Carrington was just working his way into another bite of his apple, his stomach growling hungrily despite the food. It had been roughly thirty-six, or more, hours since he had slept or eaten anything, but he was used to this sort of thing, as if anyone would notice him acting strange from lack of sleep regardless.
He paused halfway through the bite as once again, Lieutenant Thompson slighted him. It wasn't enough that she had tried to humiliate him for attempting to apologize before, nor that she had taken a personal gift from the captain and given it to a prisoner. No, now she was turning down his final attempt to bury the hatchet, and lying to him to boot. He was an expert on lying, which is why he robbed his mates blind when they gambled.
Her eyes turned towards the approaching Acheron, as his right hand drifted back towards one of his remaining loaded pistols. His middle finger caressed the hardwood handle. Apple perched between his teeth and the fury welling up inside him once more, his middle and index fingers slid along the grip as if studying a lover while visions of the shot caving the woman's head in danced before his bespectacled gaze.
Just as he made up his mind, heedless of what the captain and crew might think, and firmly grabbed the pistol in order to make his lovely visions become a reality, the magazine on the Endeavor unleashed a climactic roar as it detonated. He took a step back and gripped the railing with his murderous hand as the shock of the blast rustled his hair and clothes.
The apple fell from his mouth as a cry of laughter echoed in its place. Carrington's mind whirled at the sight, wondering what the last moments had been like for the surviving crew that might have been aboard, aside from the debris that is. Did they feel the explosion, were they crying out to God for salvation, or is it possible that they were heedlessly fighting the chaos and one another to simply escape into the slightly safer water?
As these wonderings died away and his mind returned to the present, he was annoyed to find that his shining opportunity had passed him by. The captain came aboard and gave Thompson her curt orders and disappeared without so much as a glance his way. The one who did glance his way did not escape his notice however, he smiled as his eyes found those of the Frenchwoman. She held his gaze for a few heartbeats, which was a enough time for him to smile and flash her a wink.
When she looked away, Carrington simply shrugged. Having nothing to do aboard the currently sinking vessel, he slid onto the gangplank and made his way across, heedless of the bouncing or the protests of those he came inadvertently close to knocking off.
Once he was back aboard the beloved ship he called home, he was back at his usual antics. He quickly swapped a few jokes with his gambling group, added a few bawdy lyrics to a song a pair of hands were singing while securing some rigging before ending up at the helm. He inquired if they yet had a heading, which they didn't, if the captain had mentioned any potential destinations, he hadn't, and proceeded to spend to rest of the time spent unloading the captured cargo jovially joking with the man, leaving him breathless by the end.
Once he saw the last few men stumbling across, as well as Miss Thompson and the captain, he made his way down the stairs and began circling around, wanting to give the captain enough time to shout orders before speaking to him. His hands ran along the railing nearby, a few members of the crew, with few protests after the more seasoned crew noticed who it was, and even along the cannons when he ran out of railing.
As he passed, his fingers brushed the hand of the youngest blonde, whose name he had yet to hear, and was apparently working on one of the cannons, his touch sliding up her arm and to her shoulder before he broke contact. Not that he was paying attention however, his eyes drifted to the form of the young woman that was obviously kin to the older woman, who gave him a strange nagging. She was tending to a man who had suffered a minor wound in the fighting. The man would have been alright regardless, but he couldn't blame him for enduring the ministrations of the lovely young woman.
"Bonjour, ma belle femme.", he said in greeting. He placed a hand on the wounded crewman's shoulder, while a charming smile played across his face, and his wandering gaze came to fall upon Angelique.
The Sailing Master probably looked a fright, his naturally messy hair was in an even more disheveled state and stained a slight pink to match his shirt from all the blood they'd absorbed, as if he'd bathed in the ichor. His clothes were damp as well, still clinging to him in places and he was laden with pistols, trophies of those he'd slain aboard the Illustrious. Somehow, despite his battered, damp, bloody appearance, his moppy hair, and the dark bruise that peeked from beneath his loose shirt, he still displayed an aura of confidence and dangerous, possibly insane, charm.
Carrington opened his mouth to speak again when his eyes caught sight of Miss Thompson and the Frenchwoman. His brilliant green eyes narrowed in cold suspicion as the two of the spoke. His hand drifted to his pistol again as he looked around. As luck would have it, the captain wasn't more than a pace or two away and Carrington quickly closed the gap after turning towards the young woman, whispering, "Hold that thought lass."
As he came to stand before Nathaniel, he saluted smartly, despite his bedraggled appearance.
"Captain, we should talk, Sir.", he said quietly, pointing with to the pistol he'd returned a few short hours earlier with one hand, and with the other, he jutted a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Miss Thompson pulling the poster out of her jacket.