#bskinkmeme

“I ever tell you about the time Joji laughed out loud?” Flint asked casually, watching John hobble over the main deck toward the captain’s cabin.

“What?” John was not in the mood. He was still learning the intricacies of navigating the ship with just a crutch, his leg still too raw and unhealed to even attempt the peg leg that Randall had shunned so aggressively. It was slow going. The crew, bless them, had done their best to accommodate him, stringing lines along rails without saying anything as to why, claiming the handholds were better for everyone, just caring so goddamn much it was almost unbearable in a different sense. And now Flint.

 “Joji. Laughing. Out loud.” John settled onto the stair, massaging the stump of his leg with a wince. A look of irritation flitted across his face, clearly wondering if his captain had any idea how much he didn’t care to talk about something as innocuous as Joji laughing at something.

 “No. Daresay that hasn’t come up before.” Flint waited, settling into the rail. Silver was a storyteller himself, and the crew loved the tales he’d bring them, but it still surprised him when Flint had an anecdote or two of his own. He knew John’d had a lousy day, the spray of the sea making the deck treacherous enough for two feet, let alone one. John finally looked up at him, a shadow of that curious smile on his face.

“Well go on then, I could use a good story.”

 “This had to be……two, three years ago?” he supposed it didn’t matter, waving the question he’d asked himself away, “ we were coming back from hunting near Kingston. Hadn’t had much luck, crew morale was straight in the shithole, every eye not needed on chores looking for sails.”

“Can’t imagine what sailing with a pissed crew would look like for you, captain” Silver commented dryly. Flint’s eyes narrowed at him, no real malice behind the glare but a measure of amusement.

 “Staring down the prospect of coming back to port empty handed, we elect to try our luck closer to Port Au Prince than is considered practical. Sure enough, sails on the horizon, we pursue. Now, we’re about to close on her, and one of the crew gets spooked over something. Convinced there’s something awful about to happen if we board this ship. Well, you know Mister Gates, he’s sure he can convince the crew we can take this, superstition or otherwise, but he’s sure an encouraging word from the captain will help considerably.”

 “………I’m sorry, he had met you, yes?”

 “Are you going to keep interrupting?”

 “Apologies, please do go on.”

 “Gates encourages me to look….imposing, to the crew.” John quirked an eyebrow at him, knowing full well James Flint has more than enough ability to manage looking ‘imposing.’ “I come down from the quarterdeck to give a rousing speech-”

 “And the crew’s faith is restored, they rally and the ship is taken.”

 “No, dammit, I miss the first step and go face first down the fucking stairs.”

 He can’t be serious. John is convinced he can’t be fucking serious. Captain Flint, the notorious pirate, the terror of the seas, is honestly expecting him to believe that he fell flat on his face in front of his whole crew and is willing to tell him about it? But the  irritation of the memory is pretty damn clear, and suddenly he’s afraid to ask what happened next.

 “As it turns out, the crew isn’t exactly heartened by witnessing their fearless captain go careening down the quarterdeck steps, taking it as a sign of bad fortune, and now there’s talk of letting this merchant ship go entirely. And then I hear it. A snort. A noise that can only be one thing. I get up, looking for the offender, and then the laughter starts for real.”

 “………No.”

 “Yes. Joji. Sitting on a barrel on the forecastle, laughing hard enough I’m expecting him to fall over. Surprised the crew enough that they forgot their misgivings and proceeded to take the ship.”

 “And you punished Joji for laughing and he hasn’t done it since, I take it?”

 “You fucking kidding me? That ship was the best haul we’d had in months, I gave him an extra half share.” Flint winked at Silver, quick enough he half-expected he’d imagined it, then strode off down the main deck to inspect the work being taken care of by Mr. DeGroot. John watched him go with utter disbelief. No fucking way James Flint just admitted he fell down his own ship’s goddamn stairs.

 “He telling stories now?” Billy asked, leaning against the rail of the stair to look at Silver.

“Some bullshit about him falling down the quarterdeck stairs,” John replied, glancing over at his friend, “Not that I’d believe it, but made for a decent telling.”

 “That time he made Joji laugh, huh?”

 “………you’re kidding me.”

“Absolutely true. Saw it with my own eyes. Went ass over elbows down the stairs, shot straight up like a cat caught falling off a table.”

 “And no one ever mentioned it again? Really?”

Another contraction hits and Silver squeezes his eyes shut as his insides clamp down. He’s fairly sure that if he opens them, his eyeballs will pop right out of the sockets. He thinks he’s going to have a stroke.

“Breathe,” Madi insists and he sucks in a big lungful before he remembers to pant, to pace himself in time to her breath. They attended the mother-infant classes together, but she was the only one who paid any attention. The rest of the class had spent their time staring in confusion at her belly, then at Silver’s.

“You’re doing great, John,” says the midwife, Eme. The nurse, who kept calling Silver by a name that hasn’t applied to him in years, has been banished after Silver threatened to fling his own poop at her. He’s pretty sure there’s some of his poop in the goddamned birthing pool. How Eme and Madi aren’t tapping out is beyond him.

His back pops alarmingly. “Oh god, my spine just snapped. Madi, Madi, my spine.”

“You’re fine,” she says calmly. She has his half-leg pulled over her lap and is basically holding him upright in what they assure him is the easiest birthing position. If this is easy then Silver dreads to imagine being on his back, even if every part of his body wants to just lie the fuck down and not do this anymore. “This is normal. Breathe.”

“Nnnnnnnngod I should’ve had the abortion. Why didn’t I--?”

“Almost there,” Eme says. “Push now, John.”

Water swirls as Madi shifts, forcing him to widen his stance. “Come on, push down. Deep breath and push--!”

“I’ve been pushing,” Silver howls. His body, at least, seems to obey them and he scrabbles at the edges of the birthing pool as spasms seize his whole lower body. Even his missing leg cramps. He’s dying, this is how he dies, swimming in his own shit and--

Suddenly the pressure that’s been building in his abdomen releases. It’s like taking a huge dump, as something slithers out of him. There’s a dodgy flash of pain, which he’s pretty sure means something has torn, but then it’s out and he sags against the edge of the pool in relief.

“Oh thank god. It’s out, yeah? It’s over?”

“Yes,” Madi says. She hooks an arm around Silver’s shoulders and he leans in that direction, wishing he was more able to take advantage of the closeness.

“You told me I should have an abortion,” he says against her collarbone. “Why the fuck didn’t I listen?”

A few feet away, there’s a sudden squall of noise. Silver’s head lifts and he stares across the birthing pool at his--his daughter. At first glance she’s just a slimy, reddish, ugly thing that makes stuttery movements and high-pitched wails; but then Eme dips her in the water, wiping away some of the goo, and Silver sees her hair. There’s a lot of it: they’d told him to expect that, since he hadn’t known until the fourth month and she’d been getting regular doses of T along with him. It sticks straight up from her head in a tiny, auburn mohawk.