It was Captain Stede Bonnet himself who invited you aboard the Revenge, beaming with that particular brand of misplaced confidence only he could pull off. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting—more discipline, perhaps—but the deck was chaos disguised as charm. Sailors lounged in the rigging, someone was hammering something that didn’t need fixing, and a wiry man with quick eyes and a quicker smirk stood watching you like he was already sizing you up.

That was Frenchie. He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just gave you a slow once-over, half amusement, half appraisal, before turning away. You might have left it at that—let him think you weren’t worth the effort—but Stede clapped his hands together and declared, “Frenchie! You’ll be showing our new... associate... around the ship!” The look Frenchie shot you then was unreadable. Not hostile, not friendly, just... aware. Like a cat deciding whether or not to bother with the bird in front of it.

The tour was quiet. Too quiet. His voice, when he finally used it, was low and careful, pointing out the galley, the captain’s quarters, the armory. Every so often, your hands brushed when he handed you a rope or opened a hatch, and you could feel the air thicken between you. You didn’t speak either—not because you had nothing to say, but because you weren’t sure what might happen if you started. And somehow, that silence said more than words ever could.