#my hal

It’s that still and dreamy hour. The night having left her post, the day yet to wake. 

Exhaustion creeps through the men, drugging minds and dragging at limbs, everyone slumped against the threshold of then, and next.

Hal finds himself blinking, awake too soon in the thick grey darkness, cocooned in a fug of breath and heat. Grunting a little, he tries to shift, but a weight on his chest stills him quickly.Too light to be someone dead, too close to be someone to worry about. He tilts his head, cursing as it throbs at the movement. Flint, tucked quieter and softer than he’s seen him in months, is gripping firmly to his bare body. Fuck, he thinks, a fondness pattering in his chest. Fuck. Fond turns to dread, and tightens around his throat. He lets his hand rest gently on Flint’s arm, his rough fingers aching to tighten, and pull him closer. Pushes his nose into the wild, hot hair instead, and waits until the sun begins to sneak under the door and pry open Flint’s eyes.

The bastard burrows then, shoving his face right into the soft, sweet skin of Hal’s neck, mumbling pitifully. He knows Flint’s not wearing any breeches. That the only scrap he’s got on is his wide, white shirt, and it drags across his bare belly as he hauls his Captain on top of him. He pins one leg between the knees of his own, and curls his arm around Flint’s back, pressing them chest to chest. He smooths one hand down the nape of his neck, sighing heavily.“You drank all the rum.”

He wants to keep touching, to tug at the shirt, keep out the daylight and stroke at the hardness he feels between those bare legs. “All my rum, you bastard.”

He lets his hands drop to his sides. Flint will leave now, he supposes.

@thatwasdark 

Hal squints against the sun, trying to focus on the curious mutt. He wonders how the creature found him, and why - his hands had been empty earlier, no food and certainly not the promise of more. It sits with an odd focus, still whining pathetically and somehow broadening the wide, downturned pout.

Hal stares, musing at the dog; too large, to bright, too strong. Nothing like the ragged, patchy creatures that limp around, begging at the scent of food, too crazed with fear and hunger to plead so sweetly.

“You’re a canny bastard, aren’t you.” It makes him… uncomfortable. Something too calculated in the eyes. He shoves the last of the disgusting tack into his mouth, and stands abruptly; thrusting his considerable bulk in the dogs direction. Looking to startle it, or anger it? He isn’t quite sure himself.