Chapter Text
The day is good, when they’re all hoisting the sails and it's golden hour skies. Roach is finishing up the wedding cake below deck, Wee John is working on his most recent knitting project while Auntie watches not-quite-judging but kinda over his shoulder, Zheng and Oluwande are plotting their course. Frenchie— Captain Frenchie, Mr. French sir, Cap’n Bardic, they’ve already got names— checks with Fang at the wheel, who’s delighted to be steering them onward. Jim’s hanging upside down to smack a kiss on Archie before going back to the rigging, Pete’s making eyes at Lucius, not having looked down at the knots he’s tying once but they’re perfect anyway. Lucius hasn’t even seen him looking, busy sketching something in his book, but he will soon enough because hearts like that travel like ocean echoes.
Frenchie keeps looking off behind them where the sea trails, where they’ve left three of their crew on a shoreline no longer seen by the eye. Wondering if they’ll just be behind him, like three little devil-angels on his shoulders, offering all their opinions on captaining. They’re not, though. They’re not. He makes his way down the steps, depositing himself next to Lucius with a small, “Hey.”
“Captain.” Lucius says, smitten about it. He’s focused on his sketch and Frenchie tucks his head close to get a look at it. The page is set over in rectangular panels, blank but for where Lucius has decided to begin— the deck on Calypso’s birthday. He’s shading in the planks of the deck under Jim’s boots, currently.
“Should get you some colors for that…” Frenchie tells him, “That was a good night.”
“It was beautiful. Y’know, before and after the torture and all.” Lucius turns just a little bit so it’s easier to see.
“Some were into it.” Frenchie shrugs. Lucius huffs something between a scoff and a laugh, and lets quiet settle between them. The wash of the waves, the sounds of the others around them, the scratch of lead against paper. Frenchie lets it sit for a minute or so, then gets to what he came over for. “You and Pete can use the cabin tonight, honeymoon night and all.”
Lucius pauses, looking over at him. “You’re serious?”
“Well, we all know I’m mighty silly, but.” he smiles, elbowing Lucius. “Yeah, ‘course.”
And there’s the moment, where Lucius looks up and realizes Pete’s been watching him all along, and the most sickly sweet smile warms across his face. He reaches over to squeeze Frenchie’s knee, “Thanks, hon. Love that.”
“Thought you might.” Frenchie tells him, getting up. He throws a grin Pete’s way, but Pete doesn’t inquire about it because Lucius is already coming over to tell him the good news.
Frenchie sidles up to Wee John next, easy as anything. Takes the far edge of the knitting into his lap and fidgets with a bit of excess thread at the end. “Hey, roomie.”
“Aye, Captain.” Wee John gives him a sly look from the corner of his eye. “Like how it’s coming along?”
“Real pretty.” he nods, running his fingers over a royal blue stripe. “Like this yarn, color’s all rich. Like the water ‘round mid-morning, eh?”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” Wee John agrees, tugging a little more from the bundle on the ground as he starts a new row. Though he pauses a moment there, which Frenchie misses, but what comes next is, “You alright?”
“Oh! Yeah, yeah. Sure, you know.” It’s automatic, a little lively note that he instantly regrets. Wee John doesn’t call it out, because he knows Frenchie well. “Nah, mate. Sorry, no. I mean, I’m not awful, just…”
“Yeah.” Wee John agrees when he trails off. Leans a little closer to him.
Frenchie fiddles harder with that thread but reminds himself not to pull. He won’t damage the blanket. “Was thinking we’d play cards or somethin’, tonight. Put up a lantern or two in our room. Kept a couple, from the party.”
Wee John looks down at where he’s slumping against the banister, “You’re the Captain now. Doesn’t that mean you get the quarters?”
“Well, yeah, but.” Frenchie looks up. “Downstairs, that’s our room, isn’t it?”
Frenchie’s not moved one of his things into the upstairs cabin. Everyone would argue that it’s his room now, of course it is, but… he’s sentimental about sleeping next to Wee John. Makes him feel happy, being in their room. Makes him feel safe. Makes him not alone. And Wee John knows this, and even more can’t battle against the big brown eyes Frenchie catches him with. He doesn’t want to, anyway. He was wondering what it’d be like to have his own room, made a little pros and cons list in his head, but he’s thankful for this with how much has changed.
“‘Course that’s our room.” he says, easy as anything. Frenchie unspools next to him, tension out of him like wrung linen and Wee John loves him so much for a moment it aches. Like a balm, Frenchie knocks his head to Wee John’s arm with a silly little grin that inspires a matching one. “Cards, yeah?”
“And a bottle of wine?” Frenchie just sweetens the pot, as if he even had to.
“Aye, Captain.” Wee John says, just to make Frenchie’s nose scrunch when he grins.
Yeah, the day is good. When night falls, it’s different. There’s no Stede to give them a bedtime story. No Ed to pester for a pirate’s tale. No Izzy telling them to fuck off to sleep before posting up for Unicorn’s Watch. They eat the cake after dinner, it’s pretty and it’s sweet and the sunset makes it look ethereal. Jim starts a story, with voices that are like Stede’s but different, and Spanish Jackie joins in until they have a nice thing going. Frenchie sits on the anchor crank to watch them all, and Roach needles him into a second piece of cake.
There’s talk of them all sleeping out here tonight on the deck like they have many times before, but Jim laughs. “And hear those two fucking all night? No thanks.”
They’ve had to move around quarters slightly, to accommodate Zheng and Auntie, Spanish Jackie and Swede’s return, officially give place for Fang’s pet goat. And the whole situation with Jim, Olu and Archie and do they add Zheng to their room? They have the space. Or do they do side by side rooms? Maybe it’d be easier to— Frenchie listened to them rattle off earlier and then left them to it, if there was any trouble, they’d find him.
Pete and Lucius leave them first, with giggling and whistles and “Oh, you’re such bitches! Just jealous!” No one else really moves for a while. A few eyes fall on Frenchie, maybe for direction. They talk amongst themselves on the deck in loose circles, not too far from each other. One or two at a time get up for housekeeping and Frenchie tells them it’s good. But he can tell they need something. So he finds his mandolin and plucks a soft and quiet song while he does a slow round about the deck. It seems to ease something in the crew, in his crew, his family— because they seem to have an easier time going away to bed. He does it for a while longer than maybe he needs to, so they can hear below deck as they all settle in.
Then he goes to the wheel for a bit, just to check it. Fang’s done a good job, of course. But he still rests his hands against it and looks backwards again. Just in case.
When he heads down into the ship, he does a round there too. In the dark it rushes up on him a bit. The loss. There’s gentle talking from Jim and Co.’s room, a light under the door. Snoring already from Roach’s. Fang’s crying in his room but before Frenchie can knock, he realizes he’s not alone already. Wee John’s left their door cracked, waiting for him. It plucks the heartstrings like he’d done to the mandolin upstairs, quiet but resonant.
They play three games, Wee John’s a bit more quiet than usual and so’s Frenchie. They share the wine from the bottle, their chatting is mostly nonsense, and their shoes nudge next to the stool holding the cards. Frenchie tries to verbally wrestle him into a fourth game, but Wee John’s looking at his bed with longing. He’s actually glad Wee John tells him no, means being Captain doesn’t change the small things. Another thing Wee John’s doing like breathing that saves the tender and vulnerable part of Frenchie’s chest that was worried it’d be weird to be in charge. Nobody’s even asked him about First Mate. Ed and Stede had tried to give advice on that but he gently declined it, after The Box in his head had cracked open just a fraction about the last couple of First Mates he’d seen. He needs more time to pick one, if he picks at all.
He and Wee John douse the lamp. The last thing he sees in the light is Wee John settling in with his dolly, ready for sleep. He doesn’t know how well any of them will sleep tonight, truthfully. He listens to his roommate’s breathing and keeps an ear for anyone or anything else. It’s a cloudy night so there’s not much of anything through the slats in the ceiling. He tries to focus on the ever-present rock of the ship that’s lulled him to dreams so many times before.
It prickles over him. He misses Buttons. He misses Stede. He could even miss Ed, for fuck’s sake. He misses Izzy, the fucking dick.
He tries to make up a new song in his head, but it buzzes wrong in his mind theater so he says goodnight to the orchestra. He tries to daydream but it plays out the last few days like a proper Fuckery. The lack of party supplies and decor for the wedding. The greenery of the forest where they fought the English. Izzy’s weak hands holding on when Ed threw him into Frenchie’s arms in the dinghy. Back further, he and Pete scheming their way around Spanish Jackie’s. Stede’s awful fight with Zheng. Further again, the glow of the ship during Calypso’s birthday. Wee John waving around his seaweed boa. The flowers in his own hair. Jim, Olu and Archie holding each other. Izzy’s crooning voice. The mad shuffling of Low’s attack to the tune of a violin.
The last time he saw Buttons. Listening to Izzy whimper in Fang’s arms, his and Izzy’s hands intertwined. Roach asking where Buttons was. Izzy’s rasping breaths as they rowed like hell to the ship before Ed took him back out of his arms.
“You’re going to do great.” Stede tells him and Frenchie’s still wrapping his head around being called Captain not a minute before the sentiment.
“Help me take him!” Ed’s shouting and Izzy’s bleeding and Frenchie’s feet not feeling fast enough in wet sand.
“Bit of panto, for the Captain.” His own voice, forcing the tremble out. The sinking feeling.
“Love you, Frenchie. Have I told you?” Roach’s hushed voice as they sneak out of the prison thanks to Frenchie’s shimmy through the bent bars.
“We’ve got this. You and me.” Lucius doesn’t sound confident, both of them on the ground in the forest, ready to kill.
“You gotta do it before he finds out.” Izzy on that dinghy they fashioned into a sickbed, nudging a knife towards him while he still had two legs, technically. “Fucking get it over with.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” he spits, because he’s scared, because he can barely put things in The Box fast enough.
“I’ll start fucking yelling.” Izzy threatens, desperately.
“I’ll steal your breath just like a cat does, don’t you tempt me.” he threatens right back, just as desperate. Jim said they’d be right back, they needed more towels. They’ll be right back.
Izzy’s gloved hand grabs his. It’s the blood loss that makes him look at Frenchie that way, surely. And the tenderness in his voice, of course. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Frenchie opens his eyes against the darkness. Wee John’s breaths have leveled, sleep’s found him. He still peeks over into the inky darkness of the room, lays his head back as his eyes fill with tears. He misses Buttons. He misses Stede. He misses Ed. He tucks into his pocket and pulls out a singular black glove, void of the hand that kept finding his through the Kraken’s hell. He curls both hands around it. Brings it to his mouth where he silently says his nightly prayers into it, the ones that Wee John taught him and the ones he made up all by himself. Begs for the crew, the ones here and the ones not. The leather rasps against his chin.
He misses Izzy, the fucking dick.
They make it a bit longer before there’s a real breakdown. Lucius wakes up screaming. The rest of them jump from the sound ringing out and suddenly there’s an entire crew piling into their room to sleep the rest of the night. Two days later, there’s a storm and it shakes a particular half of the crew harder than the rest. Frenchie keeps his hands behind his back so nobody sees how much they’re shaking. He and Wee John press their beds together that night and Jim joins them, curling around Frenchie so much that they’re almost on top of him to clutch at Wee John on the other side. The next day, Fang cries into Roach’s shoulder over breakfast while Roach holds him, whispering he’s sorry, he barely realized it was a recipe Ivan and Izzy enjoyed.
They make a stop into port for supplies and any news they can gather. Oluwande and Archie are hauling things back to the ship and Frenchie can overhear them,
“He’s still not in the Captain’s cabin?” Archie’s asking, concern evident in her voice.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. He still does work in there even if he doesn’t sleep there.” Olu reasons, adjusting a sack of limes over his shoulder.
“I do kind of like that he’s an accessible Captain. I’ve never seen one like him before.” she admits, a little warm smile on. “It’s different.”
With a nod, Oluwande agrees. “They’d be proud of him.”
“Even the dick?” she asks with a wry smile. Oluwande pauses, like he’s remembering. Her face falls, “Was that bad? Fuck, sorry—”
“No. No,” Olu scoffs, returning her earlier smile, “I think—”
“Captain?” Swede asks over Frenchie’s shoulder, and he misses whatever Olu’s next words are.
Frenchie has a nightmare. It hits him so hard that when he wakes, he lurches from bed. How he manages to not wake Wee John and Roach, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel fully himself, grabs for his claws as if he needs them. He’s jittering until he makes it up on deck, where the night air seems to put some sense into him. He finds himself going towards the front of the ship, where he takes deep breaths and leans himself against the railing next to the ruined unicorn.
“You should be up here.” he whispers, looking out at the haze of the night. “Telling me to fuck off.”
He’s holding the glove and wasn’t even aware he was. He must’ve grabbed it at the same time he affixed the claws to his hip. He always keeps the damn thing in his pocket, his one keepsake that he feels like he stole. Pirate’s life, right? He runs his thumb along the inner edge of the wrist, remembering when he eased it from Izzy’s lifeless hand. He'd just… he'd had to. He wanted the kerchief, but Ed had said it was already destined for the grave marker. So he'd tied it there himself, made sure the knot and ring were perfectly secure, laid his hand against it to say goodbye as if he hadn't said goodbye to Izzy in the Captain’s quarters when Stede had asked what kind of fabric they wanted to wrap the body in and Ed stepped away to deliberate.
He was still First Mate technically, he supposed, so he shined the buttons free of blood on Izzy’s vest and wondered why they were burying him on land. He thought Izzy would've enjoyed being cast into the sea, either just over the damn edge with a wall of middle fingers like a wave of goodbyes, or viking style on a flaming dinghy. He doesn't know how he could do without the sea. So he put a little bottle of sea water into Izzy’s pocket, in case it would help him along. And stole from him. Because he couldn't help it.
Now, he doesn't know why it makes his heart thud up into his ears as he slips his hand into the glove. Fits it to himself like Izzy would every single day. Oh, maybe that's why. His fingers are a little longer but the accessory doesn't seem to mind, and he rubs his left hand against the fingertips of his right, knowing the leather and at the same time knowing it's foreign. Knowing it'll never be Izzy again. Not that they often held hands, or that Izzy touched him more than to gain balance or whatever. They weren't like that. Like Pete and Lucius, or Jim and Archie and Olu and Zheng. He and Izzy found themselves side by side a good deal, and the orbit stuck.
Frenchie laces his fingers and leans heavier on the railing, thinking about how much longer they'd have needed to be in that orbit before they collided. Watching Izzy curb his mistakes, overhearing him losing his toes, watching him step forward when the rest of them flinched back. Frenchie lied to Blackbeard's face more than once, tempting fate to conceal Izzy. Sat with him wondering if it'd all be for nothing anyway, but doing it anyway. And Izzy didn't understand, but there wasn't time to explain it to him. La Vie en Rose had piqued things in him, the way the French rolled off Izzy’s tongue, the way he understood every word when the others did not. Izzy knew it in English. Why the fuck'd he sing it in French?
"Why'd you do that?" He lets himself say out loud, even as he thinks to himself that it's useless to wonder now.
He sighs. This'll all have to go in The Box before the true morning. Crew can't see him like this. He takes a few steps back to a stool and takes the Unicorn’s Watch. Though he's only sat for a few minutes when a seagull lands on the railing. They stare at each other for a long minute before Frenchie shoos at it gently, "Alright, go on, then."
It doesn't go.
"What? I mean, you're not a nuisance, but. Like, go. Get." He tries again, but the gull cocks its head at him before flapping its wings and giving a wretched little squawk. Like it's bitching at him. The distinct feeling of being bitched at.
Frenchie stands, leaning heavily one way to see if there's any identifying marks. A thought strikes him, twists up his face. "Karl's wife?"
He swears the damn bird shakes its head at him and squawks obnoxiously for good measure. He fidgets, curling half a step back. His superstitious nature is getting the better of him, he doesn't want an angry bird marking the ship to the rest of its birdy friends.
"Don't be a bad omen. Stop it." He pleads, and the bird settles down. A sharper thought strikes him and gives him psychic damage. He cautiously leans in. "…Buttons?"
The seagull hops, starts squawking again. Frenchie thinks he's going fucking mad, because goddamn no one believed Ed. He's entertaining this now. "Buttons, mate? You fucking witch."
He reaches out to touch him, 'course he does, and is only slightly offended when Buttons hops out of the way. Then he remembers. Bird. Can't put all his faith in. But he's just sad and tired enough to put some in, and reach again. And again, Buttons moves. But then he keeps moving, hopping his little bird leggies around to the steps with Frenchie following right along like they're tethered with rope.
"Oh, fuck. Wait." Frenchie hustles when Buttons takes flight. It's only a dozen feet, like he's leading him on and doesn't want him to get lost. He leads Frenchie all the way over to the wheel. And the Captain of this whole vessel looks at a seagull balancing his little webby feet on a handhold and goes, "Fuck are we doin', babe?"
Buttons rumbles at him and it's gotta be the cover of night making him looney because it sounds so much like human-Buttons. The bird ducks down and starts furiously snapping his beak at the tie keeping the wheel steady, and Frenchie jumps to get his hands on it before he makes a mess of it, "Hey, hey…"
He slides it off the handhold and feels wildly insane for a moment. He waits for the direction. Buttons' birdy neck pushes upward and he goes still, locked where he is. Frenchie thinks he's dreaming. Must be. He looks in the direction of that beak point. Over his shoulder. Where their ship cuts an ephemeral trail in the sea. Where they’ve left three of their crew on the horizon.
"Oh, I can't fucking believe this." He says to himself. If cats have knives in their feet and women have crystals in their bodies and Blackbeard is an old boot you can outgrow, then Frenchie can trust the word of a friend. "Go, Frenchie!"
And he twists the wheel.