Off the Clock

Flynn loosened the straps and buckles and laces of his stupid uniform to give his stomach a break, settled himself on one of the walls of Stormwind's dock, and closed his eyes.

If he distracted himself with the sun on his face he could fool himself into thinking he was back in Boralus, but reality always intruded soon enough. The sun's warmth should be at his back this time of day, the stevedores' shouting was at an Eastern Kingdoms clip, and the air smelled wrong anyway. More fishy than seaweedy. It wasn't as though he didn't like it here. Stormwind was huge and full of exciting opportunities with both SI:7 and otherwise. He'd made new friends and frenemies and the only person likely to cold-cock him without warning was Shaw. Best of all, Taelia had decided to stay as well, despite it transpiring that King Anduin's rumoured fondness for dragons was so literal that even a Fordragon couldn't quite cut it.

Still, he missed getting thrown out of the Snug Harbor and into the actual harbour of an evening. Falling into a stagnant canal of his own accord just wasn't the same. Flynn sighed wistfully.

"I thought I might find you here."

Speaking of Eastern Kingdoms. Flynn ignored the traitorous flip of his stomach and adopted a deliberately terrible drawl. "Good afternoon, Master Shaw. What's the word?"

Either Flynn was losing his touch or his accent was going native, because Shaw only looked a little pained. "You don't have to stand on ceremony when we're off the clock."

As though Shaw was ever off the clock. "I know," he said. "But I also know you enjoy it."

Shaw renewed his air of suffering. "As you were, Agent Fairwind," he said, stern, but the thing about Shaw's moustache was that it amplified whatever his mouth was doing. Flynn smiled back at him.

"You need something?" he asked. "I've got a hot tip on the brawler's guild match tonight."

"Which you won't be attending." Shaw gestured for Flynn to stand up, which he did as sulkily as possible.

"Well, I hope you've got something equally fun and-or lucrative to offer instead, mate."

"Perhaps." Shaw inclined his head towards old town and the gryphon roost. "Get out of your gear and into something that suits you, and meet me in a half hour."

They arrived just as the sun was setting. Shaw had been tight-lipped about their mystery destination, and as they made their way up a boardwalk slippery with parrot guano, Flynn could see why.

"Blimey," he said, looking around in marvel.

The wooden piers creaked under the foot traffic of pirates, rapscallions and other assorted ne'er-do-wells. An old salty dog with two eyepatches sat whittling peg legs. Under a bleached whale ribcage, a goblin was engaged in a drunken fistfight with himself. They passed a man eating, or in an amorous embrace with, a murloc. The overpowering stink of rotting seaweed wafted in on the breeze. It was like a little slice of Freehold, only nobody wanted to shank him—or expected him to settle his tab.

On the whole, it was objectively appalling. He might be a bit teary-eyed. "It's beautiful," he said.

"Don't start any fights you can't finish. Mind your coin and your cutlasses. Don't drink anything you're given for free," Shaw said in that way he had when he was trying to impart something of crucial importance that he knew Flynn would disregard entirely. "Or in a bottle with a skull on it, whether you paid for it or not. And most importantly—" he held up a warning finger. "Don't."

"I'm going to, so you may as well come to terms with it." Flynn engulfed Shaw in a bear hug and squeezed him until he grunted, and on some wild impulse or other, laid a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."

"I'll be… elsewhere, but I'll come fish you out later," Shaw said, extracting himself and clearing his throat. "Welcome to Booty Bay, Captain. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Oh, Shaw," Flynn said, grinning. "You spoilsport."