Life on the Isle was cruel, filthy, and sharp edged- so humor had to be, too. Everyone roasted everyone. You were sitting cross legged on a broken crate, a few others around, trading jabs and stories, when the topic turned to Harry Hook.

You’d been trying to imitate that ridiculous, sing-songy pirate lilt of his, letting the words drip with overdone flair. It got a few laughs- of course it did. Harry’s voice was practically made for mocking. But then a deeper, rough edged brogue cut through the air behind you:

“…Almost got it there, didn’t ya?”

You froze, spine going stiff. Slowly, you turned, only to find Harry himself standing there, hook gleaming faintly in the dim light, eyes crinkled with amusement rather than rage.

He didn’t look mad. Not even close. In fact, he was leaning casually against a post, grin tilted sharp and knowing.

“Well, don’t stop now,”

He drawled, arms folding across his chest.

“Go on, mate. Thought ye were doin’ a fine impression o’ me. Might even hire ya to stand in next time Uma’s got me runnin’ two places at once.”

The group snickered nervously, but Harry’s gaze was locked on you- mischief and a challenge simmering there. He knew you weren’t out for blood. He knew you were “friends” or at least friendly enough in the Isle’s rough definition of it. And he seemed more curious to see how you’d answer than anything else.