A Partnership Of Sorts. Fucker Knows The Exact Goddamn Words To Say To Her, Doesn't He? He Says The P-word

A partnership of sorts. Fucker knows the exact goddamn words to say to her, doesn't he? He says the p-word and her eyes are back on his face, as if drawn there by a magnet. He wants...not to trade favors...but to...what? She can't make heads or tails of it for a moment, disgust and confusion writ plainly on her face. And then they both clear as she understands him: he's looking for a second. Anne's finger stops its picking and she sits up a bit straighter, looking Ed dead in the face.

What happened to Hands? She knows she shouldn't spit in the face of an opportunity like this--what a way to start a legacy, as second to none other than Blackbeard himself!--but that question haunts her. She doesn't know the man well, but she knows the stories: folks like that don't just disappear without a word. The question's one of trust, but not for trying: for judgement. Ed or Hands? Which has the better head for it?

Only one's a living legend.

"I don't come easy no more. Got demands ye gotta meet 'fore I'll sign yer Articles," she warns him. There's an independence she needs to express and establish now: the sooner it's there, the sooner she can start building up a guard around it. Boundaries. A first time for everything. "Won't ask more'n the crew's goin share, but I want my own room. Four walls and a door ye can lock from the inside. Same for a washin' room once a month. And a bed, not a fuckin hammock. With a mattress and blankets and all. Don't fuck me on this and I'm yours. Provisionally."

Ed visibly relaxes a bit...

once Anne speaks, able to quickly realize that she's not as pissed at him as he feared. He shrugs, pulling the pint back over to himself and taking a sip of it...no sense wasting a perfectly good brew. When she promises not to harm him unless he does somethin' fuckin foolish, he nods, grateful. The rest of her words bring a slight chuckle to him, and he knows getting straight to the point is the smartest thing to do now.

Ed's not sure bringing Jack up is the best idea, at least not right away. If Anne wants to know if he's still loyal to the man, he's sure she'll ask. Never was one to mince words so far as he could tell. So, he goes for the true purpose of his visit instead, hoping he comes off convincing enough. "Well, was hoping we could maybe form a bit of a partnership of sorts." He begins, gauging her expression as he talks.

"Bad storms lately, and the Spanish have fuckin' ravaged this area. They've been on us for ages, too. Two heads are better than one, yea? I'm runnin' a bloody skeleton crew as it is. Thought we could help each other out a bit." Ed knows Anne's had her own struggles lately and hopes that'll influence her decision. It'll mostly depend on if she's able to trust him, or at least willing to try. He might not always have the best judgment when it comes to friendships, but his reputation as a brilliant strategist was not earned by mistake. The two of them could be a right force to be reckoned with.

Anne startles at the compliment, the spoon in her hand grabbed up and poised to be thrown like a knife in the direction of her assailant--but it's only Stede. Slowly, somewhat awkwardly, Anne lets down her arms, stowing the spoons in her pocket.

"Ah...'preciate it. Mam always said I a had a bullfrog's voice: not pretty, but loud. Pa would say like a roster's crow. Not sure 'pretty's' the word for it, all in all."

“He in his madness prays for storms, and dreams that storms will bring him peace.”

— Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

Cannons and cutlasses in : History Salvaged from the Sea" by Richard Schlecht (born 1936), December 1977 edition of National Geographic (volume 152 n° 6)

The most beautiful scene in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End