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He never before understood Miranda's need to talk about Thomas.
At first, it seemed they were in accord. After the news of Thomas' death, when all of their hopes of getting him back, getting their lives back, crumbled around them in ashes, neither one of them could speak Thomas' name. Their memories brought on pain and misery in their wake, the thoughts of this man who was everything to them and who was taken from them like it was nothing. Like they were merely playthings, pawns one can easily take out of the game if that's what the strategy or a simple whim suggested.
They concentrated on the present moment, on their life in Nassau, taking this struggle one day at a time since anything else was simply too overwhelming. James focused on his agenda, and his grief that was never spoken of but present in every breath like a fresh wound, like broken ribs that keep on hurting with every breath. He avoided the subject of Thomas in his conversations, in his thoughts, because to focus on it, would mean losing himself in the pain.
He assumed Miranda felt the same as she also at first refused to bring up Thomas. Acting as if she was just not delivered the worst news of her life. She barely even cried in front of James, always tucking away her feelings, overpowering them and putting them away.
Later, however, as months passed and turned into years, she started bringing up small things. As if testing his reaction, which was never good. She mentioned perhaps making a stew of the vegetables she managed to grow and added how Thomas always hated peas in his dinner and would make faces and act like a spoiled five-year-old, whenever forced to eat them. She made sure for them to be served, whenever he forced some boring, political company on them without enough warning and he just looked at her from across the table, long-sufferingly and she had to bite on her smile to avoid joining him in his childishness.
Small scraps of memories, of thoughts about Thomas that James couldn't bare, because every thought, every memory he possessed of the man was tainted with the knowledge of his tragic end. With the painful realization of how few and brief their moments together were.
Sometimes he let Miranda talk anyway, but he could never join in. Could barely stand her talking about it and she knew it and offered those scraps of memories less and less often.
It took James far too long to realize how much she put her feelings aside to make space for his own grief, his overconsuming anger. As if she knew she could handle the pain alone, but he needed the support. He never appreciated it until she was gone and suddenly he fully realized how much he was used to leaning on her.
Now, he thought, perhaps he even finally understood Miranda's need to speak about their memories. When Rodgers brought up Thomas in their conversation, James wanted to hurt him and the only thing stopping him was not how badly it would end for him, but how it would grant the bastard too much satisfaction.
He sat there, sure of himself, like he had won the final key to understanding and overpowering captain Flint. Like he knew anything at all, because he knew what pretense was used to dismiss James from the navy, to lock Thomas up and torture him until he gave up.
Rodgers didn't know shit.
He didn't understand how opposite Thomas' idea James was when he’d first heard it, but how willing he was to fight for it for the sake and honor of the people he loved. For Thomas and his ideals.
Rogers couldn't comprehend how his crawl for power had nothing to do with Thomas' plan because Thomas didn't even think about making himself governor. Thomas just wanted to make it a better place, to save these people, to help them. To forgive them.
James realized that with Miranda dead as well Peter and even Alfred Hamilton, he was quite possibly the only person alive who really knew Thomas at all. God only knew what happened to their so called friends in London, plenty of them probably died as well, those who lived probably remembered Thomas as nothing more but a long done scandal if they remembered him at all. Perhaps in some families closer to the Hamiltons, he was still brought up as an example of how one might end up if one does not follow the society rules. There was no one to remember Thomas for the man he truly was and James could not bare that this knowledge would die with him.
He wasn't sure if that was what made him tell Silver about Thomas. Or was it simply because he asked and he deserved to know after everything else. Or perhaps because telling Silver about Thomas required telling him about himself and he needed the man to know this. To be aware of this. Of him.
But once he told him about his relationship with Thomas it became unexpectedly hard not to tell him everything else and suddenly he understood Miranda's eagerness. He wanted to share everything about Thomas before any more of it could be forgotten. He wanted to share him like the best thing that ever happened to him, like the joy and happiness that he almost forgot the taste of. He wanted someone to know this and understand it. And if there was anyone who could understand keeping someone's memory alive through shared stories, it would be John Silver.
"It's ironic, really," James said once. They were out on the deck. It was calm and quiet, only night shift standing guard, but paying them no mind as they looked out into the night sea, barely able to distinguish where the dark waters ended and the sky began. "He didn't even like the sea."
Silver smiled at him, vaguely amused by the turn in his musings.
"He probably was not that enamored with the pirates either."
They stood close enough to feel each other's warmth and James had no idea whose fault it was but seeing as Silver was leaning against the railing to ease the pressure on his leg, it was probably on James.
"More than with the sea. He had absolutely no stomach for it. I once took him on a trip through the ship I served on when were docked. It barely moved at all and he looked positively green by the time we left."
Silver chuckled openly and James grinned at both the memory and the man before.
Small pebbles of information like this could do no harm. Gave no one any additional knowledge on the life of Captain Flint except for just underlying how deeply he cared for one man in his life that so many years later he still recalled those details and kept them fondly stored in his memory.
Silver never questioned it and with every confession, every small memory shared, it became easier to share more and more, and James did.
He talked about the food Thomas insisted on James' trying when he and Silver were just trying to figure out if the stew offered them in Tortuga could possibly kill them. (And if so, if it would do so with intent.) He mentioned Thomas' witty sense of humor somehow perfectly mixed with his often completely blank faced delivery and how often James fell for it. He talked at length about how peculiar Thomas was with his clothes. Easy to forget most of the additions to his rich lifestyle, he took his dressing overly seriously. Always fascinated with the colors and rich fabrics. He talked about how he almost brought the whole scandal on them even earlier with how much he wanted to dress James up in something other than his uniform.
He barely noticed, when his confessions grew more private and intimate. Not just something any good friend of Thomas could have known, but something that was only shared behind the closed doors. Often something that uncovered as much about Thomas Hamilton as it did about James McGraw.
"When the Hamiltons insisted on teaching me Spanish because I might find it useful at the sea, I doubt they meant for me to amuse myself with Spanish romance stories, while my captain's desk will be otherwise occupied."
They were sitting in silence for over an hour now and James was getting quite fed up with the text he's been forced to focus on. John sat by the desk few feet from him, studying the charts laid over the desk, insisting he needs to learn more about sailing if he planned to be useful to the crew.
James allowed him the opportunity to learn, seeing no problem with it, besides the need to leave his typical place in the room as he refused to reorder all the charts and notes for John's benefit just to put them properly in order again later. He moved his chair back towards the window, claiming better light, but simply trying to avoid sitting on the other side of the desk as Silver took the captain's chair.
Judging by John's smirk he was not fooled, but James ignored it.
He focused on his lecture, his Spanish still uneasy and difficult, requiring him to focus fully on the over-dramatic plot to be able to understand the story. He allowed himself to glance at his quartermaster at work only once every few pages, when the plot overpowered him with ridiculousness or he finished another novella, his eyes strained too much over the small text.
Sometimes he let his eyes linger.
"Aren't you done already?" he asked, not harshly, seeing as his impatience, or rather boredom was now made obvious.
"Not as much no," Silver snapped back, but cheerfully enough so clearly he did not yet get stuck on anything that was too difficult for him still. "Also, quite frankly, and with absolutely no offense meant to your teachers," he looked at James with a mocking pity, "your Spanish is hardly good enough for anything else."
James considered chucking the book at his head. It was quite thick, with strong binding, it had potential. In the end, he decided that it was still better than the utter boredom of watching Silver focus on the charts for hours.
Or the humiliation of admitting that it would be no chore at all.
"They were shit teachers," he said instead, before looking back at the text. "I hardly ever learned to pronounce anything decent."
It took Silver a moment, his attention clearly divided, before he caught on and it startled a laugh out of him. He only laughed harder as he looked back at his captain and James made sure to hide as much as possible behind the cover of his book, so his grin would not be too obvious.
He could only hope he did not look as flushed as he felt. Odd, he was quite certain those days in which he fell so easily into embarrassment were behind him. Locked somewhere far away in time and geography, back before any of it happened. Before he could even worry about it happening. When Miranda walked into his room as he was barely dressed, when she touched him under the table, when it was just the three of them, but he was still terrified she was untrue about Thomas and at any given moment he might lose the respect of this man he came to admire so... When Thomas walked him into his bedroom for the very first time and James could not believe it was happening at all.
He wasn't that man anymore and he was not ashamed as such, but there was still an odd turmoil within him when speaking of such matters out loud as if it was not something that needs to be hidden and protected. Part of him, smaller than ever, but still burning hot at the bottom of his stomach, wanted to look around to make sure no one is listening, no one is spying on them. No one is going to use it against him.
But there was also excitement coiling in him. Thick, slow-burning excitement that savored the moment. Delighted in the confession. That wanted James to meet John's eyes and tell him with no shame nor regard for the society or its rules that James' Spanish needs lots of work, but he can beg John to fuck him harder in his native language flawlessly.
He swallowed the thought with a slow grin and returned to his book.
Silver worked in silence for few more moments, but the sounds of his quill were slow and far between and James caught him shooting him quick, brief looks, the smile still lingering in the corners of his lips though calmer now, quieter.
Finally, as James turned another page, Silver broke the silence, his gaze now fully focused on the charts before him.
"With that kind of lessons, I dread to think what kind of adventures they envisioned for you at the sea."
James snorted.
"Far more exciting than I encountered usually. Thomas tended to complain my relations are dry and lack dramatism."
"That," said John mockingly, "I find very hard to believe."
James shrugged.
"My duty wasn't that fascinating and at the time as we were docked for most of it, there wasn't much to talk about. The navy has plenty of dark secrets and unpleasant sides, but that hardly makes for a good conversation. Although Thomas also insisted I retell my adventures in the driest way possible as if I was feeling a report and not entertaining my audience. In the end, he usually told them for me. Half of them complete bullshit as it was."
"Must've been interesting explaining that to your fellow officers."
"Quite. Some of those idiots actually believed those tales, so I've had little hope for the rest of London's society that barely even was aware of how the Navy works. Considering it was not only complete bullshit but also spilled by a man who had a very fundamental knowledge of anything related to sailing."
"He must have been a very good storyteller if they accepted it so easily."
"He was," James nodded in agreement, remembering Thomas' voice as it spilled tales before him as they laid in bed tired and seated, drifting off to sleep.
Thomas' voice raspy with sleep, whispering the tales he read or heard or simply made up as he went. The seductive cadence of it making James follow the more or less ridiculous plots as they lulled him to sleep.
We don't outgrow bedtime stories, James. We simply grow tired of bad story tellers.
He was a great storyteller, James wanted to say. He could give you a run for your money, he wanted to add easily but swallowed the words, the sentence too heavy with comparisons he was not ready to make.
He went back to his text in silence instead and this time John let him, focusing on the challenge he set for himself, studying the maps carefully and avoiding James' gaze when it lifted from the Spanish tale after every few pages.
-
When motivated John was a very quick study and it became quite obvious that the better he got at planning their course, the smaller was his interest in actually doing so. They've been sailing back and forth between the Maroon island and those willing to help it. Their growing list of allies and prizes that they took to replenish the provisions necessary for the oncoming confrontation and surviving it. They haven't stayed at the shore for almost three weeks by then and John used the calmer times to hone his skills, either under Flint's or DeGroot's tutelage. James assigned him to keep track of the charts, their courses, and progress, making him write in the logs almost more often than James did himself. Forcing him to try and predict the paths they could take. It was a task to be done and good both for John's education and forcing him to sit still for a while and rest his leg.
It also apparently started to bore him more and more with every day. John was never the sailor. It was as obvious to James as it was to the DeGroot, both of them suffering John's thirst for knowledge. He was clever and he had an eager mind to learn and to put his new skills to practice, but he had little love for the sea and the constant battle with her. The futile attempts to tame her for one more day. He viewed it only as a tactical advantage it no doubt was, but as it became easier to him, he had little interest in the grittier details.
Still, he had his duties assigned and James was not about to change it because the man grew bored of them. Especially not when John's frustrations were often highly entertaining. He pretended to not notice John's growing annoyance and pointed out kindly all the points with which John still struggled.
The man asked enough inane questions to drag James into once again explaining the maneuver they were trying to attempt with their current course, tracking the winds that should help them sail smoothly just in time to catch their prize.
He was finishing dotting the last information in the log, once again explaining the calculations, when he finally realized John's eager look was far too eager and innocent to be honest. He bit off half way through the explanation and glared at the man, before finishing last sentences in the log's entry. Partly to have it done and partly to keep his hands occupied until he managed to resist the urge to strangle his quartermaster.
"You little shit," he said through the gritted teeth, when he finished writing and angrily slammed the log shut, probably smudging most of his last calculations.
Silver grinned unrepentantly now that his scam was obviously up.
"Apologies, Captain, but quite frankly that's the most boring thing you've had me do since I was forced to peel potatoes for the whole crew."
"It's not too late to go back to that, I hope you're aware."
Silver's smile did not disappear, the threat obviously empty.
"I'd like to remind you, you were the one who wanted to learn this."
Silver gasped outraged. "I didn't think it will take this long!"
Flint rolled his eyes. The man was so impatient it was beginning to shock even him and he was never known to be the most patient of men himself.
"I figured we will have a few more peaceful days and I will pick it up, or you know, the basics of what I didn't yet know, polish what I did. But we've been at it for weeks!"
"I'm sorry, are you now impatient to start the fight?"
"We've started the fight months ago. I'm impatient to be done with it. To not let our chance run out. I thought you'd be the one hating it. Impatient to go to the war you started."
Flint let out a long, tired breath.
"We can't lose our chance."
Silver shrugged and spread his arms with the very clear 'that's what I've just said' expression.
"But that means more than us attacking before they regroup. We probably won't have more chances if we fail this time. It means we need to be ready. The crews must all be in order and with enough provisions and weapons to actually fight. We probably won't win the war with one battle, but if we don't win the first battle at the Nassau shores now that we're strong with the previous victory, that we have more and more allies joining us from other docks and ports, if we fail now because we skipped a day of preparation and we didn't wait for all the information Billy could send us, they will never let us get close again."
He wasn't sure when they both moved, both of them eager in motion when their tempers run hot and the frustration of waiting trembled in their muscles. They stood close to each other, facing one another and James stared directly in Silver's eyes as he spoke. Urging him to understand.
John seemed to calm down, to settle as he listened. The playful smirk and frustrated frowns gone from his face as he hung on every word his captain spoke. Focused like he close to never was on the charts he was so determined to learn. Clearly already much more used to navigating around Flint than the sea.
"Like the black flag," he finally said and for a moment Flint frowned, not understanding where the comparison came from. John sighed, letting go of the argument and nodding in agreement, turning away from James. "We have to aim at the perfect moment. Whether we're too fast or too slow, we're going to lose."
James nodded, realizing finally what John was referring to, almost forgetting he once explained it to him how hard it was to learn properly when to raise the black.
John chuckled humorlessly.
"As I recall you said it took you a long while to figure it out when was just the right time. I guess we don't have this kind of privilege here?" he asked with a wry smile, falling into the place behind the desk.
James stopped questioning some time ago, why it no longer bothered him to see John seated there. He fell into the seat opposite, not bothering with their usual charade of re-arranging the chair.
"I'm afraid not," he said easily and John sighed.
“This will be dreadfully hard to win, won't it?"
"Most certainly," agreed James. "Almost impossible."
John looked at him with disapproval.
"No offense, Captain, but you're shit at motivational talks."
James smirked at him.
"I believe that's why it's your duty."
John huffed another mirthless laugh and James watched him carefully. He looked unsure, almost unsettled. Nothing like he would ever allow the crew to see him as and terrifying as it was, James savored it. Realizing he was not the only one dropping his masks here.
Their eyes met and held calmly, without tension nor awkwardness, as if looking into the other was the most natural thing on Earth.
"Well," John said. "If anyone should be able to accomplish that, it probably could only be us."
James' smile grew. The grin with a hint of teeth, dangerous, yet free of any threat this time.
"Strange pairs can achieve most impossible things," he quoted without thinking, without realizing the meaning...
He ignored John's questioning look and instead he reached for the bottle of rum standing on the shelf, motioning for John to get the cups out of the desk. He needed a drink to deal with the implications he just casually threw in the air, even if no one but him was aware of them.
-
"You talk more of him now," said John sometime later as James refilled their cups again and the light in the cabin was now only provided by the lamps, the sky behind the windows gone dark.
"I haven't talked about him at all," James replied pointedly, too tired and worn to pretend he didn't know who John was talking about.
John nodded in agreement.
"That's true, but then you told me about him. And you keep on telling me more and more."
"Do you mind?"
It was a fleeting concern, but real nonetheless. James was so focused on the fact that he wanted to talk about Thomas to John that whether the man wanted to hear it or not fell to the back of his mind. John's reaction after James' confession was favorable, but it was far from proof that the man wanted to hear more, was even vaguely interested in knowing anything James had to say about a man long dead that he once loved.
As the silence stretched James realized it was an obvious oversight.
"No, I do not," John replied finally, his words slow and deliberate, but sounding sincere enough. Perhaps because of how unsure they were.
James watched him closely, trying to figure out how much of it was fake, but John just gave him a reassuring smile.
"If anything I am honored, I understand it takes a great deal of trust," he said and if anything sounded fake it would be this sentence, something simply ringing hollow within it.
James kept his gaze but failed to unravel the layers of the statement to reveal what exactly John was trying to lie about to him. It was always so hard with this man. Half-truths, omissions, lies wrapped in truths and ambiguous statements so tightly it was impossible to say when one ended and the other begun.
"I'm simply curious why?" John pressed into the silence. "Is it because you need someone to know about him or is it because you need to tell me about it?"
As if that wasn't something that James still was trying to figure out. John once again plucking the thought right out of his skull.
"Or perhaps, just perhaps, there's another reason, something else you're trying to tell me and I simply fail to fully understand it."
James stared at him, holding steady under John's examining gaze.
"Perhaps we're having those conversations about something different than just late Thomas Hamilton. Perhaps-"
"He's dead," interrupted Flint, before Silver could run with his theories and get too close to the truth James was yet unwilling to face. "He's been dead for over a decade and I've been grieving him without ever actually focusing on the task. I was hurt, I was angry... I did everything possible not to think about him. Not about his death, not about his life, not about what we have shared. Miranda wanted to, eventually, but I could barely stand to hear his name without breaking."
John looked at him and he seemed surprised. As if he knew that, but never understood the lengths of James' feelings, his pain.
"And now she is dead too. She had much more time with Thomas and I barely know anything about it, because I silenced her every time she wanted to speak of him. Dead is Peter Ashe, who knew Thomas since they were children. Dead is his cunt of a father, who was there from the beginning. There's no one who remembers Thomas properly, no one who knows more about him than I do and I've spent merely few months with the man. I'm still angry," he added as if there was ever any doubt about it, "but I feel like I'm finally ready to face the reasons for this anger and remember what I knew before it. And if I have anything to say about that I sure as fuck will not die leaving Woodes fucking Rodgers as the only person who knows shit about Thomas Hamilton."
John watched him carefully and then nodded, his expression somber, his eyes serious, but soft. There's no pity in them, no condemnation.
John nodded again, more to himself as if settling on some decision, but his gaze quickly returned to James'.
"Tell me about him then," he said eventually, making himself comfortable in the captain's chair, holding his rum and ready to listen.
James licked his dry lips. He looked into the half filled cup, facing the rum instead of John for a long, silent moment.
And then he started talking and told John everything he could think of.
By the time DeGroot found them in the morning they've emptied the bottle, they were both splayed in their chairs with alcohol and exhaustion and James' voice was hoarse with overuse. He smiled softly at John, who slowly, somewhat sadly, smiled back, before both of them pulled on their masks and faced their crew.