one of the many things about james flint is his rage is sacred, and by that i mean its etymology is love and its natural state is righteousness. i don’t think there’s a dark thing in himself he’s fighting to drown and that resurfaces of him despite himself, that is one of the narratives we’re sold but it clearly bears the mark of homophobia, on the contrary i think light is the permanent resident, and maybe it’s all his or maybe part of it is something thomas left or maybe thomas just mapped it and gave it shape and a name. as much as he is desperate not to be or be seen as a villain, i think he also deliberately tried to to claw at the light and make himself into that thing out of the fragments, a dark thing but an effective thing, a faceless thing but a useful thing, but despite all the ways he bends himself to have a chance against the system that broke him down, in the end like bodies are returned by the sea to shore james flint is returned by love, returned always to trying to do something good, good for himself and his love and in the name of himself because there’s no shame in that when shame was used to cut you, but also, crucially, good beyond himself and past himself
Tag: *lip wobbles*
Can you do Teach/Vane for the writing meme, #6 “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you”? Something soft and comforting, please? ;__;
Takes place after 3×06 but before Vane leaves Ocracoke with Flint.
———
Teach took another drink of his ale. He sat on the edge of his bed under the tent. The day was beginning to wane, the shadows of his makeshift room stretching long over the sand. He’d been staring at those shadows for minutes on end, ever since leaving the beachfront and leaving Charles to Flint.
“Teach.”
Teach blinked, pulling himself out of his brooding at the sound of the familiar, gravel-voice. He turned. Charles stood in front of the tent. His arms were at his side. He looked uncertain. Teach nodded for him to enter. He told himself he should have still been furious, had been furious less than an hour ago. But all the fury had drained from him. He recalled how he had not even stayed angry at Charles all those years ago, when he had chose Eleanor Guthrie over him. Even then, sailing away from his once-home on New Providence, his anger had dulled by the time the island was out of sight.
Now, Charles approached him like a wary rabbit, though his expression remained neutral.
“I feel I owe you an explanation,” he began.
Teach raised his hands, fingers curling slightly.
“You owe me no such thing. I know why you chose him.”
Vane blinked, brows just barely knitting together. When Teach offered no further words Charles leaned against the wind-beaten dresser across from him.
“You think it was my word I gave him. That I had to keep it. You would be wrong. That isn’t why.”
“Oh?”
Absently he brought his fingers up to his breast, where his little shrapnel timepiece was embedded inside him. Perhaps he should tell Charles about it at last.
Meg's Mumbles 