Arnold limped along the deck. He grunted a little with each step and his mouth seemed to be permanently twisted into a frown. He seemed to be the only one on the damn ship with even the smallest semblance of sense. He spent as much time as possible away from the others, but he had to go interact now. He had to eat.

He hobbled down the steps that led to the galley. The place was empty except for "Blades Bill" which was the stupidest name Arnold had ever heard, and he had a war buddy named "Faggy John."

"William. Do you still have any of that stew left?" He asked in his rough gravelly voice.

At the time ol' Arnie hobbled his way into the galley, Bill was organizing his spices by alphabetical order. Some mad fool had put the salt in front of the pepper again. Crazy bastard.

"Mm? Oh! Hullo, Arnie," he said happily, his task completed. "Some stew, then? Let me check the refrigerator... how's the day t'day?"

Arnie. He grumbled at that, but didn't feel like making a fuss. He could shoot William where he stood and knowing that was enough to let it go with a small devious smile.

"Not so great, William. My leg's been acting up again. Not that's stopped acting up in the past ten years." He shrugged and sat down at a table, laying his long black cane across the top of it.

"Well, that's no good," he said, retrieving the large stewpot from the fridge and landing it on the counter. "Have y'considered going to a doctor again recently? I'm sure Metro or New York would have some fine doctors for a case like that..."

He grunted. "Doctors. They're good for nothing, William. All they want to do is dope you up until you can't think straight any more and then charge you out the ass and hope in you pain med stupor that you don't notice. It's a crock of shit."

"Well, then, you could find some o'that... y'know... holistic stuff, then," he offered. "Crystals... herbs... that kinda thing."

Before Bill ladled the stew into a vessel, he asked Arnold a question, integral to the length Arnold was staying with him. "Microwave or stove?"

"Stove." He answered. He shrugged in answer to Bill's suggestion.

"How old do you think the Captain really is?"

As a portion of stew was poured into a saucepan, Bill shrugged as well. "Makes no diff'rence to me," he said. "Could be 27, could be a bleedin' Time Lord. As long as the shares add up and he stays this side o'sanity. I couldn't care less.

"Why, what's your theory?"

Arnold shrugged. "I've spent a long time in this business. A lot of time spent reading people. But I can't figure him out. It's probably a waste of time to try, but it bothers me that none of us know anything about him."

"Y'd probably be jus' as worried t'learn th'truth," he rebutted. "I mean, a man with a story like that? He's either tellin' th'truth, an' he's some cosmic freakshow from beyond th'moon, or he's crazy, in which case he's gone 'round the bend enough times that he made it back t'sane."

"Look," he said as he hefted the stewpot, "he starts losin' it, I'll be th'first to disembark. Hell, I'll skydive if it gets real bad. But f'r now, he knows what he's doing, he pays us well, an' he's not lickin' the outlets or somethin'. I say stay th'course."

"Yeah, well. He's paying me to be here. I'm not going to break a contract. But it's still a worrying thing." He shrugged.

He tapped his hand on the table for a moment. "What do you think of the new girl?"

"Nice enough," he agreed. "She helped me peel potatoes. That pretty much marks yuh as alright in m'book. Though where I heard she was XO is b'yond me..."

"She's a pretty young thing." He said and gazed off into the distance.

Bill smirked. "Now don't you be gettin' no ideas, boyo," he said teasingly. "I think Cap'n'd take issue with that one..."

"Wait, what?" Arnold gripped his cane so tight his knuckles went white. "I thought she was just a crew member?"

"She is," he explained. "Cap'n'd prob'ly still take exception."

Esther too, he thought to himself. But I don't wanna prejudge 'er... she might be into the older set...

He let go of his cane and raised an eyebrow. "Why would it matter to him then?"

"Oh, c'mon, Arnie, y'can't guess?" Bill said. "Cap'n brings a pretty lady aboard and makes her part o' the crew, t'work very closely with 'im? I'm pretty sure she has designs on 'er. But, you're free t' try."

Bill opened a drawer and grabbed an electronic thermometer and checked Arnold's stew. "... couple more minutes..."

"It just isn't professional." He sighed. "Well hopefully she won't fall for that crazy bastard." He said, but he knew the words sounded hollow.

"I'm sorry, did you just associate the cap'n and bein' professional?" Bill smirked. "May as well ask a leopard to change his spots..."

Arnold shrugged. "You just keep an eye out for that girl, alright? Always hate to see a young woman lose her way."

... huh.

"... no problem, Arnie," he promised. "I'll keep 'er on the straight and narrow on this pirate ship powered by a dead bird's soul."

Bill grabbed the saucepan and poured its contents into a bowl, and added a spoon. "Anythin' else y'need? Mr. Pibb?"

"Those things'll kill you, William. Just some water." He smiled. "Thanks, by the way."

Bill turned on the tap's water filter and filled up a glass for the old man, and handed it over, putting it all on a tray for him. "No sweat."