"Ain't here to stab you in the kidneys." Is he expecting assassination attempts? He's a hard captain, nearly lost control of his ship at least once, far as she knows--but what she's heard of Charles Town has been told like a broadside ballad, not an accusation. If anyone's ready to make him pay for his last jaunt up the coast, they haven't started whispering to others yet. (Or, at least, not to Anne--but that ain't a surprise.)
She does come closer, though, figuring on this being about as good an invitation as she's getting. Her free hand's on the hilt of a dagger, but casually, like she just feels like remembering it's there. If there's a way to be casual about having a blade at your fingertips, anyhow. In a moment, she's standing near him, not quite in arm's reach, leaning against the wall.
"Looking to join a crew." Anne's never been one to drag this shit out--if she's getting a no, she wants it fast and over with.
Well he certainly isn't expecting that. It draws something in Flint short, dredging his attention around in a way that the perceived threat of her knife had failed to do. His weight, checked against the wall a moment ago, starts to shift from it. Then--
He huffs out a low, sullen noise. "Vane intends to be out at the first opportunity. If you have business with him, then I would invite you take it to him."
"Been on Vane's crew. I ain't going back to that." However she might feel about him now--it's a fondness born as much or more from seeing Jack's regard for him, and not always easily--she remembers the hardest days she had on the Ranger. It's nothing she intends to repeat, particularly not when it means she'll have walked away from Jack and towards one of the men he esteems most in this world.
The obvious doesn't need saying: Came to you because I want on your ship. He's probably already making up his mind, her luck. So she waits, watching him from under the brim of her hat.
Here is the list of things that lives under all the others: What happens when they return to Nassau? What happens once the men realize that they have half a ship at best, have no ransom money, no Spanish gold, have nothing but the pleasure of having razed a piece of the colonies? There will be a fort to repair, hard labor, and debts to repay. A partnership alone, some change in the arrangement of who wants to throttle who, isn't enough to change that. It is in everyone's interest not to remind anyone of that this is what they're going back to. The last thing any of them need is a reminder of how many times they will be dividing nothing between them.
And here is what he knows, the sizzling tide that rises any time his mind turns toward questions of semantics: fuck that. Fuck all of it. And fuck anyone who can't see the point in using this moment to exert all that pressure to make a blade to hack England's head off with. It's the thought that swallows. He is standing over it and can see what it looks like from above better than he can those rocks below them now in the dark. Drown him in that.
"I got two." Anne knows how this works, if only from watching other negotiations. It ain't supposed to be this easy. Especially not with a captain known for being hard, especially not when it means he's agreeing to have a woman among his crew.
Might be the stories of his island witch have some basis in fact--not the shit about magic, but his being run by some woman's voice in his ear. Or his need for a good knife or two on his side outweighs whatever backtalk his quartermaster'll give him over bringing on a crew-killer. (Or he just don't know what you did to that bastard up with the whore. That's why he ain't said no.)
She can't guess, looking at the dark shape of his features, which it is. She can't remember ever being stuck in the same room as him before, not without someone else there to do the talking; she's going to have to learn how to tell one of Flint's faces from the next. (Simultaneously, she misses Jack and hates him, little curls of both sensations tangling up together.) Which all means she has to ask it straight out, little though she wants to. "You expecting trouble?"
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She does come closer, though, figuring on this being about as good an invitation as she's getting. Her free hand's on the hilt of a dagger, but casually, like she just feels like remembering it's there. If there's a way to be casual about having a blade at your fingertips, anyhow. In a moment, she's standing near him, not quite in arm's reach, leaning against the wall.
"Looking to join a crew." Anne's never been one to drag this shit out--if she's getting a no, she wants it fast and over with.
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He huffs out a low, sullen noise. "Vane intends to be out at the first opportunity. If you have business with him, then I would invite you take it to him."
no subject
The obvious doesn't need saying: Came to you because I want on your ship. He's probably already making up his mind, her luck. So she waits, watching him from under the brim of her hat.
no subject
And here is what he knows, the sizzling tide that rises any time his mind turns toward questions of semantics: fuck that. Fuck all of it. And fuck anyone who can't see the point in using this moment to exert all that pressure to make a blade to hack England's head off with. It's the thought that swallows. He is standing over it and can see what it looks like from above better than he can those rocks below them now in the dark. Drown him in that.
"I could use a good knife," he says.
no subject
Might be the stories of his island witch have some basis in fact--not the shit about magic, but his being run by some woman's voice in his ear. Or his need for a good knife or two on his side outweighs whatever backtalk his quartermaster'll give him over bringing on a crew-killer. (Or he just don't know what you did to that bastard up with the whore. That's why he ain't said no.)
She can't guess, looking at the dark shape of his features, which it is. She can't remember ever being stuck in the same room as him before, not without someone else there to do the talking; she's going to have to learn how to tell one of Flint's faces from the next. (Simultaneously, she misses Jack and hates him, little curls of both sensations tangling up together.) Which all means she has to ask it straight out, little though she wants to. "You expecting trouble?"
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"I aim to create it."
And if little else can be said about Anne Bonny's reputation, no one would deny her talent for that.