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[He looks back at her, elbow still hooked there and all in darkening shadow from the lantern at his back.]

I believe I made myself clear, Miss Jones. I have better things to invest in.

[Then, fingers lacing easily across his middle, he turns his attention back to the oarman: ‘Now, about this Qunari gold—‘]

[ A pause. It - How strange that it hurts. Why? She doesn't give a shit. She oughtn't give a single shit. But the utter dismissal in his voice makes her breath catch slightly. What an idiot she is. ]

You're such a hypocrite.

[ A little low, a little thick, but it comes out. ]

[There is a moment, whittled thin, in which he definitely hears what she says regardless of how low and croaking it is and glances after her. But the ferryman doesn't catch it or is adamant not to return to the subject of capitol punishment, and so continues to talk as he leans into the rowing: how is the Basilia's refit coming, and when will she be crewing? He knows a boy or two who could use the work if there's still carpentry to be done.

Flint allows himself to be drawn back to that conversation rather than this one. She's already made her opinion quite clear.]

[ That rankles. That he doesn't even acknowledge it. And so it's annoyance, now, that pushes past fear and embarrassment and that stupid core of hurt that she shouldn't be feeling because she has neither need of nor desire for his approval and regard. Annoyance, pride, and righteousness. It drives her to speak over him, Flint, to say - ]

You did exactly what I did, didn't you? And you actually have the gall to keep acting like I'm some - some disappointment to you.

[For some split second, a genuine note of confusion keeps him occupied almost exactly where he'd been in the conversation with the oarman - she gets at best a half cock of the head. Then a pause. Flint's attention swings to her, squinting through the hastening dark.]

Pardon?

[ Even through that gloom, the tight anger on her face is visible. So's the shake of her head. ]

Everyone's absolutely furious at you. Aren't they? Because you put your interest before theirs.

[ She doesn't know the details; no. But Eshal had been clear enough regarding why she's angry. ]

[He snorts. Is that all?

(Who the fuck is telling Kitty Jones more than she needs to know?)]

Are you finished? Or would you first like to make another dozen assumptions about my character before we reach the ferry slip?

[ Tartly: ]

Not sure it counts as an assumption when it's based on something you did.

[ She shakes her head. It doesn't look like she scored even the slightest wound on him. Had Eshal been lying? Why would she, though? God, Kitty just wants to -

She just wants to slap him across his stupid awful face, is what she wants to do. ]

Don't you want this world to get better?

I fail to see what that has to do with explaining myself to a girl determined to believe whatever terrible thing she can imagine.

I didn't toss you overboard, so clearly I believe what you said about not breaking my fingers.

[ Big words for a girl who was literally cowering just a few minutes before. ]

[He'll risk calling that bluff with the sudden, startling beginning of a lunging motion and the purposefully loud BANG! of his heel stomping on the bilge cover.]

[ Her reaction is instantaneous - though not quite as cowardly as one might expect. Instead of falling back, she moves forward - dagger in hand, point driving toward (but stopping short of) his throat. Eyes wide, lips thin, terror etched on her face, but hand utterly steady.

The ferryman is shouting, cursing, but she doesn't look away, holding him at her knife's end. ]

[The flash of the knife is muted in the loitering half-dark and if he is surprised at all by the violence of her response, it doesn't outweigh the satisfaction of a theory confirmed. So while the hand he half raises to quiet the impulse of the sharp point is gentle, he's not flinching.]

You can understand why I might find it difficult to trust you with anything but a habit for hesitation.

[ A moment, and then she lowers the blade. And she replies, firmly: ]

I don't, actually, as this has got nothing to do with what you do or don't trust me with. If a great hulking man like you lunges at me, and I pull a knife on him, that means I've got good instincts, which I have got, because if you let great hulking men lunge at you without pulling a knife you won't live to see twenty. If you choose not to trust me over it, that just means you were looking for an excuse not to trust me.

[ And then, to the ferryman, pushing the dagger back into the hilt: ]

Please stop swearing. It's not fit for my ears, thank you.

[He laughs - a sharp, barking sound of disbelief that carries as well over the water as the ferryman's punchy cursing. Andraste's blood and singed hair. If he'd said '--and arguing,' would she have less to say about it, or more?

It takes some moments for both of the men in the boat to regain their composure. Flint is still half on the verge of some kind of humor (good isn't really the word) when he eventually manages:]

You can think what you like.

Thanks for your permission. I like to believe what there's the most evidence for, so I think I'll go with that.

[ She shakes her head, ignoring that humor of his with a stiff sort of dignity. ]

Honestly, if you think I'm foolish for expecting the people around me to have wicked intentions, then you're fantastically naive, aren't you. But I don't think that a pirate captain could actually be naive. Meaning that you're just being disingenuous. Pretending I'm some wicked awful little thing who mustn't be trusted because I'm acting in a way that you know is sensible.

[ She pushes her hair back from her face. ]

So that's what all this has got to do with my question. Do you want the world to get better? 'Cause the thing standing in the way, more than anything else, is all the lies.

Evidence.

[Barked back, flat with disbelief. She can dress herself with all the dignity in the world; she still looks like a petulant child.]

What is evident is that you dislike being disagreed with or told what to do, and so you find it easier to imagine that everything I've said or done on your behalf in the past has been a lie rather than consider the possibility that you might be wrong.

I -

[ For just a moment, she falters. For just a moment there's a flicker of doubt in her face. Seen from a certain light, he's...right. From a certain light, she's a traitor who lied to a comrade and ally with no good reason, and who wailed paranoiacally when he reacted with understandable anger. From a certain light. But that story only seems true if you don't know what she knows - that desire for land and power create greed in men like Flint. That by the time you reach his age, you're a browbeaten coward or a villain. That no one really trusts a girl like her unless they think there's something to be gained. ]

Anything you did was for our shared cause.

[ Then a shake of her head. Her hand picks nervously, uncomfortably, at the dirt under her fingernail. ]

And I don't think our cause is aligned when it comes to them.

[Simply:]

Then I hope you're right. As you've made yourself their sole representative here, it would be unfortunate if you weren't.

[ Her brows draw down, this time with more confusion than disapproval. ]

I'm not their representative. They scarcely even want anything to do with me.

And yet you were so convinced of your own importance to be offended when Serah Fazon knew nothing about it. [Clearly the oarman is done with them. They're nearing the Gallows at a clip.]

As it appears you will justify your decisions however you’re best able in the moment, I cannot even imagine what I might say now that wouldn't simply reinforce the conclusion you've already decided on. You will have to live with your suspicion. If you have questions, you may take them to your Division Head. What you think is not my responsibility, and what you want is no longer my concern.

[THUNK; the ferryman ships the oars and they are sliding up against the slip moorage.]

It's not like I care.

[ And yet she finds that, for some reason, that comes out of her throat low and rough. She finds that her gaze on him is doleful, and that her hands are clenched together. Which is so utterly, dreadfully inconvenient, because that makes it seem like she does care. It makes it seem like there's something hard and tight and painful in her chest, like there's a dizziness swirling in the back of her head that she can't name or understand. Which there's not.

She gets up, soon as the boat bumps against the dock, even before they're moored. The boat sways dangerously under her foot as she climbs out, stepping on the edge, heedless of the danger of tipping - but it stays upright, and she scampers out, agile as any cabin boy, fleet-footed and able. And she doesn't look round as she goes. ]

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