Chapter Text
“Darling, you cannot be serious.”
“Th’fuck’s wrong with it?” The ‘it’ in question squirmed, giving Jack a thoroughly unimpressed glare as Anne hoisted it higher into her arms. He wasn’t sure where in the mess that was Port Royal she had managed to find such a massive, angry-looking orange cat, but find one she had, and she was very determined it was joining their crew.
“Nothing is particularly ‘wrong,’ per se, however this was supposed to be a supply run and there isn’t any way that is, by anyone’s stretch of imagination, a ‘supply’.”
“Ranger needs a new mouser,” Anne insisted, setting her chin in that way that Jack knew was going to make it impossible to say no, “just ‘cause your pick was too dumb to stay on a rail don’t mean nothin’s wrong with mine.”
She had a point. The last cat of the Ranger hadn’t stuck around long enough to be named, missing a crucial footing in a minor storm that had knocked it overboard. It had been there a week. Jack couldn’t even say he’d had time to become fond of the poor thing. Jack looked at the cat again, already resigning himself to the inevitable. At least this one wasn’t getting knocked off the deck for anything, the big bastard at least the weight of a cannonball (easily a ten pounder though he was hoping optimistically for closer to eight) and half the length of his partner and my GOD the fluff.
“That fur is going to get into everything,” Jack muttered, conceding what paltry amount of ground he’d had in the first place. Worth it, he decided, to see Anne’s face light up, however briefly, now that the cat’s position on deck was secured. “Don’t get excited just yet,” he reminded her, “You’ve still got to get him past Charles.”
“Get what, past Charles, exactly?” Well. Fuck.
Charles stepped out of the captain’s cabin, looking down the lit end of his cheroot at his quartermaster and his partner. Jack looked like he’d just lost a bet. Again. To Anne. Again. Anne, on the other hand was as silent and irascible as ever, though the armful of orange was new.
“You taking up decorating?” Charles asked Jack, pointing at the fluff in question, “Or are you thinking this is a new member of the crew?”
“Need a new mouser,” Anne pointed out, setting the cat down on a barrel, smirking as the cat arched into her hand with a purr, “ S’friendly, sturdy, bright enough to not miss underfoot.”
“Captain, she makes a point, considering the loss of the last cat…” Charles considered the animal, putting a hand close enough for it to sniff, which it did, eyes slitting in an unfriendly manner as both ears went back. Grumpy fucker. He liked it already.
“Thing got a name?” he asked Anne, withdrawing his hand before the cat decided he needed to bite it.
“Haven’t thought of one yet.”
“It gets a week,” Charles decided, going back into his cabin, “If there aren’t less rats by then I’m throwing it over myself.”
The cat, as it turns out, was a very good mouser. Within a few months there’s nary a rat in sight in the hold, and any new vermin taken from a prize was swiftly and enthusiastically dealt with. Charles was about to tell Anne she was giving the damn thing too much credit for the missing rodents until the cat trotted past one late night watch with a medium-sized snake in its fucking mouth from god knew where.
Jack ended up getting ‘gifted’ the snake. Charles wasn’t there to witness it but the whole fucking ship managed to hear it.That it was a black snake and not venomous was apparently of no consequence if the screaming was any indicator, and Anne finally ended up being the one to throw the mostly dead creature overboard after complimenting the cat’s hunting skills and disparaging Jack’s squeamishness. It was the beginning and subsequent end of the entire attempt at friendship with the animal, and it had Charles chuckling about it off and on for a solid week, much to Jack’s absolute irritation.
Jack never again attempted to befriend the cat, much to Anne’s annoyance, though the damn thing slept with her half the time anyway. The crew had taken a shine to him, for it definitely was a him, a growly grumbly brat of a tomcat no one had managed to give a name that had stuck yet.
Charles was looking over a map in the cabin, double-checking a longitude as they were hunting their newest lead when the Damn Cat came in from the cracked open window, hopping up on the table like he owned it.
“What? You got advice now?” the cat flattened his ears, looking as unimpressed as an animal could before sitting down in the middle of the map to wash its wet paws. Charles cursed under his breath, moving to shove the cat off, only to be immediately grateful of the leather on his forearm when the cat retaliated with claws flying and a low growl. All the same, he did not escape unscathed. “Fine. When we lose this ship you can blame your damn self for missing dinner.” The cat huffed, tail twitching in irritation before walking primly down the length of the table and hopping off with a heavy thunk.
It suddenly occurred to Charles where he’d seen that haughty look before. He gave the Damn Cat another look, a slow smirk creeping onto his face as he realized the perfect fucking name. Why it hadn’t hit him before now, with the glares and the clawing and the acting like he owned the damn place, was beyond him but it was staring him in the face now. Christ, the fucking thing’s whiskers even looked like the bastard’s stupid moustache.
The Damn Cat walked over to the door, sitting at it and yowling with authority, demanding rather than asking to be let out and away from him. Oh yes. This was going to be the perfect fucking name.
“Cat’s name is Flint.” Charles told Anne, dumping the thoroughly manhandled pile of orange into her lap, “keep him the fuck out of my cabin.”
“Flint, huh?” Anne asked the cat, getting a purr and a head butt in response, “Alright then, ol’ Flint, welcome to the crew.”