complaininginthedark:

(Not incredibly long, sorry… Set after the other prompt I have to do with Flint saving Charles at the end of s3 so it’s more ~feelsy~)

—

When he sees who steps out of the little dinghy his heart leaps into his throat, Anne whispers “fuck”, and the sun peaks out between the clouds.

Charles Vane, cheroot between his lips, is a vision of swagger and ease as he moves over the sand to where they stand. He looks Anne up and down with a nod, silent understanding between them. He catches Jack’s eye next.

“You look good,” Jack croaks, “for a dead man.”

Charles snorts and claps a hand onto Jack’s shoulder, squeezes, tugs him forward into a tight hug that brings tears to both their eyes. When he pulls back Charles has a dampness on his cheeks. Jack wonders for a moment if this is some fever dream brought on by staying too late at the tavern. But Charles squeezes his arm again and he knows it isn’t.

He sniffles, a pathetic sound and he knows Anne will mock him later (but she won’t, she knows what this means to him, the wreck he’s been since Charles had been captured), but he can’t help the grin on his face.

“You were dead.”

“No, not even close. Takes more than a pack of civilised dogs in wigs to kill me;” Charles winks. “Flint returned the kindness of saving his life, got there just in time.”

He turns and faces the other captain for the first time. “Thank you,” he manages to say, “I’m in your debt it seems.”

Flint just shakes his head and looks down. “Well, if anyone was going to make a trophy of him…” he trails off, shares a twisted smirk with Charles before clasping his hands behind his back. “Besides, couldn’t leave our best asset to swing, could I?”

Jack flinches, Charles does too. But the happiness soon takes the sting away.

“This calls for a celebration!” Jack claps his friend on the back, relishes the living warmth of him. “How about we all go get so drunk we can’t see straight?” Charles laughs at him and everything feels… right.