angrypiratehusbands:

Flint would recognize that man anywhere. Short blond hair, blue eyes, and skin the color of warm cream. A shuddering breath escaped his lungs with the force of a gust of wind, one that shook him to the very core. His jaw clenched as he shifted restlessly on his feet, his lower lip quivering but a fraction as he turned to meet Silver’s gaze. Those blue eyes met his own. They were deeper than Thomas’, heavier with the weight of all that he had seen. Still though, they were full of that same overpowering love, and despite the sadness breaking within their depths, they urged him forward.

Flint’s throat felt as though it were filled with the dry, hot sand of the beach as he forced his legs forward, swallowing down a fear he hadn’t felt so strongly since he stood in the Hamilton’s empty parlor. Even though he stood there right before him, part of him still couldn’t grasp that this was real. Perhaps he had finally died, taken a bullet to the head or a sword through his gut, and this was but a tease of heaven before he was inevitably torn down into the depths of hell. After all, that was where he rightfully belonged.

Yet with each step forward, the earth became more and more solid beneath his boots. The sound of gunshots grew louder, the scent of gunpowder and putrid smoke stronger. And then the strangest thing happened. Thomas turned towards him, and if his mind truly wasn’t failing him in this moment, it appeared as though he recognized him.

Flint couldn’t help but slow to a stop beneath the weight of that searching gaze. It felt as though the world was swallowing him whole. Those blue eyes, the light hue of a robin’s egg, moved over his face. Searching, searching… And then those were around him. That heavy weight against his chest, that hair soft and short between his dirtied fingers. All at once the world came crashing back around him, and with the force of it he broke. For the first time since the Doldrums, he cried. Cried over Thomas, now.

His own arms wrapped around that thin form, fingers burying themselves in those golden locks. Clenching, grasping, holding him close so that he could never be separated from him again. He felt broken, shattered, the skeleton of himself breaking into a thousand pieces beneath his bloodied boots. Yet at the same time, he never felt so whole.

“Thomas.” His voice was but a rasp. Dry and heavy and strained, breaking beneath the weight of his relief, his joy. And at the same time, heartbreak.

Thomas heard him. He saw him. Beneath the blood and dirt and sweat, beneath the sun swept skin and scars that told of his many sins, he saw him. Those fragile remnants of James McGraw that had always persisted beneath the surface, somewhere. Those shards Silver had so effortlessly plucked from the darkness, clutching to his breast and keeping them whole, until he was finally certain that Flint possessed the strength necessary to keep them safe himself.

Now he was certain.