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Sweet talk

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It has been a ridiculously long day.

When they managed to actually steal the warship without getting themselves killed – how the fuck did that ridiculous plan seriously work, he will always have to wonder –, John dared drawing a slight sigh of relief, thinking that the worst could only have passed and that from then on it would only be a matter of sweet-talking his way out of a noose.

As if in direct response to his dangerously optimistic thoughts, the ship takes a hit way too close to him. Next thing he knows, he’s watching Flint go down like a ton of bricks.

“Fuck—” John mutters, glancing with deep distrust in the direction of the bay before sliding down on his knees to check that he hasn’t just lost the only person on this ship that he might have sort of began to win over as an ally.

What he can say, with his non-existent medical expertise, is that there is a lot more blood on Flint’s head than John is anywhere nearly comfortable seeing.

Shit—” he says, frantically trying to stop the bleeding with bare hands and grimacing.

Flint appears to be understandably dazed, one hand going up to touch his head and wincing when he moves even an inch.

John takes a look around, trying to see if anyone else has noticed, but either they haven’t or they don’t care. The likelihood of the latter option is high enough that John feels the need to hope he won’t be ignored when he starts shouting for the medic. Howell came, back on the beach, when he was in pretty much the exact same situation except he was dealing with an half-drown captain bleeding from a bullet hole in his shoulder, but John knows better than to rely on the idea that acts of decency aren’t just a momentary lapse in judgement.

When he turns his attention back to Flint, his eyes are already half-way closed.

“Hey!” John calls out, trying not to panic too much, even though he can’t even see where exactly the wound is, there’s just too much blood. “Stay awake! Stay with me, alright?”

Flint squints at him, apparently having heard him loud and clear and recognizing him too, judging by the annoyance on his face. “That’s a terrible prospective,” he mutters, disgusted.

John snorts. “I am going to take that observation as a sign that you are not dying, if you don’t mind.”

Flint has the audacity of glaring at him, as best as he can at least, but then his eyelids flutter and he seems to be drifting away, so John—panics a little. Just a little.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” he starts rambling, giving him a shake for good measure. That gets him a grunt of protest, which is something, at least. “You—you don’t want to leave me to be hanged all alone, do you? I mean—that would be rude.”

Flint gives a noncommittal hum that somehow manages to sound judgemental as hell. It is probably a little amusing that he can do that.

“Or perhaps—perhaps given that we did take the warship after all they will let us go. We—hey, can I get a medic here or not, please?” he cuts himself off, giving an exasperated look around and raising his voice. He catches a couple of glares, so at least they’ve noticed now.

He honestly isn’t sure that he is doing any good by trying to keep the blood in with his palms. Either the cut is too large, or he’s totally missing it somewhere in that mess of red, or he just plainly doesn’t know what he is doing. Probably the latter.

“We could go to Saint Augustine,” he keeps blabbering, hoping that Flint will be annoyed enough to stay awake and that it will keep him from noticing how utterly unhelpful John is otherwise being. “Be exiled together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

At that, Flint manages to crack his eyes open, and if looks could kill—well, let’s just say that John is glad that Flint doesn’t seem to actually possess any supernatural abilities, in spite of the paranoid tales told about him.

“No,” Flint says, firmly, in a tone that makes John guess that he probably would prefer to gut him before they make shore instead of having to bear his presence for a minute more than strictly necessary.

Yeah, well, Flint is clearly an ungrateful bastard.

(John can sort of respect that.)

He is about to attempt to ramble some more, when Dr Howell finally walks up to them, kneeling down next to Silver.

“Oh, thank god,” he mutters, relieved. “He’s bleeding everywhere and I have no idea what I am doing,” he explains, quickly.

Howell gives him an unamused look. “Again,” he deadpans, grimacing in annoyance as if to highlight that there’s a part of him that would whole-heartedly prefer to just let Flint die already.

John supposes he should be thankful that not everyone has the habit of drowning their conscience at any given opportunity.

“Well, it looks like you’ll probably be fine once again,” John announces, without actually having a leg to stand on if he’s being honest, as he flashes a toothy smile Flint’s way.

He thinks he heard him mutter ‘You are a shit’ in response, and it is oddly nice to hear.