Who puts fish in a kettle, anyway?
Flotsam felt like a bit of a tit.
He squinted his eyes and pressed a hoof to his forehead, as if to force back down the throbbing pain there. It was brief and quickly fading down to something manageable, with the blunt force trauma hitting his pride almost as hard as his head.
One instant, he’d been going to the galley; he’d swung his horn as he’d always done and then walked straight into the door when it entirely failed to open. He’d felt the low thud of impact reverberate up through his hooves, such had been the force.
He’d felt it considerably moreso in his face, of course, this being the main instrument of his demise. When he next attempted the trial of opening the door, Flotsam was mostly irritated and slightly dizzy. He fumbled about with his hooves, attributing his flustered clumsiness more to the moment than to any ingrained habits of magic use.
Flotsam got his grip and the way opened up for him. When this moment of effort paid off, his sense of accomplishment quickly took on a self-depreciating tone. He tried and found some humour in the situation and started with a few fleeting chuckles, but it was a somewhat more bitter and sardonic variety of humour than could usually be said of Flotsam. Opening a door. Yay.
A few steps forward put the matter behind him and Flotsam decided, with some small degree of grace to take it as a lesson about limitations, especially those of the newly-imposed variety. It was easy to forget in these small, daily ways that his magic wasn’t here anymore. Some of the reminders hurt.
His hips rocked as he walked and his gait easily courted the ever-present, oft-faint and forgotten rocking motions of the Mother. Only with conscious observation did he realize that, at present, she rocked enough to stagger the Flotsam of weeks ago. He hadn’t thought about footing and balance at all lately. Like magic had been, Flotsam’s acquired sea legs had simply become a useful, easily dismissed component of his habits. That, at least, was not about to change, and in light of this outlook his spirits were quite recovered by the time he ducked through the hatchway into the galley.
It was unlit and unoccupied presently, and about as tidy as one could expect such a rough and tumble living space to be. The rising sun cast it in a sleepy light. He knew from personal experience that it was something of a communal effort, keeping the essentials done. It was pretty lax as work went, primarily just making sure that things that could fall, catch fire, become sticky or turn smelly didn’t. Most nights, Patches finished her motley chores with this, and through chance observation Flotsam discovered that she only infrequently took a cookie from the tin for her efforts, despite having all the opportunity to.
If not an actual law of physics, then it should have at least been a guideline of nature that small ponies left unattended with tins of cookies and plausible deniability would, naturally, eat the cookies and apply said deniability, possibly with their mouths full. It was practically an equation of a sort. That Patches would buck this trend was, while not actually worrying, nonetheless as incomprehensible as the rusty painted logo pony adorning the tin’s lid, smiling hugely and declaring something big and faded in his unrecognizable language..
Flotsam popped the lid off and fished about, choosing with deliberation from the tumbled and crumbled mix a pink wafer thing. Munching this was the undercurrent to his thinking; he fetched up a second and popped that one also into his mouth, chewing them thoughtfully into a sweet and stale paste. With a battle between good and evil fought, Flotsam hesitated then guiltily acceded to a third, fiend that he was.
He liked the pink ones best, and he knew this, because he’d tried them all, monster that he was. They'd be in port soon anyway, his battered cookie-related conscience rationalized.
Then, not so much remembering what he’d come here to do but rather remembering to be prompt about it, he scanned the early-morning gloom for a familiar, rounded dark shape, simultaneously returning the lid to the cookie tin.
The kettle on the Mother of Mercy was not magical in and of itself, though it was intended to be used magically. It had the same heavy construction found in cast iron frying pans and could, in a pinch, probably be used as a battering ram. A second piece of metal curved from end to end above it, wrapped in a sleeve of worn-thin and tooth-scarred cork. The actual capacity for water was somewhat lower than a pony might expect given its bulk, and this was explained both by the general sturdiness of its intended environment and additionally the particulars of this design. As Flotsam understood it, a plate or filament of magically-susceptible material, a metal, probably, was inlaid against the interior. A unicorn need only apply a few seconds of magic and, readily enough, the arrival of boiled water into the world was announced with steam and an off-key hiss.
Flotsam hefted the weighty instrument with his mouth – the handle had a whiffy texture, cork and metal; he tried to not think about mouths and teeth and spittle – and judged its interior sufficiently sloshy for his purposes. He caught himself thinking in his usual patterns. Flotsam, who had often enough been borrowed from all manner of spots and times, being both rather pliant to instruction as and unskilled enough to never be given tasks that couldn’t be let sit idle for a moment now lacked that vital ingredient for which he had usually been called to supply: magic.
He frowned, or maybe scowled. In the slowly waking light, it wasn’t readily apparent. His expression turned thoughtful. He flicked through options like a pages in a catalogue. Did he have a heat source? No, the whole point of the magic kettle was to circumvent a fire hazard; he seriously doubted that a lamp would cut it, and had no doubt at all that he’d look an absolute idiot if he tried precariously perching the heavy iron lump over any of the glass and brass lamp holders that – in addition to all the reasons not to try already given – weren’t lit anyway.
He stared in quiet contemplation, rubbing at the lingering ache in his forehead. Clever answers here were, in fact, the stupid ones. Flotsam grimaced as he came to the only realistic, simple and sensible conclusion.
He had to get a unicorn.
Three ponies on the Mother had a space to definitively call their own. The first was of course Nauticaa, who enjoyed (if she were the enjoying sort of mare) the largest and best-kept quarters, which was her right as Captain. Flotsam, sitting at the polar opposite end of the ship’s social spectrum had previously had his own spot – a vacated and tiny deck-cabin, now splintered and bedless – granted him by her. He did not mourn the loss very much, knowing now that the Captain’s intent for him was a bigger, softer, and best of all shared-with-somepony bed. If Nauticaa knew just how much he liked the new arrangement, she’d probably toss him out again.
The other two mares in the hierarchy to have their own cubby-holes were of course Harpoon and Charming Booty, First Mate and Quartermaster respectively. It was to the latter’s room he now went.
Flotsam could, if placed under the pressures of rigorous and enthusiastic interrogation, presently admit to feeling somewhat antsy. Sleeping with the Captain, a term applied in the purely literal sense and no other, was rife with confusion for him; Nauticaa had made it abundantly clear that things were anything but straightforward in the rocking and docking and locking of hips department. In fact, from the word ‘go’ things had been consistently perpendicular to expectations, or what expectations might have been, if Flotsam had ever really had them. His brief chain of memorable existence since having been plucked from the ocean – all of a scantily clad and rough-living month, more or less – had taught him better than that. Expectations invited their own betrayals.
So... there’d been no hoisting of flags, weighing of anchors, riding of longboats or whatever it was the ship-dwelling ponies euphemized about sex with. Flotsam doubted he could match the rowdy mares for creativity, crassness, cunning and artful tongue-istry with regards to that. They simply had the years and the experience on him. All the experience and, in cases like those of Scuttle and Hard Tack, most of the years, too.
Sufficed to say, Nauticaa was keeping Flotsam at leg’s length from the crew in this aspect of life, out of what Flotsam vaguely understood as the principle of what could be alluded to as: I hope you brought enough for everyone.
He was genuinely shocked to catch himself, a moment later, for purely speculative reasons, of course, guesstimating his calculations as to the possibility that, as a matter of fact, he had brought enough. Flotsam mentally swilled the cerebral equivalent of half a pint of strong vinegar, shocked at himself. Flotsam stood at Charming’s door, rehearsing purely chaste thoughts.
It was easier in some ways to share a bed with a mare that had never shown interest or intent, than knock on the door of one whom expressly had. Charming Booty was inarguably stunning. So stunning, in fact, that Flotsam just now had effectively stunned himself on her behalf, so that she didn’t need to be involved at all, least of all even be awake yet or know he was here, at her door, struggling away with himself.
Flotsam caught himself and grit his teeth. He thought of the squat, sturdy kettle and the Captain’s second request, that being to send this very mare to her. The magic kettle would not be flustered by this flirtatious flame-haired beauty*, neither should he. Lack of sleep and too much recent excitement made Flotsam feel a little bit more raw and sensitive to these things.
*It could be incensed to whistle for her, of course. That was rather the plan here, as a matter of fact.
He raised his hoof, and sighed, and lowered his hoof. Flotsam was lying to himself, and he’d just now caught onto it. Oh, the bit about lack of sleep (he’d had quality, yes, but lacked in quantity) and excitement was all true, but it wasn’t sudden solicitations of sex that truly bothered him. That was awkward and flattering, and at turns enticing and uncomfortable, but that was a familiar issue to him. It was one he variously entertained and dealt with day to day.
The truth was something he’d been feeling all morning, in the back of his mind, lurking, whispering. Generally being kind of a dick, actually. He’d felt it on leaving the privacy of the Captain’s side and felt it each minute after.
What Flotsam really worried about was the fear that this day, the day after he’d gone too far and had some sort of meltdown, he was going to meet the crew and find that, in an inexplicable way, that he was still far away from them. That they’d pulled away from him.
Nauticaa hadn’t changed her manner, but would she? The Captan was so damn practical and stoic, how could he know? The rare flash of resentment came and went in all of a second, leaving Flotsam feeling more penitent than anything. She’d probably tell him to get on with it, in her not unkind way. A chain of command was an awfully reassuring thing to have, for someone like Flotsam.
He’d just have get on with it, and fix whatever damage he might have done, as best as he was able.
So he raised his hoof and he knocked.
What might have been the low murmur of Charming Booty’s voice came back to him. Flotsam steeled himself, then stole inside.
All his time aboard the ship, he had yet to see the private living quarters. As has previously been mentioned, Flotsam carefully cultivated a lack of expectation, finding his ability to assume was simply out of touch and unreliable. This carefully held lack of anticipation helped him, generally, to avoid shocks when such expectations typically backfired.
It didn’t help here. Charming Booty’s room was a shock anyway.
Flotsam stole inside and stopped with a jarring halt as if he’d walked into a second physical obstruction, such was the view. There was so much stuff, most of it shiny. There was a squat chest rubbing shoulders with a rack of overly ornate swords, and hats perched on hilts thereof, and another chest, and bowls with glittery jewels; a brush flaunting wavy red hairs; another chest; a dresser with the drawers dangling out of it, teasing of trinkets and valuables happenstance that suggested a pattern of being laid, waylaid and laid again. Shirts and ruffled things and what might have been a many-strapped corset overflowed from the corners, from the seat and back of the chair and from un-closable drawers, full as they were with things.
The floor space amounted to that bit of ground where things had been shoved out of the way. Flotsam could reach from the door to the bedframe, if he stretched and kept his balance.
What was really surprising, however, was the bunk bed. Charming Booty slept on a bunk bed. The lower half. Flotsam knew this definitively because, partly because the top bunk was every inch an extended version of the hoard, full of sparkle, but mostly because he could see Charming Booty’s lower half, the curve of her stomach and her very…leggy legs, sprawling out in luxuriant feline rest on the bottom bunk. Her upper half was hidden under a blanket, heaped as it was over her. A hoof lay across her smooth belly; the other was draped over the linen nest she’d built for her head. A tease of fiery red hair tickled out from under the bedding.
“Uhhh.”
That was Flotsam. It was a dumb sounding noise. He couldn’t help himself. Such a sound is the elevator music of the soul, of a brain rebooting. It could roughly be translated as: Flotsam is unavailable right now, if you leave your name and number, he’ll get back to you as soon he can.
The Quartermaster writhed and stretched and squeezed under her head-shrouding lump of blanket. “Uhhh.” With somewhat more alacrity than Flotsam, her sound said: I’m asleep, but I can feel myself waking up now, and I certainly don’t approve of that. What fool do I blame for this, hmm?
Then she growled. “Oh, fine,” She threw the blanket from herself in a series of untangling and shoving motions. If somewhat graceless on that front, the act itself was no less respectable for the iniative and the willpower involved.
Charming Booty rolled to her side. She looked tired. Normally, saying a pony looks tired is a genteel way of saying they look less than good. Charming Booty did look tired. Her hair was crumpled and disorderly. Waves of it fell across her cheek, which she unselfconsciously brushed out of the way. She took a deep breath, yawned and blinked, and generally made sleepiness look both innocent (which it was) and damn sexy (which it wasn’t, normally).
Then she settled her eyes on Flotsam – a certain sultry coyness came into them – and some of the effect was lost. Not all. Her head rocked with the drunken gesticulations of the preconscious. He really liked her unstyled hair. “G’morning, Sammy. Paying me a visit, are you?”
“Ahh…ah, ahem.” He paused, not for effect but to start over. Something clinked and rolled away from his hoof. “Yes.”
She yawned, nodded, and settled with a very reposed smile. “You’re up early.”
“Captain’s an early riser, and, well…” he shrugged, hoping to express his general confusion where words failed him.
The unicorn propped herself up on a hoof, letting her back legs dangle and wiggle in the air. “And here I was, thinking all these years that early rising was the stallion’s job.”
Flotsam’s eyes widened. Flotsam opened his mouth. His eyes narrowed. Flotsam closed his mouth. He huffed from his nose. It was an unwinnable battle.
Charming Booty laughed delicately, swinging herself to her hooves in one clean sweep of motion. She yawned, navigated the these-are-all-mine-mine-mine-field of things and caught her balance again.
“Oh, Sammy,” she said with gentle reproach, “you are just too easy. I like the ring, by the way. Captain’s present, I don't doubt it.”
It wasn’t a question, but there was the inflection of invitation there, to delve deeper and talk about it. “She asked if I wanted it.”
The Quartermaster tidied up with a lazy, relaxed and shameless approach, spending as much time as trying out various garments against herself as actually repositioning the anarchy of items. “Nauticaa’s not in the habit of giving gifts. Paying well: yes, giving gifts: no. You were right to take it when she offered.” She waggled her tail and her bottom, a gesture not passing unnoticed by Flotsam. “Or maybe it is a payment, for services rendered, and the like?”
Before Flotsam could well and truly give her his disparaging look, she carried on in a suddenly different tone, one bereft of sex and appeal, letting the present garment lay where it drop.
“How is it, anyway? You. That. Iean, nevermind the banter." She flicked her horn at his. "I never want to be put into one of those things.”
Flotsam felt uncomfortable. Stung, even. It would never not be uncomfortable, talking about a disability-imposing headpiece and the likelihood of latent insanity. But it felt uncomfortable in a good way, given his fear. Like having a dried bandage torn off, or a boil lanced. A quick sting and an passing ugliness, chased with a lasting relief. Charming Booty was a much better gauge of emotion than the Captain; since neither seemed alienated from Flotsam, then that was a good sign for the rest of the crew.
His hopes were balmed. How was the nullifier situation going? He spoke with unusual brevity. “Five minutes ago I walked face-first into a door.” He rolled his eyes and affected a wry smirk. It had the desired effect.
She smiled. She nodded. “Mhmm. I can see it. It’s a horrible thing. And it spoils your look.” Her own horn glowed and Charming Booty slid into a white, string-tied shirt with a popped collar. Something not entirely unlike a bowler hat settled atop her head, sitting purposely askew.
Flotsam had not seen a mare dress before. He felt the colour rise.
“Now,” she said, “what was it you wanted me for?” The brush floated over to its owner and set about drawing out her tail in long, deliberate tugs.
“Coffee,” Flotsam yipped in a funny voice. “And paperwork.” He tried again with more masculine-sounding success. “Coffee and paperwork.”
Charming Booty scowled as she set the brush on her bed. “Damn that book.” But she lead the way out all the same, the door closed behind them and Flotsam was made quite aware just how shiny and bouncy a few effortless brush strokes had made the Quartermaster's tail. “She’ll want to be at it all day.”
Bounce and swish.
Bounce and swish.
Bounce and swish.
“Uh-huh.”
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Flotsam may as well be an admiral with the number of possible ships this story has for him.
I quite enjoyed the visit to the quartermaster's cabin, myself.
6891596
Too bad the stallion behind Flotsam is super taken.
Me, I hope that the pattern of him not being able to do anything about the many flirtatious and attractive mares continues. So he can hold his head high the day he comes home.
Yes, I'm taking this rather seriously, and I know you weren't. Sorry 'bout that.
LoL this cliché
6892190 What cliché do you mean?
6892280 the walk in then stutter like a virgin Cliché
6892344
6891930 Considering that he was attempting to walk across the surface of the ocean (and being successful at it) in order to return to Cadance, I don't think that there is any question where his heart lies. But I'm still enjoying watching the sparks fly with these very different mares.
I'm sure that Cadance would be forgiving if things went a little too far, but I don't know how Shining would feel himself. The whole thing with Chrysalis had him with another mare (at least up to the alter) while his mental faculties were compromised... It would probably not be good for him to feel like it happened again, innocently or not.
6892599
She might be forgiving, but I'd rather not have to feel the bittersweet feeling of her needing to forgive him.
But you're definitely right that, even if Cadance forgave easily, Shining might have a heckuva time forgiving himself.
6891930 forget the day he comes home im worried about the day one of Equestira's princess's find him on a ship of mares... Twilight will glomp him silly then have a talk Tia will most like laugh it off...luna im not sure . but Caddy ummm i can see that ship flying even now
welp, this is what i have come to expect here.
more innuendos and hilarity than should be good first thing in the morn.
He's so screwed,
(Pun intended,
)
you have your own way of saying it, but you just made shining armor say ladies, ladies, I've got enough of it to go around without making it sound out of left field or disturbing, although the tension would be palpable if cadance could read his mind
I take it he's not quite the cunning linguist? ;D
I don't recall, did Flotsam ever actually put down the special kettle after lifting it with his mouth?
Cause I half-expected him to drop it at some point. I might have missed it, since he may have only lifted it to inspect it, then set it back down to go to his next task.
Other than that, I can entirely empathize with Flotsam's utter shock at the state of the Charming's quarters. It contrasts so much with the rest of the ship it might as well be a dragon's cavern among pony fields.
Missing an "i" here.