"No home to go to," Killian replied flatly. He'd been on land for weeks now, dance of the sea a fading memory. Too long on and he was starting to feel restless without the gentle say of the Jolly Roger beneath his feet. Until he could step aboard her familiar deck and feel the smooth, weathered wood of her helm slipping beneath his fingertips, the pirate would never feel at home.
A bed and house were just objects, of whose value Killian cared not.
The Jolly Roger, though; she was everything.
Silent, reverent toast to his auld lass and Killian lifted the bottle of rum, drinking deeply. Perhaps tonight he'd get properly titted. Especially as he drank on someone else's tab.
"What's on that piece of parchment?" The one the pirate had seen slipped secretly into pocket.