, Mr. Hamilton," Silver called back.

From the hall Thomas could see James take Silver's hand, could see Silver's mouth just before James kissed it.

Soon, Thomas thought again, and closed the door.

James snuck in an hour or two before dawn and climbed in bed rumpled and positively glowing.

Thomas rolled over and grinned at him. "Exhausted, love?" James gave a noncommittal hum and rubbed his hand up under Thomas's nightshirt. "Ah. Would you like to be?"

James smiled, very wickedly.

The next evening, as occasionally occurred, Thomas and Silver's paths crossed in town and they made the walk home together.

"You returned to this godforsaken wasteland on purpose?"

When Silver spoke, his words echoed, both literally and with incredulousness. His disbelief was warranted, Thomas thought; the weather had turned brutal in the last hour, and the two of them were picking their way to the house on a path half snowed and half iced over, against wind cutting down through the trees like a sword wielded by an angry, clumsy giant.

"I missed the long hours of English sunlight," Thomas said, as though musing on it, and took pleasure in the sputtered laugh Silver made.

(What had he missed? Miranda, James. Mornings of woolen fog and tea served in delicate china; fat, inquisitive robins perched on branches, who would quirk their small heads from side to side if he whistled at them from an open window; the corner of the garden behind his father's house, where the cabbage rose bushes crowded out the cobblestone path; his sister Pene, and the way she jabbed -- not dabbed -- at her watercolors when enraged with one tutor or another, which had been most of the time. Debates with guests who raised their voices to argue for or against his points, sloshing wine out of exquisite long-stemmed glasses. The bustle on London streets, and the quiet in his old study where he had once gone to his knees and made James blush and swear and relent. The festive scent of plum pottage served by the old cook, Fiona; Fiona herself, and the jolly way she used to bang her wooden spoon on the lip of the iron pot, barely missing his fingers as he tried to sneak a bit of beef. He missed polished wooden floors, candles trimmed by servants, fussy hors d'oeuvres. He missed his life sometimes, and sometimes hated that he missed it, because much of it had been bought with more blood than he could ever atone for.)

An icicle from a tree branch stabbed itself into the snow piled to Thomas's left. At the same moment Silver slipped, and steadied himself by bringing Thomas to a fast halt with a hand like a vise around Thomas's elbow, which hurt. It would be worse if one or both of them fell: this logic led Thomas to put an arm around Silver's waist and haul him toward the house. By the time they were at the doorstep the idea had proven to be a regrettable one, since Silver was making a truly indescribable noise, his crutch was dragging the ground like a claw, and Thomas was exhausted.

"You sound like a mangy cat my grandfather once tried to bathe," James commented, upon opening the door for them.

Thomas pushed Silver at him, and slammed the door shut with a satisfying whump. "He is heavier than a cat."

Silver started, "I didn't ask--"

"Shall I put you back?" Thomas discovered there was no way to take off his coat and scarf without a spray of melting ice pellets flying from his body. Most of them hit Silver, which was gratifying.

James had stepped away, leaving Silver propped against the kitchen table, where he had enough balance to take off his own coat in as violent a manner as possible. Snow pelted Thomas as though he had not succeeded in closing the door.

"No biting," James called out from wherever in the house he had taken himself off to, the scoundrel.

Narrowing his eyes at Silver, Thomas advanced slowly. Silver did not cower; he pushed himself up to full height, everything about his expression a dare. Thomas took a second to be impressed, since he held no illusions about what Silver was capable of if threatened. Thomas wondered if Silver would be shocked at what Thomas was capable of -- he doubted it. They had seemed from the beginning to recognize something about each other, voiced or not; they were not men to be trifled with.

The lump of snow that had coagulated in a fold of Thomas's scarf created such a perfect weapon he was almost sorry to destroy it by crushing it on top of Silver's head, and the rules of genteel behavior should probably have dictated he not afterwards try to dash away. Nevertheless. Live for the moment, that was one of Thomas's mottos in his new life.

Possibly Silver had more experience putting such things into practice. He was far more talented with that crutch than Thomas had anticipated. The crutch did wind up under the table, but so did Thomas. Somehow. He'd lost a few seconds of comprehension in the descent. By the time James wandered back into the room Silver had sat down in the nearest chair and Thomas had regained the ability to take a full breath.

"Actually, maybe biting would have worked out better for you," James suggested.

The floor was hard against Thomas's back. When he stretched his legs out his spine seemed to crack in an agreeable way. "I was only trying to help." He reached over to unbuckle Silver's boot, on the theory that while he was down there he may as well make himself useful.

"By hitting me with a snowball?" Silver asked.

"By getting you into the house in one piece, before you caused us both to break a hip."

Silver wiggled his foot out of the boot. "Ah. Yeah." He held out a hand, and Thomas let him pull him up to a sitting position.

"Well?" Thomas said. He narrowed his eyes at Silver again.

"All right, yes." Silver scratched at his jaw. "Thank you, Mr. Hamilton, for your valuable assistance traversing the inclement elements," he muttered while looking anywhere but at Thomas.

"You're welcome, Mr. Silver." Thomas used Silver's leg as leverage to stand up. His elbow was still his sorest point, so there was a valuable lesson, he supposed. Why they weren't having Silver chop wood more often was beyond him.

It was easy, possibly too easy, to brush the last remnants of snow out of Silver's hair as he passed by. Out of the corner of his eye Thomas could see James watching him -- and not smiling but wanting to smile -- and Thomas flicked the snow off his fingers with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Thomas was almost out of reach when Silver wrapped one of his freakishly strong hands around Thomas's elbow again; Silver's grip was gentler this time. If the gesture wasn't exactly an apology, it was, Thomas thought, close enough to count.

Silver kept hanging on.

"Yes?" Thomas asked.

Silver peered at him. "Do you feel well?"

Bit of a bruised ego but all in all right as a line, Thomas started to say. James was beside him with a cool hand on his forehead, and a concerned wrinkle sketched between his eyes.

"You have a fever," James said, sounding shocked.

"Oh." Thomas patted Silver's hand, then kissed James's cheek. "That might why be I'm so bloody tired." He felt heavy and irritatingly hot, as if from nowhere: one minute hale and the next hobbled.

James said, "You should rest. I could bring you a bite to eat in bed. Do not say something lewd in response."

Silver let go of Thomas, smiling as he rolled his eyes at James. "May I assist anyone?"

"Hmm," James said, before kissing Thomas's cheek in turn.

Then he and Silver set to tasks as though able to read each other's minds, a thought that might have frightened Thomas more if they had not proven in the past to be so spectacularly bad at it when it came to certain things. Thomas took himself out of the kitchen and indeed put himself in bed. He listened to their knocking around each other as they chopped food and chatted and took what was surely a brief interlude for kissing, before Silver said "SHIT," and James -- it was obviously James -- raced from one point to another and the sound of a lid being thrown on a pot rang throughout. Thomas meant to stay awake just a while longer, just to see what they might bring him for sustenance. James laughed at something, and Silver said something in response that made him laugh again.

Thomas fell asleep against the pillows.

In the morning, he woke first, his fever discarded. James was plastered to his side in large part by Silver pinning him against Thomas, and neither of them stirred a bit. For some reason, from nowhere, he remembered Miranda's hair like iron gall ink spilt across a white sheet, her eyes sharp as she recited, "'Past cure I am, now reason is past care, and frantic-mad with evermore unrest.'" He missed her, oh; he missed their life.

Slowly the knife-edge of the memory faded, such that he could think of her without cutting himself on it. James spread his hand on Thomas's stomach; Silver made a soft trill like he was being surprised in a dream. Thomas watched them wake as dawn lit up the room, James blinking and Silver stretching, the bed creaking, everything muffled and warm. What would I pay to have the past again, Thomas asked himself. Would I be able to give this -- them -- back? There were no bargains to be made.

James said, "Are you feeling better?"

"None the worse for a good night's rest," Thomas said. He kissed James's mouth, and rose to start the day.

A few days later it finally happened.

"It's none of my business," Silver said, and like most people who said that sort of thing then continued, "but I am curious. What made you return to England? Flint's not really said." He was unwrapping a wedge of Dorset blue and held it up like he'd expected it to be something else. "I can ever tell when this sort of cheese goes bad. It smells like moldy feet even when fresh."

Thomas took the second comment first, trying to recollect the rhyme. "Something, something, 'covered with scales, not weepy, white, or blind, but weighty and firm with a crusty rind.' Something like that."

Silver looked at him like he was insane.

"I vote we let James eat a piece and if he lives the cheese probably hasn't gone off," Thomas said. "We came back to England because it seemed. I don't know. Like the right place to start."

Silver crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter. "You didn't want to forge another path in the new world?"

Thomas steadied the wood he'd been stacking by the hearth. "It was never going to be as simple as all that, not for me. Not after. Well."

He rearranged a few of the logs to make the ones at the bottom a more stable foundation for the stack. What he felt about England, the colonies, what England had done; what his father had done and how he had benefited from it-- What England was continuing to do; the new world; those roughly ten years of his life struggling to stay alive, to figure out a way to wrench himself free again-- His feelings on each and every topic seemed to change five times an hour, and the harder he tried to grasp something final on the matter the more they seemed to fly through his fingers like chaff. The escape had been one thing, the journey to England something else.

He had wanted to come back because he could not stay where he was; it hadn't meant he would stay in England forever, or that he would force James to. And eventually, Thomas thought, a path would present itself. Before, he'd considered himself tenacious. Bold, perhaps. He hadn't always felt brave. He had mostly felt compelled, destined; propelled forward to progress and for progress. He had been a man who marched forward, and the world had seemed to welcome his advances.

...Until it hadn't.

There were only so many truths he believed in his marrow now. He loved James; James loved him.

"I'll confess, I haven't quite figured everything out, nor what I hope to achieve now we're in England again. It has been a mercy, of a sort, to not have to have an answer right away." He slapped wood dust from his hands. "That could change eventually; for now, this is home."

And you are part of that, Mr. Silver, Thomas didn't say.

When he looked over Silver wore a thoughtful expression. "What?" Thomas asked.

Silver shook his head. "You're." He shook his head again. "You keep not being what I expected." He said it like he knew it was an admission of something. He cleared his throat a little. "In some ways."

"Thank you?" Thomas wondered which pieces of himself appeased some prior speculation Silver had made. "It's. Mutual." Thomas chose not to elaborate on that.

Silver didn't seem to mind; he'd returned to poking at the cheese with his knife-tip. Perhaps Thomas was imagining it but something bleak seemed to have washed over Silver's face.

"When you do decide what to do with the rest of your life, you mustn't not leave if you need to," Silver said quietly.

Thomas wasn't certain he'd followed that. "I--"

"Not that you need my permission either way," Silver said. "But if you ever need to leave, to storm the palace or what-have-you, leave. He'll follow you, without question."

Without thinking, Thomas replied, "I've no preliminary plans to start an insurrection, but if we ever leave, you're coming with us."

Silver stilled. When he looked at Thomas again, Thomas looked back with as much composure as possible.

He'd meant what he said, and he hoped Silver would interpret it as a simple statement of fact instead of a threat -- although, in a way, it was the sort of promise that could be construed as less than benign. Thomas was striving to be a good person, and on the other hand he would be, if not happy, then immensely capable of denying Silver a variety of God-given freedoms if it meant James would not suffer. And James would suffer, greatly, were he parted from Silver again.

Thomas could practically hear Silver running through various scenarios in his head, fast as a hare tearing through underbrush to escape a fox. He liked that about him, that mercurial cleverness, and had to acknowledge he would be foolish to suppose he could best Silver at any number of challenges, should it come to that. Thomas was determined to leave his own naivety as far in the past as possible and perhaps a wiser man would already have plotted the means by which to secure as much of a coveted future as possible; some might implore him to never assume Silver would fit, or could be corralled, into such plans.

But Thomas could see Silver's eyes. Those were the eyes of someone terrified at the mere thought of hurting James again. You are spending too much time, Thomas told himself, looking into those eyes. A smaller voice said, James isn't the only person he's scared of hurting -- and don't be daft, of course you know the others aren't only himself and Madi.

Silver blinked slowly. He'd seen something on Thomas's face.

"To clarify, I should say James and I have no intention of absconding with you to other places of residence at this time," Thomas said, attempting to lighten the mood, "but should our circumstances change you will be given plenty of notice in which to tie up any loose ends you may have here, write to Madi -- to let her know the rebellion's rendezvous point, since you know she'll want in on that -- make arrangements for the tavern, pack up the house, that sort of thing. No bolting in the dead of night for us." Charming, Lord Hamilton; you used to be charming.

"I look forward to appreciating your courtesy on the matter," Silver said, tone very dry, "when, as you say, such a time arrives."

Thomas picked at the spine of the book he'd brought home. Samuel Hooke, the local bookbinder, had demonstrated to Thomas that morning the sewing of end bands. Thomas mostly just wanted to know how to bind books so that he could make some for his own library. Samuel, aged 85, had been a teacher and took bookbinding seriously. His wife Ina was doting and chatty. Thomas liked them both very much.

(They had no idea who he'd been, and for the time being he rather liked that too.)

"Fables?" Silver asked, sitting down with a plate of grapes.

"Folk tales." Thomas opened the cover to show off the marbled end papers.

Further conversation on the subject was disrupted by James throwing open the door. As he came in he was chomping at the air, contorting his face as though possessed by demons, and tugging at his earlobes.

"What the hell," Silver said, eyes wide.

"You sound like you're in a cave," James said. He sounded like he'd spent all day screaming, which was not, as far as Thomas knew, a regular requirement of ship building. "My stomach itches."

It was such a bizarre thing for James to say Silver gaped at him like a fish.

Thomas took the lead, standing to help James out of his coat. "Oh dear. You're sick." He brushed James's hair back from his eyes. James's forehead could've cooked an egg.

"I hate being sick," James said as Thomas walked him into the bedroom.

After undressing and leaving most of his clothes on the floor, James was taking up the entire bed by lying across it diagonally. He was also shivering and writhing like he'd had too many cups of too strong tea. He'd been increasingly pitiful as the evening progressed. Thomas, sorting out the discarded clothes, was sympathetic and entertained both. He would not, however, be able to sleep in the tiny unoccupied wedge of mattress James wasn't flailing around on. Silver was coming to a similar conclusion.

"These pillows are prickly," James said. He punched at one with a weak fist and a few downy goose feathers puffed up into the air.

Silver gave Thomas a look. James's legs were twisted up in one of the blankets. It took a deal of strength for Thomas to unwind it out from under him, and James groaned like Thomas was doing him no favors. Silver left the room just as James tried to roll over and only Thomas prevented James's skull from being split on the edge of the bedside table.

"Could you help," Thomas said as Silver returned with more blankets and pillows.

Silver let the armload fall to the floor and plucked a pillow from the pile. "This one is softer," he explained to James, taking away the hated pillow and putting the new one under James's sweaty, irritable head.

James thrashed around some more and threw off his blanket. The chattering of his teeth could clearly be heard.

"We could just smother him," Silver suggested.

"Noooo," James said, as though anyone were seriously considering it.

Thomas toed the pile of extra blankets on the floor. "What are we doing with these?"

"Thought I'd sleep in here." Silver was trying to tie his hair back with string and his hair was behaving about as well as James.

Those delinquent curls were distracting. Thomas made himself focus. "Sleep in here where?"

"On the floor."

"Really."

"I've slept rough on far worse. Imagine you may have as well." Silver managed to get most of his hair pulled back, save one missed lock. Thomas's fingers itched to tuck it behind his ear.

James had thrown an arm over his eyes like a lady swooning in a terrible theatrical.

Silver took a patient breath and knelt down beside him in what had to have been an uncomfortable position. "Do you need some water?" he asked James. "Or perhaps some opium?"

James perked up. "Do you have some opium?"

"No." Silver's mouth was a line set grim.

"No fair," James said.

Silver stood up gracefully. "He'll be fine," he told Thomas, and then set about making a pallet on the floor between the bed and the room's small hearth.

Thomas busied himself fetching mugs of water and a wet cloth for James. When he arrived back in the room Silver had completely taken away the first pillow James had tried to mangle. Whatever had happened in the three minutes Thomas was in the kitchen had resulted in an isolated snowstorm of feathers. Silver gave Thomas another look and went back to raking the feathers into a pile, which he stuffed into the remnants of the pillow, before tossing the lot under the bed to be dealt with, presumably, another time.

"Please close your eyes and try to rest," Silver said, unfolding another blanket on top of James.

Thomas laid the cool wet cloth across James's hot forehead and patted him on the chest.

"Where are you going?" James asked.

"We'll be right over here," Thomas said, hoping Silver wouldn't be surprised they'd be sharing a pallet. "Try to sleep, love." He kissed James's cheek and James nodded, eyes already slipping shut, like he'd be dreaming soon.

"Hearth side, or bed side?" Silver asked. He was lowering himself to the floor.

"No preference." Thomas waited for him to stretch out in front of the hearth before sitting down beside him.

The wooden floor was not made appreciably softer by the padding of a quilt and a blanket but it would do. Silver was right: Thomas had passed more than one night on far worse surfaces. No good reason to dwell on it, Thomas told himself. Silver laid down, curled on his side facing away from the small fire. It felt oddly rude to lie down with his back to him, so Thomas curled on his side facing Silver. That one loose lock of hair proved too tempting -- he tucked it behind Silver's ear and took his hand back right away. Silver blinked at him, sleepiness showing in shadows under his eyes, and for a few minutes everything was peaceful.

Then: "'Of the same metals they likewise make chains and fetters for their slaves.'" A grumble as James scooched around on the mattress. "Listen, Thomas, go fuck yourself."

Thomas meant to explain, in an aside, that he was not the author of or reason for James's recitation. Before he could, Silver pinched the bridge of this nose and said, "Should we expect him to critique Utopia's shortcomings all evening, do you think?"

"Short," James said. Stopped up or not, he had ears like a bat. "Silver is shorter than I am and I am shorter than Thomas." He sounded fond. Thomas couldn't tell if he knew everyone else could hear him, but what did it matter. "Tuck tuck tuck, you can tuck Silver under your chin, you can nearly put him in your pocket." James cough-laughed. "But don't forget his enormous hands, ha. Which, mmm, made much more sense once I discovered his other, mmm, endowments. Blessings from the lord, ahh." He sounded fond and delirious.

Silver had put his enormous hands over his face by this point. Thomas couldn't really blame him.

"Thomas's is also, well, whew," James murmured, as though the topic required great thoughtfulness. Mournfully: "I missed him so much when he was dead." Less mournfully: "Also his prick."

Thomas and Silver looked at one another with stoic, somber expressions.

"Why are you on the floor?" James whined, because he had apparently just noticed where they were.

Silver sat up and looked at James with an expression of truly kind tolerance. "Mr. Hamilton and I were afraid the collective weight of our gigantic cocks would prove too much for the bed frame to bear."

What was breathing? Thomas didn't know. He was too busy crying with laughter with his hands over his mouth, as if that would stopper the sound. At some point Silver joined in, and it took them both several minutes to get themselves under control; they keep looking at each other in brief lulls and unhinged mirth would burble back up again like a newly tapped spring.

"Oh my god," Thomas whispered eventually, stomach sore. He was flat on his back, trying to keep his eyes on the ceiling until he thought he could go ten seconds without laughing. Silver seemed to be taking the same measures. In his peripheral vision Thomas could see him smiling and wiping his eyes.

Thomas counted to twenty and sat up to look over at James -- he was finally asleep, thank the saints. And not particularly pretty about it either, with his mouth open, his blankets wadded up again, and the last pillow somewhere other than on the mattress. Thomas let out a long breath, before going up on his knees to move over to the bed. He took the cloth off James's head and kissed him beside his eye. Satisfied James was in no further need of attention, he crawled to the pallet and laid back down.

Silver was curled on his side again, his gaze steady and soft. Thomas pulled their blanket up over both of them and closed his eyes.

James began to sing, off-key, "'Some cut their hats, and some cut their caps in the Neather-lands; some cut their hats, and some cut their caps in the Neather-lands, for to stop the salt-water gaps, sailing in the Low-lands...'"

It wasn't singing, per se. It was more like wallowing the words around in his mouth with a random Scottish accent.

"If he sings all forty verses, I'm leaving," Silver said, without opening his eyes.

Thomas sighed.

Five or six hours later he woke with Silver tucked up under his chin. It wasn't the first time Thomas had felt evidence of -- how had James put it? Silver's endowments? -- since the beds they often slept in were, after all, not very roomy. It was unfortunately too late for Thomas to will his body not to respond in kind.

Someone dropped something in the kitchen and Silver jerked awake. He looked at Thomas for a only a second before scrambling to sit up. They blearily helped each other up off the floor. When they stumbled into the kitchen together they found James sitting there at the table healthy as a stable of horses, eating buttered brown bread and a mug of tea steaming away beside his plate. Silver ran his hands over his face while Thomas tried to stand up straight, to the absolute screaming fury of his lower back.

"You look awful," James said.

"Your fever broke," Thomas said, like it wasn't obvious.

"Yes." James nodded and chewed. "I slept strangely well."

There was a long pause.

"Kill him now or have breakfast first?" Silver asked Thomas finally.

"We'll try some of the new quince preserves," Thomas said, "before we decide."

James was fighting every instinct to be angry, and Thomas felt a swell of pride for him.

"Were you ever going to fucking grace us with your presence again, or have these last four days been your way of telling us to go and never look back?" James asked Silver.

Well. James's instincts were a work in progress. At least his tone had been mild. Thomas, as he often did, elected to not put himself in the middle, if only because he wanted to watch what would happen next.

(Also, putting away clean clothes was perhaps the only household chore Thomas liked doing. There was something comforting about a tidy drawer of freshly laundered shirts.)

Silver, for his part, did not seem ruffled, though he did seem off, somehow, and not just because he'd been like a ghost for the better part of a week, since James's one night of sickness.

"I thought the two of you might enjoy some quality alone time," Silver said. It was his scratchy voice that gave him away. That and how heavily he sat down on the edge of the bed, as though too tired to argue with James standing up.

"Are you ill?" James immediately knelt in front of Silver, frowning, reaching out to touch Silver's forehead.

"It's just a fever," Silver said, shaking him off. "We've all had fevers."

"Recently, even," Thomas said. "Apologies for that." It seemed whatever he'd brought into the house was determined to meet all residents.

Silver was wan, his eyes glittering. "Ada's also had this, and four of her five children." He waved a hand around. "Everyone's survived, don't be alarmed. We closed the tavern tonight and posted notices that we're staying closed for a few days out of an abundance of caution." He took a breath as if three whole sentences had exhausted him. "As they say."

James's hands were fidgeting; the effort he made to not touch Silver made Thomas's throat ache. "Do you need anything? Have you eaten?"

Silver shook his head. "I'm going to sleep, and no doubt will be better in the morning."

There was something in his manner Thomas could not place, something more than illness.

James had noticed too. He stood up to move to the mattress beside Silver, an arm around him as he nosed at Silver's hair. Silver was shivering. If he'd consumed anything in the last few days it had been a poor effort. Thomas felt again that pang of remorse, that while at most he had tolerated the malady for a few hours, it had intensified as it passed from him to James, and now, it seemed, from James to Silver. Finished in the bureau Thomas pulled the bedroom door shut and went to stir the fire.

Silver had his eyes closed tightly and held himself stiff, as if to blot out everything and everyone.

"John," James said very gently, "look at me."

Thomas laid the poker atop the mantel. He caught James's eye and felt almost as badly for him as for Silver. When Silver opened his eyes Thomas perceived some battle of wills, but couldn't for anything explain why it was occurring. The way Silver looked at James was so vulnerable it didn't seem a mere fever should be its origin. A creeping cold ran down Thomas's back. James had alluded to things he believed Silver might have endured long ago. Avicenna, that great thinker, believed fevers were 'kindled in the heart' -- a fine phrase, Thomas thought, and what he knew of Silver's heart was at once vast and minute. But Thomas knew longing, and fear, when he saw it.

"Do you want us to stay with you tonight?" James asked Silver.

Every second ticking by before Silver nodded seemed an eternity. He's this wary of our intentions, Thomas thought, because life has taught him to be.

And what has life taught you, Lord Hamilton? Pleated in the shadows Thomas could almost imagine any number of nightmares lurking, growing, ghouls he did not wish to confront. His wrists itched as if still bound. He thought of some of the men he'd known in the asylum, or in Savannah, their skittish eyes and resigned postures, their lonesomeness worn like a moskered cloak; how fragile they had seemed when he touched them, and when in their grasps how desperate his own release had been. It was much easier to simply refuse the past entry into this room where he was no longer being harmed, where James was alive and with him, where Silver needed them and the rest of the world could not intrude.

Silver said, "You have started wringing your hands the way Flint does. Or perhaps he learned it from you." His ruined voice was somehow tender.

It took Thomas a long moment to be able to look away from those burning blue eyes. "Come," he said to Silver and James, "it's too chilly in here to linger atop the blankets."

An hour later he wanted to kick himself for such a statement. Silver was asleep in his usual dead to the world sort of way, half curled on James, and James was sweating. Thomas knew better than to laugh about it. He sat on the mattress and laid a wet cloth on the back of Silver's neck -- just moving his hair aside Thomas could tell his fever had intensified, heat wafting off him like a sunbeam -- and another one on James's forehead.

"Thank you," James whispered, before wiping his whole face. He handed the cloth back to Thomas. "He's getting worse. Suggestions? And don't say Woodruff."

"Not sure bloodletting is required yet." Thomas laid a hand on Silver's back. Through the thin shirt Silver was eerily warm. "We could carry him outside. Or prop him up in the kitchen; without a fire burning it's almost as bad in there as being outside."

"Mr. Hamilton just wants to rub snow in my hair again," Silver rasped, pressing his face against James's chest.

"Yes, Mr. Silver," Thomas agreed. "Sounds like a plan." He kept his hand on Silver's back. "We didn't mean to wake you."

"Yes, we did," James said, moving around so that his sternum was being pierced by Silver's chin at a slightly different point than it had been. "You fell asleep mid-sentence."

"Sorry," Silver said, and then he was asleep again.

James fell asleep soon afterwards; Thomas went to the brisk kitchen with a blanket and read for another hour, returning when the words started to swim around on the pages like leeches. He tiptoed into the bedroom to find James awake again and Silver restless. Thomas took the washcloths away to rinse them. When he returned, he sat on the edge of the bed and wiped Silver's wrists and palms with a freshly wet cloth.

Silver was talking like Thomas had been there the whole time. "Everything Flint told me, there on the island. It all would have come true, you know," he murmured to Thomas. He was looking up, or back, at some invisible distance that must have been floating above the bed in whatever waking dream he was in.

What did he tell you? Thomas wanted to ask, curiosity flaring in his mind like a Roman candle, but as soon as he thought it -- and without even looking at James -- he could guess the sort of things James might have said. He wiped Silver's forehead. James sat up and brought Silver with him, such that Silver roused a little as James resettled them both. Thomas presumed James would have something to say; apparently not. Silver swayed against him like there was a tropical breeze lulling him back to sleep. James had on his determined-not-to-cry face, looking at Thomas helplessly. Thomas laid the cloth aside and moved up the mattress to sit with his back to the headboard. For lack of anything useful to do he rubbed Silver between his shoulder blades, keeping his touch light as Silver gave off a distressing amount of heat. Silver hummed, more a sigh than a note, and reached back with his left hand to clutch at Thomas's thigh.

Silver said something into James's shirt.

"Hmm?" James asked, smoothing a hand down his arm.

"A tether," Silver said. Or at least that's what it sounded like he said. There was also a yawn in there.

Thomas didn't know what tethers had to do with anything, other than the obvious fact of the three of them in the bed like drowsy links in a chain, day by day bound more tightly together by more than close proximity. Silver was looking at James with one of those lost, unfocused expressions that made Thomas feel short of breath.

"I miss her," Silver said. "But."

"I know," James replied, kissing his forehead.

"But. She knew because I told her," Silver said, as though it explained anything, "it wasn't them. The crew. But later. I didn't tell her... Because it was her, or I thought it was her. I thought. She would be enough."

He looked over at Thomas, like this was a lucid conversation they were having. "You understand," Silver said. His eyes glimmered with fever.

Thomas felt a rush of empathy for Silver strong enough to make it hard to speak. "It was James all along," he told Silver, "wasn't it?"

Silver nodded, closed his eyes, pressed his face against James.

"It what? All along what?" James said, sounding comically disoriented.

"He's loved you a very long time," Thomas said to James quietly.

"Oh," James said, before ducking his face into Silver's hair.

"He hasn't, of course, loved you as long as I have," Thomas said. "But we cannot fault him for having not met you earlier."

James gazed at Thomas. He laid his hand at the juncture of Thomas's neck and shoulder; it provided a restful weight. Tethered, Thomas thought. Silver slept against James and James was touching Thomas and Thomas kept his hand, still, on Silver's back. Thomas also kept his eyes on James, with James sweeping his thumb against his collarbone and James's dimple about to show.

"What?" Thomas whispered, almost certain he knew what James was thinking.

James kept gazing, pleased, but said nothing. Thomas had never been a good liar. There was a heartbeat beneath his palm that he already knew he would miss when he took his hand away. They stayed that way until Thomas lost track of the time, and sleep pulled them all down into its depths again.

"Are you all right?" James kneaded the back of Thomas's neck and sat down beside him at the kitchen table.

Silver's fever had broken in the last few hours. Thomas and James were letting him sleep.

"I have been thinking about the staff at my father's house," Thomas said. He threaded his fingers through James's. "They were kind to me when I was a child. They were supposed to be kind to me, of course. I was an Important Legacy." He laughed a bitter little laugh. "But do you know, I believed they loved me. Even now, even knowing what I know -- how complicated, how compromised that love might have been. They were servants, most from families of servants. It's all they had ever known or hoped to know of employment or advancement. They took care of me, not just my nursemaid or tutors, but the footmen, the maids, cooks, our butler William. The gardener and his wife Maria." He squeezed James's hand and James squeezed back, watching him as he spoke. "It was a lousy lot they drew. The house was safe, they were given the means to earn what they needed to survive, yes, but it wasn't-- None of it was theirs, and they had no real say in the matter. And yet. And yet, I believe they loved me, taught me, fed me, played with me, smiled kindly at me not because I was the eldest son of an important man, but because I was a child, an innocent child. I have never known a day when I was not loved. I knew love when I saw it, experienced it." James looked as ready to cry as Thomas felt. "I knew you loved me, that Miranda loved me; that I loved you, and her. I never once doubted either of you, all those years."

James waited a minute. He thumbed a tear out from beneath Thomas's eye. "Why have you been thinking about this?"

Thomas pictured Silver asleep in their bed, eyelashes dark against his pale cheeks. "Someone hurt him, didn't they? When he was just a child. And it shaped his whole life."

He didn't say Silver's name. He didn't need to.

Thomas sighed in an elaborate way. "And then, god help him, he met you."

"Hey," James said. But he was smiling, small and rueful. He held on to Thomas's hand.

"I'm glad we're here," Thomas said.

Silver had recovered in another few days. He moved more gingerly for a while, like his bad leg ached more than usual, and he was slow to regain an appetite. Otherwise he emerged unscathed. James fussed over him, and Thomas chose to leave them alone on the fourth afternoon, hoping that like the fever James's anxious grouchiness would burn itself out before Silver had to throttle him.

Thomas explored a patch of forest nearby, where the ice had dwindled to only a few scabby patches here and there and the ground was damp but not sloppy. He worked up a sweat hiking back up a brambly hill and scraped his arm against a pine tree trunk that had appeared from nowhere. (Pay attention, Thomas told himself.) When he was back on the road to the house he took a couple of deep breaths of cold air and felt more awake than he had in an age.

He returned home to find James thankfully in a less fretful mood and Silver looking brighter, with color in his features.

"That poor higgler Jean tells us the Adley farm is to be sold next week," Silver said in greeting.

This was news to Thomas. "Ina will be interested in that."

"She wants a farm? Isn't she's 107 years old?" James asked.

"She's a woman of a distinguished age. I believe their son-in-law may have designs on becoming a land owner," Thomas said.

"Don't we all." James kept sharpening his favorite butcher knife.

"Apparently he's done well for himself in Sussex." Thomas picked up a new purchase that was sitting on the counter. "Was our other masher inadequate?"

"I took it to the tavern and never saw it again," Silver said.

"Ah." Thomas rolled up his shirt sleeve and poked at his scrape. It looked like the sort of thing a youth would acquire falling out of a tree.

Silver and James each seemed abruptly to notice Thomas was injured. There was purpose in the way Silver picked his way over to the hutch wedged in the corner of the room. Items rattled as he searched for something; he moved a crock to a lower shelf and reached up to the back of the top shelf. A pestle rolled out and bonked him in the head. James joined him, though Thomas was certain he had no idea what Silver was looking for. Being an inch or two taller should count for something, right?

"I almost have it," Silver said, refusing to move aside as James crowded in.

"Here," James said, reaching over him.

It didn't work as well as he'd probably expected, because it knocked Silver off balance and Silver briefly stepped on James's foot with his peg.

"Could you not," Silver said between gritted teeth.

"Ow," James said.

Thomas joked, "No daylight between you."

James whipped around.

"Same cloth, same coin, same blade. I couldn't separate the two of you with a hatchet and a team of wild oxen," Thomas said, feeling uneasily like this wasn't an exaggeration.

James took a breath to respond -- maybe even to deny? -- when Silver groused, "What are you on about? Ah-ha!" He turned, a ceramic jar held out in his palm. He was smiling in triumph.

Whatever he saw on Thomas's face made his smile fade. He locked eyes with Thomas and Thomas felt his stomach lift.

"I could no more separate the two of you," Silver said, tipping his head to Thomas and then to James, "than I could pluck the sun out of the fucking sky."

Thomas blinked. "What--"

"You're his heart, Thomas," Silver said.

The words, so softly spoken, crashed over Thomas like a storm-driven wave. His eyes burned, for a moment, as he looked at Silver, looked at James; as they looked at each other and then him. Watching Silver now as Silver stared back Thomas began to smile. He bit his lip to prevent it from getting out of hand.

"Would you like some help?" Silver asked, holding up the jar.

"What is that?" Thomas asked, sitting down in the chair James had vacated.

Silver pulled another chair closer to Thomas. James poured himself a drink of rum, splashing some in two more mugs. After clunking his mug against James's Silver downed his rum in one swallow. Thomas, eyeing James, sipped his. Something had shifted, Thomas thought; they were coming to a precipice.

He turned his focus to Silver. "It's green," he said when Silver took off the jar lid. "It even smells green."

"Elder leaves," Silver said. His small grin was crooked. "Well, four parts lard and two parts suet."

"So, fat and fat," Thomas said.

"To three parts elder. Good for sprains and bruises and grievances inflicted upon one's person." Silver scooted nearer.

Thomas pushed up his bloody sleeve and bent his arm, still watching Silver.

Silver dipped his fingers in the ointment and smoothed a glob of it gently up Thomas's arm. Thomas winced and Silver mouthed, "Sorry." He ran his fingers along the scrape several times, until the salve had started to soak in. He sat back to survey his handiwork. Finding it satisfactory, he dipped his left middle finger into the jar to bring out a dab.

He scooted ever closer, until like a puzzle piece his knees and Thomas's were somewhat interlocked. With the pad of his finger he patted at something below Thomas's eye.

Thomas placed a hand on Silver's shoulder. "Didn't realize there was another scratch." The ointment stung a bit. He remembered being smacked in the face with an oak limb earlier, at the beginning of the day's walk.

"Only a little one. You likely won't go blind from it." Silver wiped his hands on his trousers and put the lid back on the jar.

Thomas saw it when Silver realized just how closely to Thomas he was sitting. The light cleared in Silver's eyes; his mouth parted as he inhaled. Oh, Thomas thought. Hello. He tightened his hand, then skimmed it along Silver's shoulder to slip his fingers into Silver's hair. (Oh. Yes. It was still the most luxurious hair.) Thomas leaned further into Silver, drawing their heads closer together. Silver did not pull away.

"Thank you, Mr. Silver," Thomas said, quietly thrilling at the way Silver's eyes had darkened.

Silver smiled at him without actually smiling. "You're welcome, Mr. Hamilton." He paused for a second, then brushed his mouth against Thomas's, the touch so light it could almost have been mistaken for something other than a kiss.

What Thomas returned to Silver was a kiss equally light, brief, and again perhaps someone, had they wished to, could have described it as accidental, or incidental, or merely friendly. Careful, Thomas thought. You must be careful. He kept his forehead against Silver's for a moment, letting Silver decide, and their third kiss was quick, practically chaste. But the fourth one: Thomas suddenly had Silver's head cupped in his hands and Silver was pressing ever closer, opening to Thomas on an almost silent gasp. Thomas had to close his eyes against the sweetness of it. When he slid his tongue into his mouth Silver made a quiet, wounded sound, and Thomas flushed hot as if he'd awakened on an island beneath merciless sunshine. He hadn't felt his own thirst so acutely since the moment he'd first seen James again. Silver's seemed to match Thomas's; his mouth was nearly painfully soft, his beard rough, and one of his hands was wandering lower. By the time he reached Thomas's--

"I am going into the bedroom now," James said in a loud, impatient voice.

Thomas and Silver broke apart to stare at him and pant.

James's left eyebrow said some very tawdry things. "I trust you'll both be joining me."

"Yes?" Thomas said, feeling astonishingly overheated. He mustered the courage to look at Silver.

Silver looked every ounce as bothered. He also looked unguarded, and kiss-bitten. He nodded at Thomas and then looked to James. "Yes," he said. He looked back at Thomas. "Yes."

Thomas took two seconds to say, "Oh thank fuck," before kissing him again.

#my continual struggle with technology and coherency #fic #silverflint #silverflinthamilton #black sails

66 notes · View notes