She bursts into Jack's office--his actual office at the quarterdeck, not the head--without so much as a knock. Not unusual. The amount of energy in the action, and in the way she strides over to the desk and smacks down a scrap of parchment on its surface? Somewhat more notable. "The fuck's this?"
It's the preferences, carefully revised where needed, of one Miss Wysteria Poppell.
Jack looks up from ledgers and accounts with a bleary expression, before he sees the paper he's being brandished with. His smile brightens. "Ah, perfect. I was wondering when they'd get around to that."
That he considered this at all is proof enough that Kirkwall's a new world for both of them. A pause, while she chews over the thought of it, and then, "Who else're you buying for?"
"She wants ribbons," Anne offers, when it's evident he's looking over what's actually written there. Stalking over to her chair--she has one of those, same as him--she sprawls into it and pulls out a knife to pick at her nails. "Should've put your name in, if you was lookin' for charity."
He snorts a laugh. "I'll save ribbons for other things." And that could be something risque, but they both know it's not. "I don't want charity. I want someone to give you an extra gift. As I said, I'll handle the details."
The corner of Anne's mouth tugs up slightly. Ribbons and twine and shit like that, she figured out years ago that it's shit for tying him up. Too easy to pull too tight, leaves marks on Jack's wrists--not worth it, when she can just use his clothes. "Get her something decent. Ain't her fault you put my name in."
"Ain't the arbiter of nothing." One of those Jack words, arbiter, the meaning of which Anne's learned through observation of how he uses it. She blows a speck of dirt from the tip of her blade. "Just ain't letting you sign my name to a shit present."
His grin continues on. "Oh? You still want credit? I was thinking of leaving it as a mysterious benefactor. Perhaps a secret admirer. The note implies that was the one who put her fucking name in the first place."
She rolls her eyes. It doesn't actually matter to her what he puts down--who's going to check up on this shit?--but that's not really the point. "I ain't pretending to be nobody's secret admirer."
"I said this was my initiative, remember?" He grins. "You get an extra gift; I handle the details. But," and there's some conspiracy in his voice, "no one will ever recognize your penmanship."
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it was inevitable.
It's the preferences, carefully revised where needed, of one Miss Wysteria Poppell.
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