The night on your ship was made of boisterous laughter matched by the shimmer of rum in Walker's lips, which always makes for an interesting night at sea.

No one was truly lucid this time a-day on your ship, not truly — after a week on land, anchored at bay, your men had their fun, wastin’ away their coins of blood-stained gold on pretty ladies to sit in their laps and laugh at their bad jokes, stealing chains to drape over their chests, glistening under the caribbean sun.

Now that your crew's empty-pocketed, they're back at drinking lousy booze and sleeping drunkily on the hammocks hanging on deck, the beginning of yet another fortnight dressed in clothes stiffened by salt.

Walker neverminds. This is the life that he knows and he'll never do anything to change his lawless ways. He's content enough with following your orders and gripping a flask until his eyes were fluttery from drinking so much.

His shirt loose and transparent, undone, back against the creaking wood of the quarter-deck, a hanging lantern over your heads, rocking back and forth with the waves. You and your first-man were playing games of cards that could only end with either one of you eye-less. And you never lose.

Not that Walker would really try to win against you, not truly — he had no qualms about cheating for a good pound against anyone but you. Still, he enjoyed the way you held your knife while you played, leaning on barrels, the two of you half-drunk and half-stupid already.

It only made Walker's grin widen, all shiny-eyes, cocky yet never holding a thing over you. He knew better.

“What's the matter, sir? Not enjoyin' the game?” He'd ask with a lazy grin when he saw you get up suddenly.

His hands are large and pushy, calloused, taking a swig every now and then as the liquid burns down his throat like it's rubbing alcohol. “C'mon, Captain. Stay a little longer with yer’ ol’ pal.” His leg stretched to tap the tip of his boot against your everlastingly damp trousers, willing you to come closer to the crates he was sitting on.