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“Chaz,” Jack said, trying to sound as stern as he possibly could. “No.”
He’d had his suspicions, seeing that small mutt roam around their camp, that someone from their crew had been feeding it. He’d hoped it wasn’t the captain.
But now that he’d found it sitting on Charles’ very own bed—well, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t see what was going on anymore.
“Fuck you mean ‘no’?” the captain feigned innocence.
His eyes flicked to the dog happily rolling around in the sheets, playing with his own tail. He liked it, with his ears that were too big for him and the little scar on his snout. Cute thing.
“You are not taking it aboard,” Jack shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I ain’t said anything ‘bout taking him aboard,” Charles tried to deny.
“Oh, don’t start,” his quartermaster scoffed.
He knew Charles too well, and he’d always had a soft spot for dogs. Especially mangy, pathetic ones such as this one.
“I know you’ve been feeding it at night, even though I’ve told you not to,” he went on. “And now I know you’ve been letting it sleep inside your tent. We’ve been friends for too long for me to ignore that the next step is you trying to sneak the bastard on deck. And the answer’s no.”
“He’s not an it, Jack, he’s a he!” Charles argued. “His name’s Frig. Short for Frigate.”
“Jesus fucking Christ of course you’ve named him already,” Jack sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath in. Diplomacy—he needed to use diplomacy here. It was harder to cling to it when he reopened his eyes, because now the damn dog had climbed into Charles’ lap. And he’d rarely seen his captain smile so wide.
The dog jumped, trying to catch one of the pearls that swung from the end of one of the man’s braids, and now he looked positively giddy.
“Damn it, Charles!” Jack lectured. “Get a hold of yourself here!”
“Oh, lighten up, will you!” Charles bit back in a laugh as Frig licked his face. “Admit it! The damn thing’s cute!”
“It is not!” the quartermaster scrunched his nose. “It’s filthy!”
“It’s cleaner than half the men on our crew,” Charles argued.
He wasn’t wrong. At least Jack had seen the mutt lick some sand off itself once or twice. Better than some of their crewmates.
But still.
“Whatever. You want to keep it in your tent, fine,” Jack snarled. “But it is not ever stepping foot on deck.”
“Why not?” Charles almost pouted.
It was bad enough that the thing wouldn’t go away anymore—no matter how many times Jack had tried to scare it off of camp in the last few weeks. He could deal with seeing it around from time to time. Hell, he wouldn’t even bring up the fact he’d found his favorite cravat half chewed in the sand outside his tent. But at sea? No. At sea, he’d remain free of this little bastard.
“Because it will eat through the food stocks? Because it will piss everywhere? Because it will get in the way during chases? Because I hate dogs?” Jack enumerated, exasperation seeping deeper into the lines of his face. “Take your pick, truly.”
“You hate the ship’s cat too, but you still said yes.”
“Yes, well, I do hate that cat,” Jack nodded, picturing the old orange thing that roamed the Ranger’s lower decks and scratched him every chance it got. “But I hate mice more. So, it’s a compromise, you see. But this,” he pointed an accusatory finger at the dog curled up in Charles’ lap, “this, is a tantrum.”
“He’s so small! You wouldn’t even notice him!” the captain kept arguing, absentmindedly stroking the coarse fur behind Frig’s ears.
“But I will notice when suddenly there’s holes through our sails because he chewed his way through our canvas reserves!”
“He won’t!” Charles promised. “I’ll teach him! He’s a quick one!”
Jack didn’t seem convinced. Charles gently nudged Frig off him, and he stood.
“Look,” he made sure Jack was attentive before looking back down at the little dog waiting nicely at his feet. “Frig, sit.”
He sat. Charles smiled. Jack huffed.
“Frig, spin!”
The dog spun twice.
“Good boy!” Charles laughed, grabbing a piece of scrap meat from his last meal to reward him. “See, Jack? If I managed to teach him that in five days, imagine what I can do in three weeks at sea.”
Jack couldn’t believe how far Charles had fallen already. That fucking dog had the captain wrapped around his damn finger in a week, when he’d been trying to do that himself for years! Footsteps in the sand, right outside the tent, killed the next wit halfway up Jack’s throat. Charles and him both turned to see the canvas being pulled back and Anne enter.
“Fuck you two been doin’ in here? Been lookin’ for you for an hour,” she snarled, right before her eyes fell to the dog at Charles’ feet. Her cold gaze immediately softened. “And who’s that guy?”
She knelt into the sand, and Frig happily skipped to her. And it licked her hand. And she grinned.
And now Jack was fucked for good.
“Where d’you come from?” Anne asked, scratching the puppy behind his ear.
“Found him roaming ‘round camp a little over a week ago,” Charles smiled, falling back on his bed. “His name’s Frig.”
“Short for Frigate?” she supposed.
“Right on,” he downright beamed.
He slapped Frig’s side, and it immediately went back to sitting into his lap. Like that was already his home. Anne sat next to her captain, her hand following the call of the little dog’s warm fur.
Jack could admit the sight was endearing. The two most dangerous pirates he’d ever met—and the two people he cared for most—all softened and grinning as they sat together to pet that mutt. It filled his chest with a dangerous kind of warmth. One that almost made him forget how much he hated that fucking dog.
“So, he comin’ with us tomorrow?” Anne asked, letting Frig gently chew on her fingers.
“Darling, not you too!” Jack almost sounded like she’d sent him to the gallows.
“What?” she growled back.
“He doesn’t want the dog aboard,” Charles chimed in.
“Why?”
“Jesus, do I have to redo the whole speech again?” Jack sighed. “What would we even do with a dog aboard? Cause unless you think you can teach it how to hold a blade between its teeth, then we have no use for it!”
Anne snickered. It could be fun to train the little bastard to aim a knife at Jack’s ankles specifically.
“Face it, Jack,” Charles smiled—convinced he’d already won that fight now that Anne was on his side. “He’d be good for morale.”
“I am good for morale!” Jack snapped. “We don’t need him!”
“So that’s the real problem,” Anne’s smirk turned downright mocking. “Afraid you’ll no longer be the captain’s favorite little bitch, are you?”
“Oh yeah, right,” Jack scoffed at the sheer absurdity of it. “Of course, I’m jealous of a fucking dog now.”
“Eh, I can see it,” Charles teased, looking down at the mutt in his lap. “Big brown eyes, follows me ‘round all day damn… Makes sense you’d get scared he’d replace you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he shook his head. “You’re both ridiculous.”
As hard as he tried to shrug off the idea entirely, Jack could feel the familiar sting of jealousy in his stomach. Frig turned his head towards him, looking up with his big wet eyes. Damn it—they did kind of look like his own. A little whimper came from the dog.
“Eh, they even sound the same,” Anne mocked.
“We are nothing alike!” Jack barked, fists clenching at his sides.
“How so?”
“Well, I, for a start, don’t spend half the fucking day licking my own balls in view of everyone!”
“Bad argument,” Charles mocked. “We all know you would if you were flexible enough.”
Well, yes. Who wouldn’t take such an opportunity to show off. But that was far from the point Jack was trying to make. He straightened his spine, crossed his arms over his chest, and cleared his throat twice.
“As quartermaster, I firmly and officially oppose this dog joining our crew,” he announced, clear and final. “Per the articles, it is hereby rejected.”
Charles and Anne glanced at each other. They didn’t expect Jack to stoop as low as using the rules. Fine. He wanted to play dirty? Charles could play dirty too. He stood, taking Frig in his arms. He took a step forward.
“Don’t you dare,” Jack warned, taking a step back.
Charles kept advancing. He held the dog out, almost shoving it and his pleading eyes in his quartermaster’s face.
“If you think that’s going to work, you are gravely mistaken, Chaz,” Jack groaned, but there was a slight waver to his tone.
He’d made men bleed and beg for their lives for fuck’s sake—he wouldn’t be tricked by a puppy’s charms. He stubbornly turned his head to the side, just so he wouldn’t have to look at the thing. Charles pushed Frig forth until his little snout was nudging Jack’s cheek. And it gave him a little lick.
God damn it.
A smirk pulled at Charles’ lips as he watched Jack’s hands raise to take the dog off of him. He held it at arm’s length, and they stared at each other in silence for a minute. Frig’s tail was wagging.
“He likes you, Jack,” Anne assured.
“Well, I hate him,” he replied. “He stinks, and he drools.”
And Frig just kept wagging his tail. And staring at him.
Charles sat back down—ready to watch Frig work his magic. Silence stretched in the tent as Jack and the dog stared each other down.
“Stop looking at me like that…” Jack all but begged.
But the damn puppy wouldn’t look away. Its fur was surprisingly soft—far softer than Jack would have expected. And warm too. He found himself imagining how nice it would feel to have the thing sleep by his feet on cold nights at sea. The slightest sigh escaped from his lips. Anne and Charles immediately recognized it as the sound of surrender.
“So…” the captain coaxed.
“Fine!” Jack finally snapped. “He can come! But you better make sure he stays out the damn way!”
He swiftly put Frig back down, as if any second spent holding him increased the risk of actually starting to like the little fucker. The dog happily skipped back to Charles and Anne, and they welcomed him with smiles and open arms.
“Welcome aboard, mate!” Anne laughed, patting Frig’s head.
“I’ll go warn the crew,” Jack sighed. Before turning around, he pointed at the dog for good measure. “And you! Don’t try to steal my woman while I’m gone!”
He left the tent with one last offended huff. Charles and Anne waited until they could no longer hear the sound of his angry footsteps in the sand outside and all that was left was Frig’s happy little pants. It almost seemed like he himself had figured out they’d won.
“How long you think before he admits he likes him?” Anne asked.
“One week before he’s cooing to him like a baby,” Charles laughed. “Two before he’s knitting him a bloody sweater.”
He trusted Frig, his droopy ears and his big brown eyes—and it was only a matter of time before he made Jack melt to his will too.