#t.zegras|11

[devils-pirate-crew]

Dawson closes his eyes, burrowing his nose into Dougie's side. The pilot smiles down at him, then looks to the right at the rest of the group at the tavern. His eyes lock with Arber's for a long moment before he glances back down into his beer.

Hey, Dawson now tries to open the connection wide. Arber?

Hm? The gunner tilts his head back, stretching his neck.

Why's it gotta be so loud?

It's just how it is, Arber sighs through the connection. You've got a lot of spirits. It gets loud.

Dawson nods into Dougie's side. Both he and Arber sit there for a long moment before the connection flickers off, only the Voices audible floating between the two. The rest of the world comes back into focus.

Brady raises his glass, clambering up on top of his stool, wobbling a little bit as he stands. "To the fucking new era of Sensibility!" he roars. "A round for all of you, on me!"

"Fuck yeah," Trevor grins, taking another long swig of the whiskey bottle - it's about half empty by now, which means he's probably incredibly drunk, given how much of a lightweight he looks. That plus he tries not to cough every time he takes a drink.

"Quinn!" Jack yells. "Get us some glasses of port, Brady's buying!"

Quinn grins, strolling casually back around the counter. "You want the nice stuff, Tkachuk?" he asks, mellifluous, reaching up to get the nice glasses from their spot on a high shelf. "Also, get off my stool."

"You're not the boss of me," Brady complains back, nevertheless flopping down. His coat hangs behind him, exposing his entire chest to the group. Jesus, this dude.

"That's what I thought." Quinn uncorks a bottle he procured from under the counter, pouring a bit of the port bottle into each of the glasses. The bartender then slides each glass to one of the nine pirates sitting at the counter before taking the tenth for himself. "To Brady's shitty financial decisions," he toasts, smirking.

"To shitty financial decisions," the rest of the pirates echo, taking sips of the port, which gets Brady blushing with embarrassment and muttering under his breath. Dawson merely looks at the glass in front of him, not moving to touch it.

He's just... not in the mood for it. At all. Not when it's loud like this.

God, he hopes they get out of here soon. Why were they here again in the first place? Right, they were waiting for Nico. And Nico's, unfortunately, almost assured to end up in the same place that Jack is. So they're stuck here until their captain shows up, which then means Arber talks to him, which is more waiting.

Dawson hates waiting.

Especially when the Voices are loud and the world is loud around them.

He reaches out tentatively for the glass, but drops his hand just moments before touching it. It's rude, isn't it? To deny a drink with friends? And yet he doesn't think he should accept it. What did he do for it?

Dawson shakes his head almost imperceptibly, letting his arm fall to his side. No. Better not to.

[devils-pirate-crew]

"Quinn!" someone yells into the tavern, kicking the door open. Dawson spins around on his stool at the same time as Quinn absolutely groans, dropping his head until his chin smacks his chest. "I knew it!"

Jack strides into the Electric Eel, two familiar suspects nipping at his heels. One is quite short, even by 18th-century standards, but power coils through his muscles. Even so, he offers a quirky, freckled grin. Arber catches it and waves back. The other person is slightly taller than Jack and looks even more like a drowned rat, if that were possible. Tattoos wind around one of his arms, clearly patchwork and done by some sailor with little experience but enough gunpowder and imagination to make it work.

"I told you!" Jack continues his chatterboxing, the short pirate taking the seat to Arber's right and the taller one leaving an empty spot between the short one and his own seat, presumably for Jack. "I told you that if Cole and I were both here, Old Mallard would show!"

Quinn bustles back to behind the counter, getting two beers for Jack, who only now takes his seat between his two friends, and the short pirate, Cole. He then fishes under the cabinet to pull out some whiskey, rolling his eyes as he slides the entire bottle to the man on the far end. "Trevor, if you cause a fucking scene again, I will personally kill you," he warns.

"You got it, boss," Trevor mock-salutes, already opening the bottle and taking a long gulp before vaguely pretending it's not burning his throat on the way down. Cole gives him a puzzled look that reads okay, tough guy.

"And I'll make it even better for you," the tavern owner bargains. "You can pick the hand I beat the fuck out of you with." He smirks, his gaze still dead inside as he stares Trevor down - he flexes his fingers on the neck of the bottle, chuckling awkwardly.

"Can we watch?" Cole now pipes up, sunny as ever.

Jack bursts into laughter. "And be next?" He wheezes for air. "Well, you'd be next. I'd get Mom to protect me." The master-at-arms sticks his tongue out at Quinn, who merely rolls his eyes at his little brother in response, deciding to get incredibly busy cleaning on the other side of the tavern to not deal with this shit.

"So, Zeegs," Cole takes a sip of his beer, "What's Old Mallard up to?"

Trevor rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Not much luck," he admits. "We thought we had a great target. Turns out it was Crown Jewel."

"Yiiikes," Jack breathes out.

"Yeah." He gulps down another long shot of whiskey, still trying to act macho, a façade that literally everyone at the bar is able to see through. "Thank fuck Jamie was at the wheel."

"Jamie's your new friend, huh?" Cole grins. It would look innocent enough to anyone who didn't know Cole Caufield, but to those acquainted with the tiny pirate, the expression would immediately be clocked as one of Starting Shit.

"Shut the fuck up," Trevor replies, as easily as breathing. He raises his bottle as if going to hit Cole with it; the latter pirate pretends to duck, giggling wildly as he does.

...It's getting loud in here, Dawson registers dimly.