It was late evening when Flint returned to the cabin of the warship and Howell had just finished tending to Silver's leg. Silver glared at them from his spot on the window seat as Howell paused in the doorway to confer with Flint in an undertone before taking his leave.

The ship was quiet with nothing to disturb the stillness of the night save for the gentle creaking of timbers and the soft lapping of waves against the hull. They had been back in Nassau for nearly a week now, the events of Charlestown just over two weeks behind them. Save the few men on watch, the crew had eagerly gone ashore to the inn and the tavern and their camp on the beach to enjoy all that the town had to offer, leaving Flint and Silver the only two inhabitants of the ship.

Flint disembarked each day to attend endless meetings with Vane and Rackham and Max, the four of them trying to quell the chaos that had sprung up in the wake of Eleanor's arrest and the arrival of the Spanish gold. But Flint returned to the ship each night; he and Vane had been on better terms since Charlestown, but that didn't mean he trusted Vane's crew not to try to steal the warship out from under him again. Until he could ensure the Walrus would be returned to him, Flint would make sure the warship stayed under his control.

Silver, when presented with the opportunity to go ashore, found he couldn't bear the painful and undignified prospect of being winched down from the ship to a long boat and carried ashore like damaged cargo in full view of the street. So instead he claimed it his duty as quartermaster to ensure the security of the ship in the absence of the captain and stayed aboard.

The first day of negotiations, Flint had demanded the meetings be held on the warship so Silver as quartermaster could attend, but the long hours of planning and discussing and arguing and shouting had brought Silver's fever back with a vengeance, leaving him burning and delirious for the next day and a half. Without comment, all future meetings were held ashore and Silver was left alone on the ship to convalesce.

"Howell says you're refusing the laudanum," Flint commented, his tone carefully neutral. He crossed the cabin and walked around the desk, leaning back against the edge to face Silver.

"What of it?" Silver bristled, folding his arms across the chest. He was glad to be sitting up, his back propped against the window and his remaining foot planted firmly on the floor; his injured leg was throbbing and his head was spinning but if he was going to have an argument, he didn't want to have it lying down.

"Nothing," Flint replied. He sounded tired. "I simply figured you would want to know what he told me." Silver blinked in surprise.

"You're not going to order me to take it?"

"Would you rather I did?" Flint asked, his eyebrow arched skeptically.

"I figured you would." The words tasted bitter in Silver's mouth. "Aren't you going to say something about needing your crew in top form if we're going to make this war against England a reality? Something about needing a quartermaster who can pull his weight?"

"No," he said frankly. "It's true that once this war begins we will all have our roles to play, but I have no doubt you will play yours admirably when the time comes. And until that time comes, there is no shame in taking time to heal as you see fit. I may not agree with your decision. I may not know if it's pride or fear or self-preservation or a need for control that's motivating it. But ultimately it is your decision to make, not mine."

Silver found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words and decidedly uncomfortable about how close Flint had hit to the truth. He also hadn't expected that much understanding from him; with the state of near-constant rage Flint been in since Charlestown and the news of the gold, Silver had expected a fight, or at least a brusque order. Perhaps Flint had no energy left for anger.

"Shame the rest of the crew doesn't share that mentality," Silver muttered finally.

He reached over to the barrel that was currently serving as his bedside table and began rummaging through the items atop it to avoid Flint's gaze. Muldoon had helpfully brought Silver his meager possessions shortly after he had taken up residence in the cabin and had even stopped by to visit a few times when he was on watch. With each visit he also brought the renewed promise that the crew would take care of him. God, how he hated that phrase.

Silver took up his comb began the slow process of setting his hair to rights. He had spent the majority of the last fortnight either in a feverish sleep or an opium haze or simply delirious with pain, and the resulting neglect had left his curls a hopeless matt of tangles. After a few minutes of struggling with the knots, his arms were shaking from exertion and he had made no noticeable progress.

"Would you like me to do it?" Flint offered quietly.

Silver's head snapped up to glare at him, his usually warm eyes icy. He would have been shocked by the offer if he weren't so busy being furious.

"I am painfully aware that I can scarcely take a fucking piss without assistance," he snarled, "but I am perfectly capable of brushing my own goddamn hair. I don't want your help and I sure as fuck don't need your pity."

He gave the comb a savage yank and it suddenly pulled free as several of the delicate teeth snapped off under the force. Silver stared down at the broken thing in his hand for several long seconds before throwing it with all his strength. It hit the cabin wall and fell to the floor with a thoroughly unsatisfying clatter. He slumped back against the window and buried his face in his hands.

There was a long moment of silence. Then Silver heard the soft tread of Flint's boots move away briefly before returning.

"Here." Flint's voice was soft. "Use this if you'd like." Silver lowered his hands and glanced up to see Flint offering him a comb of his own. He looked higher to Flint's face, bracing himself to see the pitying gaze everyone else had been directing at him of late. It wasn't there. There was something like concern, perhaps a bit of hesitancy, but mostly Flint just looked exhausted.

Silver slowly accepted the proffered comb and turned it over in his hands appraisingly. It was an elegant thing, made from tortoiseshell and intricately worked with a pattern of twisting vines. It looked delicate but was probably much sturdier than Silver's own wooden one.

"And how does the most feared captain in the West Indies come to own such a fine comb?" Silver asked, eager to redirect the focus of the conversation.

"It's not mine. It's—" Flint stopped abruptly and Silver saw something in his expression shatter. "It's not mine."

Silver was suddenly reminded that he was not the only one who had lost something in Charlestown. When Billy had come to tell him that he had been voted quartermaster, he also told Silver about Mrs. Barlow and everything else that had happened. Silver had been understandably preoccupied at the time and the information had slipped his mind. Silver recognized her role in Flint's rage but hadn't considered the underlying loss. It was a different kind of hurt than his own, but Silver realized Flint was undeniably hurting too.

"Keep it if you'd like," Flint said gruffly, retreating to sit at his desk, his back to Silver. "I have no use for it." He rubbed his freshly shorn scalp uncomfortably.

Silver raised the comb to his head, unsure of what to say. After thirty seconds, his arms were shaking again. He let them fall back into his lap, disgusted. He had reached the point in his recovery where he was able to spend more of the day awake than asleep and he'd even managed to slowly hobble the length of the cabin a few times using the crutch Howell had left him, but he was still pitifully weak from blood loss and fever and even sitting upright this long left him dizzy.

He glanced surreptitiously over at Flint to see if he'd been watching his pathetic display, but he was merely sitting slumped at his desk, his head propped on one hand. He appeared to be reading, a red-covered book open in front of him, but as long minutes passed without the turn of a page it became clear the he was merely staring blankly at the pages. Silver had never seen him look so defeated.

He regretted snapping at Flint. Flint may have been in a black mood for the last two weeks but Silver knew he hadn't been much better himself. The two of them had mostly kept their interactions with each other to silent glowering, but Silver had been sullen and snappish with Billy and Muldoon when they visited and he had outright yelled at Howell more than once. He knew they were just trying be kind, and right now so was Flint.

But Silver didn't need kindness, told himself he didn't want it. He didn't want promises that would be broken when no longer convenient. He didn't want to be told he mattered when he knew it was a lie. He didn't want comfort that he would miss once it was gone. All his life he'd found it easier to just accept that no one cared than to be constantly disappointed when it was proved time and again that they didn't. He didn't need someone to care about him.

But maybe right now, in this moment, Flint did. Silver didn't want to care. After all, caring had gotten himself into his current mess. Yet he found himself speaking before he could think better of it.

"You could." Flint turned to look at him.

"Beg pardon?"

"Comb my hair," Silver forced out after a painfully long silence. "If you don't mind." He couldn't tell if he or Flint was more surprised but he was too tired to care. He wondered if Flint had actually been prepared for the possibility Silver would accept when he offered.

The hesitancy was back in Flint's eyes and Silver wasn't sure he would actually do it. But after a long moment of fiddling with his rings, Flint carefully removed them so they wouldn't snag and came to settle on the window seat next to Silver. He gently tugged the comb from Silver's hands.

"Tell me if I hurt you," Flint instructed softly as he pulled the broken bits of comb from Silver's hair.

Silver had been expecting Flint to attack the snarled mess of knots with the same brisk efficiency he usually used himself. He most certainly was not expecting Flint to gently run his fingers through his hair, working out the minor tangles and separating the hair into sections before setting in with the comb.

Flint took up the first section and began working at the knots with gentle tugs, carefully holding the strand so the motion wouldn't pull Silver's scalp painfully. He started at the tips, freeing the tangles there first before moving higher until he could brush the entire length from root to tip. Then he carefully set the section aside and moved on to the next.

Silver was slightly unsettled. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him out of simple kindness with no ulterior motive or necessary cause. Not that he could entirely rule out ulterior motives in this instance, but it didn't seem like the case. He wouldn't have ever expected such gentleness from Flint.

"They chose you as quartermaster out of trust, not pity," Flint said quietly. Silver tensed under his hands. "They know what you sacrificed and the majority of them at least can recognize that they would now be dead if you hadn't made that sacrifice. They trust that you have their best interests in mind. I believe they feel indebted to you for it and that offering their assistance is the only way they can think to repay you. I don't believe they see you as any less."

"Oh I think they do. After all I am half a leg less."

"Silver," Flint started, but Silver cut him off.

"Don't. Please don't." He desperately didn't want more assurances that he was more than he actually was. Thankfully Flint let the matter drop and focused on his task.

"How are you so good at brushing hair?" Silver asked incredulously, eager to change the subject. Flint was silent for long enough Silver didn't think he would answer.

"I used to have long hair," he said finally and Silver relaxed again. He knew there had to be more to the explanation than that, but he suddenly thought of Mrs. Barlow once more and decided not to press the matter.

"It wasn't that long," he scoffed instead. "That didn't even cover your ears completely."

"Not that," Flint snorted softly. "Years ago, back when I was in the navy. Officers tend to wear their hair long. Mine was longer than yours is, I think." He stretched one curl out to check its length. "Well, maybe the same if yours were straight," he amended.

Silver was surprised. It was common knowledge that Flint used to be a navy man—it was glaringly obvious in his posture and manner and tactical knowledge—but Silver had never heard him speak of it.

"There's still a difference between brushing your own hair and brushing someone else's," he pointed out. Flint hummed in agreement.

"Yeah. Sometimes it's nicer when someone else does it." Flint froze mid brush as he realized what he said and oh, there were so many teasing, witty responses Silver could come up with to that. But he knew Flint would likely stop if he opened his mouth and as much as he would deny it if asked, he did not want that to happen. So he stayed silent, although he did turn his head just slightly enough to note the faint blush coloring Flint's cheeks.

When it became clear Silver wasn't going to say anything, Flint started brushing again. In his distraction, he accidently pulled too hard, causing Silver to wince in discomfort. Flint gently rubbed his scalp in apology before continuing.

Silver lost track of time after that. His hair truly was a mess and there were at least two spots so badly matted that Silver probably would have been forced to cut them out if left to his own devices. Flint just patiently worked away at them until they unraveled.

The room was quiet save for the sounds of the ship and the soft susurrus of the comb through Silver's hair. He was tired and relaxed enough that the constant pain in his leg had faded to a distant throbbing ache and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. At some point Flint stopped and stood. Silver snapped his head up, blinking back to awareness, but Flint merely circled around to his other side and settled back onto the bench to comb out the other side. Silver let his eyes drift shut again.

He was having a hard time reconciling this side of Flint with what he had previously experienced of the man. After all this was Flint. Flint who had beaten a man to death with his bare hands, who had snapped his friend's neck for getting between him and his goal, who had manipulated his crew into sinking an entire ship full of men to win back his captaincy, who had killed the governor of Carolina in the middle of Charlestown's square in broad daylight.

Silver thought he had imagined it when he first awoke, the warm voice and kind eyes that had immediately vanished when Silver mentioned the Urca gold. He thought the soothing words and the careful hands bringing him water and cold cloths for his head had been part of the fever dreams. He had certainly seen no sign of any softness in Flint since they had returned to Nassau, just righteous fury and stony silence.

But the more Silver thought about it, the more incongruities started stacking up. After all, this was the man who had seemed genuinely upset about being seen as a villain, who had dived under a falling ship to save a half-mad cook, who gave books as apologies, who knew how to properly cook a pig, who had sailed to Charlestown seeking peace. Who apparently was very well-versed in the brushing of hair. At the very least there was more to Flint than he liked to publicly acknowledge.

Silver noticed suddenly that Flint had finished untangling his hair and was simply combing it now, caught up in the repetitive motion. Silver tensed slightly and straightened up as he realized he had been slowly listing sideways with each pull of the comb. Flint noticed and stopped, setting the comb aside with Silver's other belongings. Silver was surprised to find himself mildly disappointed.

"Are you finished?"

"Almost." And suddenly Flint's fingers were back in his hair, carding through the strands and separating them into sections.

"What are you doing now?"

"Plaiting it. It'll keep it from getting tangled again."

"Because of course the dread Captain Flint can plait hair as well," Silver said with mock exasperation. "I'm not even sure why I'm surprised at this point."

"It's a good sight simpler than splicing rope or tying rigging," Flint pointed out drily, starting to weave the strands together. "And I told you I used to have long hair. Loose hair is rather impractical on a ship. I'm actually surprised you've never done anything to keep yours out of your face." Silver didn't reply, distracted instead by the sudden mental image of Flint with plaited hair.

Flint finished with the plait, careful to keep it tight enough to be secure but loose enough that it wouldn't pull Silver's scalp uncomfortably. He quickly patted down his pockets, searching for something to tie the end off with and coming up empty.

"Here," he instructed, passing the end over Silver's shoulder. "Hold that." Silver took it and tugged on it, twisting his head to try to see what the stubby braid looked like. Flint went to rummage around his desk for a long moment before returning with a piece of twine and securing the end.

"There. That should keep it tidy, for a short while at least."

"Thank you," Silver tried to reply, the words getting garbled by an expansive yawn. "Thank you," he repeated when it had subsided. Flint gave him a small smile.

"It's late," he said, standing up from the window seat. "We should probably sleep."

Silver nodded in agreement and slowly began to maneuver himself from vertical to horizontal. Flint was still standing nearby, observing, but Silver appreciated that he made no unsolicited attempt to help him. He carefully swung his good leg up onto the window seat but misjudged the momentum and slammed the mangled remains of his left leg into the ledge. He choked back a scream but only just, his vision going black around the edges as his awareness narrowed to the white-hot agony boiling through his leg.

Silver wasn't sure how long it took for his shuddering gasps to subside and his vision to clear. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours. His leg still felt as if his veins had been filled with molten lead but he slowly became aware of Flint's soothing voice from beside him.

"Shhh, it's alright. You'll be fine. Just breathe. You'll be alright."

Flint was kneeling on the floor beside the window seat, his forearm trapped in Silver's white-knuckled grip. His free hand was holding Silver's carefully, smoothing gentle circles into the back of it with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," Silver said, his voice ragged. He forced his fingers to unclench and hurriedly pulled his hand away. Flint immediately drew back to give him space. Silver turned to look out the window, blinking back tears, embarrassment flooding his system along with the pain.

"It's alright," Flint said softly. "Do you want any laudanum?"

Silver shifted uncomfortably, sending a fresh wave of pain burning through his leg. He let out a hiss of discomfort.

"Hey, look at me." Flint's voice was still soft. After a long moment Silver turned and forced himself to meet Flint's earnest gaze.

"It's fine," he repeated. "Now, I meant what I said before. I won't force you to take it. Just know that there's no shame in it."

Silver's gaze flicked to the tiny bottle on the barrel at his elbow. God, did he want it, want to drown out the pain that was clawing through his leg. But he couldn't risk it, couldn't risk the things that might come spilling out of his mouth if he did. And the weakness of giving in sure felt like shame, no matter what Flint might say. He continued to stare at the tiny bottle.

"Would it be easier if I did order you to take it?" Silver's eyes snapped back to Flint's. There was no pity or mocking there, just honest curiosity.

It would. Silver fiddled with the edge of his blanket, bothered by how easily Flint could read him. But it would make it easier. He could convince himself he wasn't weak for giving in if it wasn't his choice. He could resent Flint for it instead of himself. "Perhaps," he said finally.

"Then take the laudanum, Silver," Flint said firmly, but not unkindly. He carefully measured out a small dose into Silver's mug and passed it to him. "I'll think no less of you for it and there's no one else around to know. And some uninterrupted rest will do you good."

"You sound like Howell," Silver groused, but downed the medicine with a grimace.

"Perhaps," Flint chuckled, "but we both mean well." He refilled Silver's mug with water so he could wash away the bitter taste. "Now stop griping and get some rest."

Flint turned away and Silver carefully settled himself into a more comfortable position. He let his eyes drift shut and listened to the quiet sounds of Flint preparing for bed. By the time the lamp was extinguished, Silver could feel his breath evening out and the pain slowly receding as the drug swirled through his system.

"Good night, Captain," he heard himself say quietly, and he slept.

A/N: This was originally planned as the second chapter of my previous fic Solace with just the simple premise of James and Silver getting their hair brushed, but Solace ended up going a slightly different direction than I had planned so I ended up splitting them. They're still definitely thematic companions though, even if they're their own things. I also have an idea for a third one with James and Miranda but who knows if I'll ever be motivated enough to write it.

Also, I know Flint and Silver end season 2 and start season 3 not on good terms so this might be a bit out of character, but they both needed a break so I don't care. Thanks for reading!