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Phil’s wooden leg thumps against the hard deck.
It’s a bit stormy out, good ol’ Kristin is taking a beating against the dark waters.
Phil loves it.
It reminds him of his love, the whole reason he takes a ship to sea and borrows gold and silver from poor, unfortunate souls. She persuaded him to do what he loves, and Captain Philza of the Kristin loves stabbing people and taking their money.
And his wife would join him, but alas, She has Her own duties as the Goddess of Death. One of the only disadvantages of marrying an immortal goddess.
Marrying Kristin leads him here, thumping his cane and leg against the various wooden boxes in the cargo hold because his crew were too weak to do it themselves in this weather. Jack had told him—well, it’s more accurate to say: screamed pitifully at him—that he saw movement when he was doing an inventory check.
Now Phil thinks Jack’s an idiot—everyone does—but he also knows the risks of stowaways, or goddess forbid, sirens. Phil’s not scared of sirens, everything he could ever desire is in front of him, but his crew is suspectable.
Thump, that one’s hollow. Phil leans against the gold crow head on the end of his cane. This is so fucking stupid.
He’s about to give up and go above deck when the slightest sniffle sends alarms through his mind. At least he knows it’s a stowaway and not a sea monster.
“Just come out,” Phil beckons, lowering his voice into one that would attract stray puppies. “I won’t hurt you.”
Debatable.
Phil sneaks over to the pile of crates he heard the cry come from, years and decades of experience allowing him to walk without making a noise, even with his wooden left food and metal cane.
He has to stop himself from bursting out with laughter when he sees a foot sticking out the side of the tower, the size indicating a child. The last time a child snuck on board, they were stuck with Wilbur, sadly.
Tapping his cane on the left of the crates, Phil wraps his body around on the right, one hand reaching and grabbing the child.
“Stop!” The kid screams, and ow, the kid can scream loud. Wilbur will love him. If the kid stays, that is. “Put m’ down! Fucker! Wanker!”
Phil does not put the kid down, and instead starts hobbling towards the stairs. He had to drop his cane to hold the thrashing child with two hands, and he is paying the price.
Walking unsteadily, Phil readjusts, wrapping a hand around the kid's torso and bringing his hand up to the kid’s mouth. His other hands goes around the front, just barely supporting the legs.
The kid throws their hips upwards, twice, but resistance is futile. Phil’s works in a labor heavy job, and just because he’s captain, doesn’t mean he gets to slack while his crew works.
Gross, the kid is crying. Tears slides down their face and onto Phil’s hand. He can take kraken guts, but little kid tears? Disgusting.
“Uh Cap’n?” It’s Techno. “Why do ya have a child in your arms?”
Phil finishes making his way up the steps, and turns out his whole crew wants to watch the spectacle.
“This,” Phil says, holding the kid into the light, “is your monster.”
Phil’s not sure how he got into this disaster.
Techno’s with him, as the first mate, and the two of them are trying, failing, to make the kid take a bath. Hell, they don’t even know their name or gender.
“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you,” the kid repeats as some self-soothing mantra. They’ve been going on and on about cursing out PHil and Techno.
“Kid,” Techno says blandly, “just wash up will ya? Goddess knows ya smell.””
“I do not fuckin’ smell you fuckin’ dick’ead,” the kid scowls. They smell their armpit, turning up their nose. “I smell like fuckin’ roses and shit.”
“You’ve never seen a rose,” Phil guesses. He’s right, if the tomato red of the kid’s face is anything to go by. “Plus, you can have some grub if you take a bath. And tell us your name,” Phil tacks on.
The kid groans from where they are starfished on the bathroom floor. Phil wouldn’t recommend doing that, goddess knows the floor to the bathing rooms haven’t been washed since Kristin was on board, a year ago, give or take.
“Fiiine,” the kid relents, picking themselves up. “But don’t fuckin’ touch me or I’ll ‘ave your ‘ead.”
“Point taken.” Techno says. Phil can tell his first mate is not threatened in the slightest. He’s not sure how the kid isn’t scared, Techno is about two times Phil’s size.
The kid doesn’t even bother to take off clothes that look like they’ve been worn before the storming of Esempee castle, five years ago—Phil proudly took part in that one—and they jump right in.
The water’s warm, Phil will give them that, but it doesn’t require a scream louder than a dying dolphin when the barest skin makes contact with the water. Unless not bathing for years can cause water to be painful, but Phil needs this kid to be clean.
“Gross…” Techno mumbles. Phil can’t help but agree. Dirt, blood, and other unidentifiable objects float in the water, and they haven’t even started scrubbing yet.
“Can’t a lad ‘ave some priv’cy ay?” The kid glowers at them, and Phil sighs.
“Spare your name?” Phil suggests.
“Tommy.” The kid jerks their (his?) head towards the door. “Now get out.”
Techno and Phil look at each other, and they clamber out the door. “We can work on manners later,” Phil says, ignoring Techno’s look of really?
Sadly, Techno won’t let him be. “D’ya think that kid’s gonna say please and thank you like a rich kid from Kinoko?”
“Everybody can say please and thank you,” Phil says pointedly. “I do. You do.”
Techno sniffs. “That’s ‘cause we were raised right.”
“Maybe in your eyes.”
Techno rolls his eyes—the ones Phil was talking about—and sits down in the recliner in the waiting room. Phil sits on the floor in front of him, relieving the pressure on his left leg. This is one of the only times he curses the megalodon that took his leg from the knee down from him. He murdered that thing though, right through the goddessdamn eye.
“D’ya think he’s gonna stick around?” Techno asks. Phil snorts when he sees his crewmate with the eyes closed.
“Yeah,” Phil ponders, “I think he will.”