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“You’d better be fuckin’ right about this.”
Jack sighs. There’s no point in responding, not if the last 11 times Anne expressed this same sentiment are anything to go by. Instead he shifts the basket in his grip - stupid cumbersome thing, but it was all they could come up with on short notice. The item wobbles perilously and emits an indignant growl. As does Anne.
“And don’t you even think about droppin’ him -”
“Darling, I’d hardly be dragging us all the way out here if I wanted to harm the little blighter.” He also isn’t sure how he ended up in charge of carrying the damned thing, but a man can only fight on so many sides at once.
Anne merely grunts, but Jack is sufficiently well-versed in Grunting as a language (thanks to both Anne and Charles) to classify this one as Mollified rather than Threatening. The basket also makes no further protest, so Jack decides to count this as a victory.
By the time they reach their destination, the sun is hanging low in the sky and Jack’s arms feel like they’re about to fall off. Anne eyes the wooden house with suspicion and contempt, but they manage to make it to the front door without her stabbing anything.
“Still don’t like it.”
Jesus Christ. “We’re not exactly spoilt for alternatives. Would you prefer we take our chances with Eleanor?” It’s a low blow, certainly, but even Jack’s patience is not infinite.
“I ain’t lettin’ that cunt anywhere near ‘im,” she spits.
“Well, in that case…” he glances meaningfully at the door. Anne doesn’t move. He does it again, this time with a head tilt - nothing.
“What?”
“You have to knock.”
She couldn’t look more disgusted if he’d told her she should suck Richard Guthrie’s toes for fun. “I ain’t fuckin’ knockin’ on anything.”
“Oh for the -” he puts the basket down and raps smartly on the door. Anne rolls her eyes, slouching against the railing of the porch.
“What makes you think she’s gonna wanna help us anyway? You barely even know the old bat.”
Before Jack can point out that this is actually his fifth visit, or that no-one in their right mind would refer to the woman who resides here as an old bat, someone answers the door.
And it isn’t Mrs Barlow.
“Step back. Now.”
Jack is a smart man. He steps back. And back again, until he hits the porch rail. God must be fucking with him, surely. Somehow, the very nice Puritan widow they’ve come all this way to see has been replaced by Captain Flint, who is not only brandishing a pistol but also looks pissed enough to kill them both without it.
Judging by Anne’s quiet hiss, she’s now registered the presence of this second homicidal redhead. Flint moves his gaze to her but keeps his pistol trained on Jack. “Drop it.”
Anne bares her teeth but drops the dagger in her hand. Flint gestures with the gun and she moves accordingly, standing next to Jack.
“What the fuck are you two doing here?” Flint sneers, like he has some right to be here that they don’t, and suddenly Jack is far more angry than afraid. Mrs Barlow - Miranda - has been kind to him. He’d even go so far as to consider her a friend. And now Flint is in her house, waving a pistol around like he owns the fucking place. Jack is a mediocre fighter at best, but if Flint has hurt Miranda -
“I might ask you the same, Captain.” He spits the last word like it’s a slur, and he can practically feel Anne prickling like a hedgehog at his total lack of self-preservation.
But Flint, if anything, seems even more perplexed. “Is that a joke?”
Jack - well, Jack doesn’t really know how to answer that. But as it turns out, he doesn’t have to.
“James, you’re supposed to be in - oh! Mr Rackham, what a pleasure to see you again.”
Flint goes from annoyed to apoplectic. “Again!? You mean he's been here before?”
Jack has seen grown men piss themselves when faced with Flint’s fury. Miranda Barlow doesn’t even blink.
“Indeed he has. Now would you kindly put that pistol away so our guests can come inside?”
Our guests. Ours. As in, not just hers, but Flint’s as well. As in this is Flint’s house too. Which means that Mrs Barlow is -
“You’re Flint’s witch!?” Jack winces - trust Anne to give voice to that, of all things.
Flint growls, but Miranda quirks a smile. “I suppose I must be, Miss Bonny. At least to the same extent that people consider you a wife to Mr Rackham.”
Anne opens her mouth, then closes it again. Jack has to fight the urge to laugh. Anne speaks so rarely that to see her lost for words is rather comical.
Flint has no such problem. “You are not coming into my house.”
“Oh, it’s your house, is it, Captain?” says Miranda, and Jack has had enough fights with Anne to know that Flint is about to regret what he just said. “Because I was under the impression that both of us reside here, and both have an equal say in who should be allowed within its walls. And before you try to argue, please consider that I will not hear a single word you say until you put that pistol down.”
For a second Jack thinks that Flint’s head might just explode. Then he sighs so deeply that he seems to deflate before their eyes. He uncocks the pistol and lets his arm drop, squawking in surprise when Miranda takes the gun from him.
“Be -
“If you tell me to be careful I will shoot you in the leg.”
Flint’s eyebrows are doing that scowly thing they do, but he seems more grouchy than murderous. In fact his expression might almost be called fond as he watches Miranda place the pistol on the table. Jack feels as if he’s wandered into the kind of strange dream he sometimes experiences after eating too much cheese.
Before he can court death any further by voicing this sentiment, Flint turns to him again, looking distinctly un-fond. “How did you find this place?”
“Er -”
“Mr Rackham came by a few months ago in search of a member of their crew, as it happens. I was able to assist him and he very kindly thought to bring a gift as a thank-you. The tea was delightful, by the way,” she adds, smiling at Jack like it’s a joke they’re both in on. Anne looks ready to spit nails, and Flint seems fucking baffled.
“He brought you tea?”
“Several teas, in fact. Over the course of several visits.” Jack can’t tell whether she genuinely thinks she can control Flint enough to stop the man from killing him, or if she’s simply blind to his desire to do so. “Oh, and the books, of course.’
Flint blinks a few times. “Books?”
“Mmmm.”
Jack swallows nervously as Flint’s attention snaps to him again. At least there’s curiosity mixed in with the piss-inducing rage.
“Why?”
Several options flit through Jack’s overactive mind, ranging from the most ingratiating (I thought someone like Mrs Barlow would appreciate the finer things in life) to those most likely to end in his demise (I could see how fucking lonely she was in this house all by herself). None of them are lies, exactly, and he’d gladly offer total dishonesty to Flint. But Miranda is there too, so he scrapes up the dregs of his sincerity.
“Mrs Barlow showed me kindness, despite having no reason to do so. That is an unusual quality here, and one which is rarely rewarded as it should be. I thought I should repay it to whatever poor extent I was able.”
Jesus fucking Christ, did he really just say that out loud? To Flint? Oh, and to Anne as well of course, who’s staring at him as if he’s sprouted a cock from his forehead. At least Miranda seems pleased, though she also looks as if she’s trying very hard not to cry, which is confusing and not remotely reassuring.
But worst of all is Flint, whose face is doing something Jack has never seen before. It’s the look he gets from Charles when one of his “stupid fucking idiot ideas” (thank you Chaz) works out the way he said it would. Like he’s not only surprised by Jack’s success, but annoyed at himself for being impressed by it.
Everyone must have been staring for too long though, because Anne has had enough.
“Fuck this. We’re leavin’.”
“We are not!” Jack yelps, at the same time Flint snarls, “Don’t fucking move.”
Miranda throws her hands up. “Oh for heaven’s sake! A moment ago you couldn’t wait to be rid of them!”
Flint ignores her. “Neither of you are going anywhere until I find out why Vane sent you here.”
“I think it’s fairly clear that Mr Rackham didn’t realise who I was before you tried to blow his head off, so I very much doubt that Captain Vane sent him here as an assassin.”
“Charles didn’t send us,” Jack says before Flint can respond. “He - er - well actually he doesn’t know we’re here, and we were rather hoping to keep it that way.”
That puts Flint’s hackles right back up. Not that they ever went down. “Whatever utter bullshit you’re trying to drag Miranda into -”
“How am I supposed to give you answers if you can’t stop spitting threats at me for more than two seconds!?”
Flint looks like he’s been slapped in the face with a dead fish. Then Miranda giggles, and that seems to snap him out of it. They share a long look, which apparently conveys some deeper meaning known only to the two of them, and then Flint sighs again. “Get on with it then.”
Shit. Yes. The reason why they’re here. Except now he knows who Mrs Barlow is, this whole idea has moved from Mildly Inconvenient to Possibly Life-Threatening.
“We - ah - well, or rather, I was hoping I might ask Mrs Barlow for a favour, so to speak. Nothing untoward, I assure you,” he adds hastily, seeing Flint swell up like a blowfish.
“Told you this was a stupid fuckin’ idea,” Anne mutters helpfully.
Jack, who has had just about enough of every pissed-off-red-haired creature in a 30 mile radius, whips around to glare at her. But in doing so, he bumps into the basket at his feet and it tips onto its side. There’s a flurry of yowling and spitting, and then a massive orange blur bursts forth, streaks between Flint’s legs and takes refuge under Mrs Barlow’s skirts.
There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then Miranda exclaims, “Oh! You brought Flint with you, how lovely!”
Oh no. Oh dear God, no.
“What?”
Jack’s life flashes before his eyes as Miranda raises her skirts to reveal the architect of his doom. The massive ginger tomcat is curled between her ankles, glaring at the lot of them for daring to exist.
“James,” smiles Miranda, and by God it seems like she’s enjoying this, “allow me to introduce Flint.”
Flint stares at her. Then down at the cat. Then back at Miranda. And finally, with agonising slowness, he turns his gaze on Jack. It’s like watching a man’o’war opening its gun ports, knowing he’s about to be the target.
“Charles named him. Anne found him. I swear I was nothing but a witness.”
“Fuck you, Jack.” Alright, it’s not his finest moment, but Anne and Chaz can look after themselves.
A muscle is twitching in Flint’s jaw, and the vein in his left temple is visibly pulsing. Jack is uttering a silent prayer to a God he stopped believing in at least a decade earlier when Flint The Cat distracts them all by biting Mrs Barlow on the ankle.
“Ouch!”
Jack lurches forward. “Flint, you little bastard!”
“Don’t fuckin’ yell at him -
“It’s nothing Mr Rackham, just a scratch -
“Enough! ” Breathing like a blown horse, Flint The Man glares at Jack and Anne with pure venom in his eyes. “Take your fucking animal and get out of our house before I chop you up and put you in that basket.”
Miranda, God bless her, fucking snorts. “Oh, and how will you do that when you can barely even stand?”
At this point, Jack notices several things he was previously too alarmed to register. The whole left side of Flint’s face is full of scrapes and bruises, and there’s an imprint in his right cheek like the pattern of a quilt. His hair is a mess and he’s standing rather awkwardly, favouring his ribs on the left. In fact, there’s a bandage peeking from the collar of his shirt, which is gaping at the neck in a way that even Charles would blush to wear. His only other clothing is a pair of linen breeches. The sight of those pale freckled feet will haunt Jack until he dies.
Anne grunts - an Annoyed grunt, this one - and starts to move past Jack, presumably to retrieve Flint The Cat from underneath the dining table. But he stops her with a hand on her shoulder. He’s carried that stupid furry bastard all this way for a reason, and he plans to see it through. And also prove Anne wrong.
“Flint’s hurt.”
“Mind your own damn -”
“The cat, I mean, not you. That’s why we’re here.”
“Oh you poor thing! Is that why you were cross with me just now?” Miranda coos, kneeling beside the dining table. Flint The Man and Flint The Cat look equally affronted by her actions.
“Miranda, your dress -”
“This is my house, James, and I will sit where I please.” Her tone does not invite debate. Flint gives a long-suffering sigh and goes back to glaring at Jack, though he seems more tired than angry at this point.
“Explain. Briefly.”
“Right, so Flint - the cat, obviously - he’s our mouser on the Ranger, and when we took our latest prize his leg got crushed rather badly, I’m afraid.”
For a second Flint looks almost sympathetic. Then the glare is back. “And how is this Miranda’s problem?”
“Ah - yes, well, the thing is - he can’t really hunt, with his leg, and we lost his predecessor in a storm, and there isn’t really anyone in Nassau we can leave him with, Anne and I were hoping -”
“Jack says she can look after ‘im. Til ‘is leg’s healed up.” Anne sounds like she thinks this is insanity itself, and Captain Flint clearly shares her views.
“Absolutely not - ”
“I’d be delighted! How kind of you to think of me, Jack.”
Both Anne and Flint are comically appalled by MIranda’s use of his Christian name, but Jack is gaining confidence now. Whatever Mrs Barlow is to Flint - witch, wife, sister or goddamn voodoo priestess - it’s clear she’s not remotely afraid of him. So as long as Jack has her on his side, Flint The Man is no more of a threat to his life than Flint The Cat. Quite possibly even less.
“I realise it’s an awful imposition -”
“It’s not, because it isn’t fucking happening.”
“How long do you think he’ll need to stay?” asks Miranda, as if Flint is no more than another chair in her kitchen.
“A few weeks, perhaps? A month at most.”
“A month!?”
“That sounds perfect. I’m sure he’ll be much safer here than if he were at sea.” Miranda throws a small smile at Anne when she says the last part. Anne’s lip twitches, but then her shoulders drop a fraction, which is almost as good as a Mollified grunt by Jack’s reckoning.
Flint is far from mollified. “I am not having Vane’s inbred crew traipsing in and out of here like it’s some - some - orphanage for goddamn feral animals!”
“I don’t imagine that will be a problem, since presumably the Ranger will be sailing in the next few days?” Jack nods, and Miranda smiles triumphantly. “There you are then. You and Flint can convalesce together.”
“I don’t need to convalesce,” hisses Flint, looking utterly betrayed at Miranda having so much as implied he might be injured.
“You should,” announces Anne. “You look like shit.”
And she accuses him of having no self-preservation. Flint bares his teeth, but Jack can tell he’s wavering, even if it’s only from exhaustion. He sounds almost petulant when he grumbles, “You can’t possibly enjoy the thought of playing nursemaid to that creature.”
Miranda rolls her eyes. “He can hardly be a more disagreeable patient than yourself. Besides, if nothing else, it will be a way to keep myself busy once you’re back aboard the Walrus.”
“Is this not my home as well? Do I not have a say in who I’m forced to spend my time with while I’m here?”
For the first time a shadow passes over Miranda’s face. Her elegant features take on a sudden weight, and Jack gets the feeling he won’t enjoy hearing whatever comes next.
“Thirteen days.”
Flint’s brow furrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“In the past six months, you have spent thirteen days in this house. Including the hours in which you were asleep, or travelling to and from the town you insist I should not visit. So forgive me if I have grown accustomed to making such decisions on my own.”
She is still on the floor, kneeling in her plain cream-coloured dress, and yet she seems to tower over Flint - over all of them. She reminds Jack of a painting he saw once; some saint he can’t remember the name of. He’s been witness to many kinds of power in his time but nothing quite like this. He wants to bottle it, to run from it, to understand its source even though he knows the answer won’t be pleasant. As she gets to her feet Flint steps forward to offer her his hand, and she pauses before taking it, which makes Flint look like a kicked puppy. God, what a fascinating woman.
“Mr Rackham is asking for my help and I intend to give it. Not only because I consider him a friend, but because it is the right thing to do. I will not allow an innocent creature to suffer simply to spare you a few weeks of minor inconvenience.”
Jesus Christ. Jack thought he had a way with words, but Miranda Barlow makes him look like a babbling toddler. Flint’s eyes have gone wide and alarmingly bright. If Jack thought it were possible he’d almost say the man was close to tears. He catches Anne’s eye, and finds her fucking glaring at him - what the hell has he done now?
“Leave your weapons outside.”
Jack startles. “Beg pardon?”
Flint is scowling again, but there’s no real heat behind it. In fact he looks exactly like his furry ginger namesake - as if grumpiness is simply his default emotional state. “Unless you want to waste more time hovering in doorways, put your weapons on the bench on the verandah.”
Before Anne can object - which she definitely will - Jack drags them both out to obey Flint’s instruction.
“You lost your fuckin’ mind?”
“Quite possibly. Though I doubt if even I could have conjured up this strange little scenario.” Jack is lightly armed - just a sword, knife and pistol. Anne has made no move to disarm herself though.
“If you think I’m goin’ back in that house without a knife on me -”
“Fine! Stay out here, if you prefer,” he snaps, now taking off his hat. “But I for one would rather get this over with.” Anne snatches his hat off the bench and flings it into the grass. “Oh, very mature.”
“Fuck you, Jack.”
Throwing up his hands, Jack heads back inside. There’s no sign of Flint, but he finds Miranda pouring milk into a small dish. She gives him a wan smile.
“I do hope you’ll forgive me for not telling you about - who I am.” Her demeanour is playful, but there’s something underneath it. Contrition, and perhaps even nervousness. As if she half expects him to run from her now he knows the truth.
“And I hope that you, in turn, will forgive me for relying on your kindness once again, Mrs Barlow.”
“Oh, am I back to Mrs Barlow now?”
“I thought it might improve my odds of survival.”
She twinkles merrily at him. “And here I’d heard pirates were notoriously fearless.”
“The line between courage and stupidity is often rather slim, in my experience.”
He expects her to laugh, but instead there’s a sadness in her eyes when she says, “I’m afraid I must agree with you on that.”
She places the dish on the floor in front of Flint, who shows his appreciation by not trying to bite her again. Jack can’t imagine loving anyone but Anne as long as he lives, but there’s something indescribably alluring about Miranda Barlow. She’s like something from a story, or from another world. A lonely, benevolent enchantress from a child’s bedtime story.
“Anne’s in the vanguard,” he says, compelled by God knows what. “I’m not, obviously. Never been much of a fighter. I know how capable she is, but every time she goes over the rail…” He swallows around the unexpected lump in his throat. “I suppose what I am trying to say is that I know it isn’t easy. To be Penelope, rather than Odysseus, so to speak.”
“You’ve read the Odyssey?”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Jack clutches his chest. How a man of Flint’s bulk can move so silently really must be witchcraft. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Barlow.”
“You can have it, Jack, as long as you call me Miranda from now on.”
Flint makes a disgusted noise, but Miranda ignores him, so Jack decides to follow her example. Nonetheless he keeps a wary eye on Flint as he joins them in the kitchen. He’s still moving stiffly - broken ribs, most likely. There’s something in his hand as well, but Jack can’t make it out.
“Did he take it?” Flint murmurs, and Miranda nods towards the ginger menace drinking milk beneath their table.
“See for yourself.”
Flint glances at the cat and grunts approvingly. “We’ll add a few drops to the next bowl, that should be enough.”
“Enough for what?” growls Anne, making Jack jump yet again. At least she left her daggers outside.
Flint cocks an eyebrow. “You said his leg was injured, yes?”
“Yeah, so fuckin’ what?”
“I’m guessing that he hasn’t let you take a proper look at it.”
Jack snorts. “God no. Even Anne could barely get near him since it happened.”
“S’not his fuckin’ fault,” Anne mutters, crossing her arms and burying herself beneath her hat. Flint and Miranda share a look, and Jack feels a pang of guilt.
“Anne was the one who found him. Some crates had fallen over in the hold and his leg was trapped.”
“Useless bastards should’ve strapped the crates down better. Didn’t even bother tryin’ to find him neither. Reckon he was stuck down there for hours.”
She’s snarling and spitting like the cat she’s so damn fond of, but Jack can see how deeply she was shaken by the whole thing. Anne doesn’t really do attachment - Jack himself being the obvious exception. Sometimes he forgets how young she is. How young they both are, really. He’d give her a hug if he didn’t think she’d stab him for it.
“Here.” Flint is offering a tiny brown bottle to Anne. “Laudanum. A drop or two should knock him out for long enough for us to look him over.”
Anne removes the stopper and sniffs the bottle’s contents. “It won’t hurt him?”
“Can’t see why it would,” Flint shrugs, but he doesn’t sound flippant. “But we won’t give him anything unless you’re in agreement.”
Anne’s sharp eyes go round. She swallows thickly, then hands the bottle back and glares at Jack. “How come you didn’t think of doin’ that?”
“God give me strength,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
Flint’s plan works, because of course it fucking does. They lay the giant furball out on the table - Miranda sternly overriding Flint’s objections - and Jack, to his horror, finds them watching him expectantly.
“Er - sorry, am I missing something?”
“Thought you were gonna check his leg,” Anne replies, with the air of someone pointing out the bleeding fucking obvious.
“Me?! What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” He flaps a hand vaguely at the monstrous streak of fluff.
Anne’s scowl does not bode well, but salvation comes in many strange forms.
“For fuck’s sake,” mutters Flint, shoving Jack unceremoniously out of the way. “Which leg?”
Anne touches the injured limb carefully. Jack watches in utter bewilderment as Flint gently prods and squeezes the tiny ginger foot. Flint catches him staring and scowls. “What?”
“Nothing! I just - have you done this before?”
“Do you have any idea how many injuries I’ve seen?” comes the withering reply. “A broken bone is a broken bone, regardless of its size.”
“You think it’s broken?” God, poor Anne sounds fucking stricken. She really must be fond of the wretched beast.
“I’m not sure yet. Can he walk on it?”
“Dunno. Seen ‘im limpin’ around, but he’s still pretty quick on his feet.”
“And how long ago did it happen?”
“Ten days, give or take. Tried to take a look but he don’t want no-one gettin’ near ‘im.”
“That last part is hardly a recent development,” Jack mutters.
“Fuck you, Jack.”
“Darling, I won’t deny his merits as a hunter, but you can’t pretend he hasn’t bitten every single member of the crew apart from you. Not to mention Miranda!”
“I don’t think he really meant it,” coos Miranda, stroking her attacker’s fluffy head. “Poor little thing was just upset by all the fuss.”
“Imagine that,” Flint mutters, and Miranda swats his arm playfully. Jack’s still not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming.
After a bit more examination - which Jack is convinced that Flint is making up as he goes - he straightens up with a wince. “I can’t be certain but I don’t think it’s broken. With enough rest it should heal on its own. If it isn’t looking better in a week we can splint it.”
Jack has a sudden vision of the dread Captain Flint wrapping a tiny little bandage around a furry limb. Anne looks so grateful he’s half afraid she’ll sign on to the Walrus before the week is out. “So you’re gonna let ‘im stay?”
Flint’s moustache twitches and he shares another long look with Miranda. “Can’t imagine he’d get much rest surrounded by Vane’s pack of drunken savages. But you’re coming to collect him the moment you make port again. And if you breathe a word of this -“
“With all due respect, Captain, I can’t think of a single living soul who’d believe us if we did.”
The noise Flint makes might almost be construed as a laugh.
It’s well beyond nightfall by the time they get going. Miranda had insisted they should stay until the laudanum wore off so that Anne could say goodbye, which is how Jack learns that Anne’s repertoire of grunts also includes Grateful. It had been slightly awkward at first, with Anne striding anxiously up and down the porch - thankfully Flint had prowled off to bed with a book (he took his pistol too, staring pointedly at Jack as he retrieved it from the table). But Miranda had made tea, and then made him feel at home with bits of scandalous gossip about her uptight Puritan neighbours. By the time the ginger furball is awake, Jack feels rather sorry to be leaving.
At last Miranda shows them out, after Anne has inflicted an inordinate number of head-pats on a rather groggy Flint and got him settled in his basket. She gives Jack a warm hug, and then offers Anne a handshake. “It was wonderful to meet you at last, Miss Bonny. And thank you for entrusting me with caring for your friend. I wish that more people were as kind towards animals as you are.”
Anne stares at Mrs Barlow for an uncomfortably long time, glancing from her outstretched hand to her face and then back again. “No-one calls me that. Anne’s fine.”
“Anne it is, then.” Miranda is still smiling softly, holding out her hand. When Anne grasps it, briefly and with obvious suspicion, she gives a gentle squeeze. “And please call me Miranda, if I ever have the pleasure of your company again.”
Jack fully expects Anne to say something scathing, but instead she just snatches her hand back and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Is he gonna be alright? Y’know, with…” she nods towards the house, presumably where Captain Flint is watching from the window like a freckled gargoyle.
Miranda’s smile turns mischievous.“Can I tell you a secret?” She takes a step closer and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “James adores cats. And I’ve never seen him meet one that didn’t adore him right back. I give it three days before he and your Flint are joined at the hip.”
He and Anne exchange looks of wide-eyed disbelief, but Miranda seems unphased by their scepticism. She bids them a final goodnight, watching from the doorway until they can no longer see the house. As soon as they’re out of sight Anne punches him hard in the arm.
“Ouch! What the hell was that for?”
“You said she was a widow!”
“She is!”
“And a fuckin' Puritan!”
“That too!”
“Then why the fuck does she look like that?”
Jack blinks. “Like what?”
She makes a disgusted noise and stalks off, leaving him standing in the silvery moonlight like a monument to his own ignorance. “Fuck you, Jack.”
Jack sighs and tips his head back. Why can’t anything be simple in his life? “Fuck me, indeed.”