Archive of Our Own

“Faster! Faster!! We need more heat!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!”
“Well then put more effort into it!! We need more steam!”

Charles grit his teeth, grumbling, but plunged his shovel back into the coal pile a bit harder than before. Shovel after shovel, the engine was eating up fuel, the heat of the fire burning on Charles’ skin and mixing with the sweat pouring down his face. The ship was swaying and creaking, and he had to stem his feet into the ground so as to not get swept off his feet by another crash of the waves, another shock being sent through the vessel. 
He had no idea what was happening.

He knew it was bad, judging by all the yelling that was coming down from the bridge and the deck. And by the fact that his co-stoker seemed to be close to passing out from exhaustion, trying his best to keep the engine satisfied as well. And by the booming roars that were vibrating through the metal hull of their ship. And the sudden, terrified scream from a crewmember up on deck that just as suddenly got cut short, sending a chill up Charles’ spine. He buckled down and doubled his efforts to keep the furnace fed, insatiable as it was.

Another roar, another shock going through the little boat, sweeping Charles and the other stoker clean off their feet. 
“Ow! Ouch” Charles grimaced as his head hit some piping on the wall, but quickly gathered himself together to try and get up again. Clumsily he walked over to the older stoker, pulling him back on his feet as well. 
“Don’t know what those bastards are doing up there.”, came the grumbly reply as they both picked their shovels back up.
“Are we gonna be alright?” Charles asked, frowning with both his eyebrows. 
“If ya shut up and start shoveling again maybe, kid.”

Charles gave a short nod - this sort of crankiness was nothing new, especially in tense situations - and got back to work. The yelling upstairs got louder, and he felt like the seconds were dragging out into eternity as more and more waves hit the side of the boat. 

“OI do you want us to get eaten alive?! Move yer asses!”
Charles looked up to see the signaller/navigator popping her head down into the engine room. She had a bleeding cut on her forehead and looked pale, terrified out of her boots. 
“Engine’s not made for this kinda stress!” The other stoker replied harshly, not even looking up. His moustache was collecting soot and sweat.
“Well neither am I.” The Navigator bit back and disappeared again, yelling something or another into the bridge. Charles couldn’t quite make it out over the frantic pumping of the pistons and hissing of steam. His shirt was soaked in sweat, clinging to his back. 

Another shovel, another handful of coal disappearing. Then another. A roar from the outside, another chilling scream. With a dry throat, Charles stubbornly heaved yet another shovel of coal over, focusing on the task at hand. 

A shrill nearly silent hiss crept up behind him, grabbing him at his neck and running down his spine. 

He heard the other stoker yell, panicked. “Bloody hell, the pressure is-”

There was a piercing, ear-shattering BANG, followed by heat, pouring all over Charles, steam encasing him, scorching him, a sudden jolt of immense pain drowning out the disgusting hiss of broken steam pipes behind his head. 

It was hot, hot - he was melting, there were white hot coals on his back, his shoulder was being boiled, his face felt like it was held into the furnace of the engine. Everything was wiped from existence, he just felt white, searing pain run over him, consuming him.

The impact and pressure of the explosion forced him to his knees, the next big sway of the boat took the ground out from beneath him, knocking him over completely and making him slide over the grimy metal floor of the engine room. He let out a confused, pained grunt. Instinctively, Charles grabbed his injured shoulder, yelping in pain when the touch sent shocks through him. His skin was crawling, seemingly having a life of its own. He still felt the heat of steam hissing somewhere, so he blindly crawled away as best as he could. Tears were welling up in his eyes, caused by the sharp sting.

A ringing from the explosion still filled his ears, making thought impossible. He forced himself to open his eyes, even though half his face seemed to be on fire. Any movement made it worse, and the burning sensation threatened to take over his consciousness. What happened? Who was fuelling the engine right now? Where was his shovel? He attempted to move to grab it, but flinched terribly when his left shoulder moved even the slightest bit and it sent him into a fit of agony. He rolled over the floor and let out a whine, unable to pull himself together. 

“ond-.... Raymond?! Kid?” A shout got through to him, just barely registering past the ringing in his ears, the hissing steam and the noises of the sputtering engine. He tried to answer, but started coughing and hacking, as he had forgotten how to breathe. In turn he then cried out as the sudden movement and resulting pain was shooting through his chest. 

“Bloody- HELP! WE NEED HELP DOWN HERE! MAN DOWN!”  

Charles felt hurried footsteps close to his head, then someone tried to pick him up by his armpit, thankfully avoiding his injuries. 
“Hey kid, stay with me, alright? You hear me?”

Charles tried to nod his head, but it lolled around uselessly and sent another spike of pain through him, making him go rigid in shock. A breath left his lips, half sob, half gasp, sound entirely lost in his agony. A sinking feeling had gripped his innards, dazing his thoughts, and causing darkness to creep up on him. He tried to lift his arm, twitching pathetically. He felt his feet being dragged over the bumpy floor, vertigo making his stomach lurch. A voice was close to him, talking to him, then yelling to others.

“Kid, don’t close your eyes…. eye… uh…goodness me... GUYS, CAN YOU TAKE OVER THE ENGINE?!”
“AYE!”
“It’s okay kid, the others can- GAH!” 

The whole ship jerked harshly, something had rammed into it. 
Charles was ripped into another, unexpected direction, the other stoker seemingly losing grip on him. There was loud banging and clanging, and then he bashed into what he could only assume was the ground again, metal scraping against open and bleeding skin, or what was left of it. Charles crumpled to the ground again, stunned. He wanted to scream, to cry and let out this pain, but it was so much, so intense, it was burning itself into his brain and took over his consciousness. Breathing hurt, but it was the only thing he could focus on. The blistering air of the engine room was thick and heavy, and he tried to get by by taking short, shallow breaths, hissing through his teeth, hoping for the pain to subside enough to get back up.

Charles was vaguely aware the other stoker was yelling at him over the noises of the engine, which were picking up again, and distant roars, but it all blurred together in a sludge. His muscles were cramped up, and he didn’t dare to move from his spot. He made an attempt to open his eyes and look at the damage on his side, but the pain washed over him in waves, rushing down his back and throbbing at the side of his head. 

He thought he was being moved again, but couldn’t focus enough to make out the words that were being said to him. Another hand grabbing his left arm in a vice grip made him cry out again. He was further lifted off the ground, and the pain doubled, making him nauseous. He saw stars dancing in front of his eyes, swimming together. However this new torture would soon reward him with a breeze of cooler air, the noises of the engine subsiding and the smeltering furnace-like air being replaced with something darker. 

“....-getting you out of there, alright? Stay with me, Raymond. Hey, kid, you hear me?”

“Oh jeez the lad’s heavy.” A much younger, female voice was by his other side. 

“I-.... whu….agh-” Charles croaked, his head spinning. He winced as he was being maneuvered around a corner, making his clothes pull at his injuries and the grip of the two people carrying him hardened on his wrecked skin. 

“There ya go, it's fine, it’s alright.” Charles squinted up to see a quivering moustache. “OI WE NEED A MEDIC OVER HERE!”

Charles let out a weak cough after trying to pull a grimace at the loud yelling penetrating his ears. The entire world tilted heavily to one side, making all of them stumble until they had to lean against the wall for support. This time Charles was sure it wasn’t just him, and he heard the hull of the boat creaking and straining beneath them. Shouting was heard upstairs, then the ship uprighted itself again and lurched forwards. Charles heard the telltale sounds of an engine picking up steam again and going full power ahead. 

The cooling air of what he assumed to be one of the cabin hallways was soothing, and he let out a raspy sigh. He was being pulled this way and that way, orientation shifting every few seconds, footsteps and mumbling and talking happening around him without being registered by his mind. Vision was entirely unreliable, flat and blurry and dark, so he just closed his eyes. 

“Hey. Hey! No closing eyes, kid! You gotta stay awake, right?” 

Charles blinked his eyes open again and turned his head, seeing the other stoker pull a face as he saw him. 

“Bloody hell that's lookin- well, uh, don’t worry about it kid, ‘kay? Help is on the way.”

“But we don't even have a medic on board,'' Charles said. Or, well, wanted to say. His words didn’t quite come out as words. 

“Shh, shh, I can't understand a goddamn word you're saying, lad. On three? One, two-” 

Charles cried out as he was being heaved up, roughness cutting into his bad shoulder and back. They could as well have thrown him onto hot glass shards, piercing his skin and tearing through his flesh. He bit his lips so he wouldn’t scream again, missing some conversation and movement around him. Nausea and a certain faintness pulled at him - but he wasn’t being moved anymore. 

“Put him on his belly, we gotta get this off him. Get me a bucket of water.” A new voice was by his side, giving commands. Their usually calm demeanour sounded strained. 

“No…. no-...” Charles weakly muttered and then whined as he was grabbed again, several hands turning him over so that he was lying half on his side, half on his stomach. He had no say in the matter, but his battered body was surely being very vocal about not liking to be moved. He felt something wet running down his face, and buried his head into the surface below him to brace himself for whatever it was that was about to come. 

“Let's see…” 
More pain burst out from a spot on his back, near his ribs. Something pulled at his shirt, ripping it loose from his messed up skin where blood, sweat and other liquids from his seared, blistered flesh had crusted the fabric right into the injury. And judging by how much it hurt, it covered a quite large area. 

“Here’s yer water.” That was the voice of the older stoker, sounding much more concerned and much less harsh than usual. 

“Thanks. Pour a bit over this area please. Ed, go back to the engine room to help.”
“Yes, officer.” Footsteps were running off. 

The first bit of water hit Charles’s mangled hot skin, and he sighed in relief. However, it was immediately followed up by a ripping sensation as fabric was peeled off of raw skin, and Charles couldn’t help but gasp and choke at the sudden increase in pain. His hands curled into fists around the first object he found, and he grit his teeth as the methodical hands of the first officer continued their work, merciless. Something was being said to him, and he could feet a weak pat on his other shoulder, but it was of no comfort to him in the face of what felt like his skin being peeled right off. 

Piece by piece, his shirt was removed from his wounds, painfully so. Only interrupted by snipping of shears, short instructions from the first officer, and the gruff voice of the other stoker mumbling comments here and there, time seemed to stretch into eternity. 

Charles' brain was overwhelmed with sensations. The soothing cool water followed by the torturously slow removal of each piece of cloth, the swaying of the boat and his own nausea, the aching and throbbing that was by now running rampant over half his body in the affected areas - at some point during the process, Charles must have slipped into unconsciousness, because he couldn’t tell where anything started and ended anymore.

It was quiet, far quieter than it had been a second ago. Charles stirred and tried to kick his brain into working, however before it could quite get there, pain shot through his left side and he let out a haggard breath. He grit his teeth, mustered his strength and cracked his eyes open - well, tried to. 

His attempt to open his left eye was fruitless, the stretching and pulling of the skin causing far too much pain. Charles did, however, manage to open his right eye. Only to find his efforts wasted. It was pitch black.

He was laid partly on his side, heat practically emanating from him. Parts of his body seemed to be covered in something, while others were subjected to the slightest drafts of air - feeling chilling and uncomfortable on how raw his side was. Hazy, he tried to remember where he was - the engine room, the Zee monster, the pipes? He flinched as he tried to move, letting out a whine at the resulting jolt. Any skin that was being pulled taut with movement burned and stung, so he shuddered and clenched his muscles to lay still.

There he laid, taking purposeful, shallow breaths, moving as little as possible, managing to subdue the pain just enough that he could think. Until a cold chill bloomed from deep within his chest and spread out all over his body, then warmth, then cold. It spread in slow pulses. Charles could feel the sweat dripping down his face. As it crossed into a certain spot on his cheek he felt a sear in pain for a second, before being unable to feel it anymore at all. Drip, drip, drip - he counted the beads of water crossing the boundary and stinging into his flesh. 

He wanted to cry. 

Another ragged breath left his lips instead, making a pathetic sounding noise. He tried to remember what happened, but his brain was swirling and slushing into every direction and none. A foggy haze of pain was layered over his thoughts. His tongue felt pelted and furred, parched of all water. Another wave of heat turned his stomach, gave him the intense desire to get up, get out, move away from this - but he couldn’t move a muscle, it was as if his brain was blocking his attempts at movement. The mattress beneath him was damp with his sweat. He was grateful he wasn’t covered in a blanket - but the next draft of cold air made him reconsider, chilling him to his bones. 

Charles groaned in pain and sheer bleariness. Too tired to figure out what was going on, he just didn’t want to bother with being awake at all. He let his eye droop closed again. He ever so slightly shifted his head against the fabric of the bed, trying to wipe a bit of the sweat off his face. At least the right half, that wasn’t hurt. It still burnt and ground against his skin, rustling his injuries in a way that made him want to scream. He was almost panting, pulling air in through his teeth and holding still once more.

A deep exhaustion was settled in his bones. He was still thirsty, still nauseous, and the pain that was throbbing on his left side was inevitable. Resigning for a long restless night, he let out a silent, shaky breath. 

Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into hours. Feverish heat took over him, taking turns with a shivering cold that threatened to make him throw up. He was half asleep, half awake. Drenched in sweat, he was restless, shifting every so slightly but being reminded of his injuries every time. 

“Hey, hey now. Here ya go kid, drink.”

Charles was half propped up, the motion pulling at his skin as if someone had grabbed it and was ripping at it. The rim of a glass or mug was at his lips, and he greedily drank from it. He tried to grab it, but his hand missed. 

“Easy, easy…”

He wasn’t sure what he was drinking, but the liquid was more than welcome. It was cooling. The mug was all too soon empty, but thankfully it returned with more. He drank and drank, and at some point, it was empty. Gradually, he was becoming aware he was being propped up and half held by someone. Nausea was catching up with him, and he squirmed a little. It was so warm.

“Mn… more…?”
“You had enough lad, don’t want you throwing up in the officers cabin.” Charles belatedly realized this was the voice of the other stoker.

Shakily, he let out a strained breath, relieved as the grip on him mellowed and he was being laid down again. He was freezing suddenly. Shivering, he tried to grab a blanket, anything, desperate to cover his body. 
“Mh… Can I…. it’s cold…”

“Need a blanket?”

Charles nodded, not sure if the other stoker could see him. It was dark. Some rustling was being audible, then the sound of a blanket being shaken out. 

“Settle down kid. Can’t put it over your shoulder, though. Officer said it needs to be-...” 

Charles zoned out halfway through the explanation, words slurring together and losing their meaning. The blanket suddenly wasn’t important anymore, as heat welled up inside him again. It was still dark, but even so he felt extra dark spots crossing his vision, swirling his insides. His head was on a pillow. 

He was boiling, strange images following him into his dreams, pain encasing him when he was half awake. His skin felt like it had developed its own life. 

Hands were grabbing him, and he could not decipher if it was real or fake. They peeled off layers upon layers of his skin, making him cry and groan in agony. There was a soothing coldness, sometimes. Then it started again. 

He was left alone, in a broth of bad dreams and scorched skin. Then they were with him again, talking to him, lifting him and messing around on his maltreated skin. It was warm, hot, scalding, freezing, frigid, sweaty and damp. 

There was something on him, covering him. 

It was too much. He had to do something. 

Charles took a deep breath and winced as skin pulled and he felt fabric rub against his chest, far from feeling like the soft blanket it probably was. It felt like he was laying under sandpaper covered with brimstone inked sigils, tearing away his flesh. It had to go.

With the hand of his relatively uninjured right side, Charles clutched the blanket, managing to register through the pain that the blanket was drenched. Water? Sweat?

He attempted to gently pull the heavy, soggy blanket away and he couldn’t help but let out a pitiful gasp as the sandpaper texture dragged over him, time seeming to slow around him just so he could savour this hellish feeling for even longer. Endlessly slow, the weight shifted on him, coarse fabric on raw skin. 

And then with a soft *thwump*, the blanket slid to the floor. Charles let out a deep sigh of relief, then tried to stop it too late as the burns on his chest twisted and crumpled with his deflating lungs. He yelped, keeping in his next breath and laying as still as he could to wait for it to pass. Once again, tears stung in his dry eyes. As one slipped out, it left a searing path over his burnt cheek, causing Charles’ breath to hitch. 

It wasn’t particularly dark, this time, so after a minute of controlled breathing he opened his eyes. A vignette of drowsiness, of lingering faintness tainted his vision, making it hard to make out the mattress he was lying on and the pillow next to his face. Everything swirled. 

Tediously, Charles pulled himself up. He used his right, non-injured elbow to ever so slightly prop himself up, with staggeringly painful disagreements from the rest of his body. He looked down on himself, or at least the parts he could see in this position - because he was not moving any further for sure. 

The skin on the upper part of his chest looked disgusting. It was raw, open, exposing white flesh and red blood, twisting this way and that way in a manner that skin should not be twisting. It was oozing and glistening in the low light of a lantern somewhere in the room. The affected area spread over his shoulder and somewhat over his biceps, but Charles could tell his back caught the worst of the steam jet. The wounds were partially covered in gauze, some loosely tied to his body with bandages, some just sticking to the open injury by itself. He cringed. His neck hurt. His scalp burned. He gently lowered his head, so he could put his face against his right hand. There were more bandages on his face, covering his left eye. He didn’t dare to prod it further, so he carefully shuffled back into a resting position. 

Queasiness rose in him. When had he last eaten? The thought of food was revolting. What time was it? What was going on? Everything felt incredibly distant, being overruled by the various flavours of pain blooming with his every breath. 

Warped figures were meeting him, his siblings, faceless. Some of the crew, but he could only focus on their elaborate hats. Someone slapped him on the back, sharp laughter and all too loud compliments in his ears. Charles was larger than anyone around him, they only reached to his elbows. He was participating in some sort of race, a contest to see who could chop logs the fastest. The competition became nasty, sneers flying his way, him chopping his logs faster and faster, focusing, sweat drenching him, a rat ran across his feet but he could only chop, chop, he had to win this, something bad was about to happen if he didn’t keep at it - cheers from the audience turned into insults, then into murmuring. 

Charles felt watched, felt a million eyes on him. He was in a fancy restaurant, feeling uncomfortably out of place. The pressure of the whole atmosphere made him sweat more and more, he cried because he couldn’t stop it, it was so hot, so warm, people were judging him, talking about him. He tried to shout. The sound of it startled him. Was he crying? Was he saying anything? The whispers around him grew louder. 

“...looks really bad. He’s got a high fever.” A weight was on his forehead, pressing him down. It felt like his head had been caught in the heavy metal door of the engine furnace. He whined, trying to get away from it. 

“Well i’ve been putting damp towels on the kids head like you said, officer, it doesn’t seem to be doing much.”

“Probably an infection.” There was an uncharacteristic hesitation in the First Officer's voice. The weight on his forehead shifted, then disappeared. “He’s burning up.”

As if it was reacting to those words, heat welled up in Charles again. He wheezed, weakly tossing and turning in an attempt to get fabric off him, to get out of the worst of the heat. Sandpaper was grating over his skin again, he flinched. Sharp jolts of pain shuddered through him, radiating from where his back touched - well, anything. 

“Hey shhh, stop moving so much, Raymond. Here ya go.” Gruff concern and worry layered the voice of the other stoker. A cold, sweet presence appeared on his forehead again, and despite rubbing at his open wounds slightly it was welcome. He stopped trying to move as much. Ripples of pain made him groan anyways, and he gripped the bedsheets below him until his fingers hurt. 

“Officer - do you think the kid’s gonna make it?”

Short pause. “I can’t say anything for certain. He has a lot of burnt skin, and we don’t have any good means to treat it.” There was another short pause. “We should be back in port in two to three days, though.” The rest of the sentence hung unsaid in the room, missing Charles completely. He saw black and red heat, swirling into a spiral. 

“We’re gonna get you through that, kid, and then you're gonna see a proper doctor. It’s gonna be fine, ya hear me? Might leave some scars, but what's a few scars on the Zee, eh?” The damp towel was dabbed on his cheeks and returned to his forehead. It had already lost its coolness again. 

“I’m gonna change his bandages again.”

Charles whined, just about aware enough to realize what that meant. He fruitlessly tried to crawl away.

“Again? The kid deserves some rest.”

“It’s still oozing, and I don’t want anything to get more infected. This is about the only thing I can do for him right now. It’s gonna be better in the long run if we clean the wounds, even if its just with water for now.” Hands started to fuss with something in his face, giving him no warning before they peeled off the gauze over the left half of his head. 

“Can ya tell yet if his… well, if his eye can be saved?”

“I’m not sure yet, everything looks really bad right now. Remember, I’m no doctor either.”

“Yeah yeah…. Bloody hell, I just hope he can at least keep the eye. Don’t want a young lad like that running around with an eye patch, ya get me?”

Whatever response the First Officer might’ve had, it got lost as they ripped off the last bit of gauze from his face. It stuck to the scabs, and Charles cried out, trying to tear away from this. Someone was holding down his arm and shoulder. The Officer's hands moved on to his neck and collar.

The other stokers voice sounded worried, talking over Charle’s choked sobs in between soaked bandages falling to the ground. “Jeez, he’s never gonna be able to sleep like that.”

“I might be able to help with that.”

A new voice rang from somewhere else in the room, belatedly registering in Charles’ mind as if it had to travel through cotton. 

“Our dear Miss Navigator. No one to bite in the arse on the bridge today?” 

“Not if I can come to you to bite. No, I got this.”

Charles heard a soft clunk and a small gasp. The Officer shortly paused in torturing his shoulderblade, then resumed. 

“Where’d a lady like you got something like this from?” The other stoker asked, sounding bemused and curious. 

“Oh ya know, ways. You got a mug over here?”

“Theres some lukewarm tea for the lad.”

“Perfect.”

Charles zoned out over the clinking of dishes, the bantering of his crew members, the frosty chill running rampant over his body, and the cutting sharp pangs of pain as the Officer fastened new bandages over his wounds. His crying had ebbed down into occasional sobs, he simply did not have the energy for more. 

“There ya go Raymond, drink this.” Coarse hands propped him up, and much gentler hands brought a mug to his lips. Without his do, liquid started to pour from it over his lips, and he reflexively started drinking it, half-conscious. 

It was sweet, much, much sweeter than anything he had ever had. The sweetness was nearly overwhelming, but also welcoming, caressing almost. It slid down his mouth smoothly, like, well, honey. The stickiness was gentle in his hoarse throat. He couldn’t have stopped drinking it until the mug was empty, even if it hadn’t been forced into him by the others. Almost disappointed that it was gone, he sighed as he was being laid back down.

“There ya go. Good boy.” The signaller gave him a pat on the head. 

“Honey’s not gonna help him with his injuries.” The tone was harsh, but there was no true malice in it. 

“Well no, but it’s gonna help with the pain and getting some rest, yer dingus.”

“That’s still Officer to you.”

“...Officer dingus.” A sharp rustle of clothes. A mocking salute?

A chuckle, as he had heard it many times while working in the engine.

A scoff, footsteps. They faded much quicker than normal, dissolving into background noise. 

Shadows were shifting above him. 

"Well, someone seems to be off to Parabola already." 

Charles was feeling weightless, almost floating. He could still feel the sweetness of the honey on his tongue, and he tried to savour it. Instead of fading, it seemed to get stronger - but in a pleasant way. It embraced him. The searing hotness from before was simmering down, the chilling cold was mellowing out. All the pain that was crashing through his nervous system from half his skin was dulling. It turned from jolts into waves, then into an aching and nagging, then just into a dull throb. He felt his muscles relax, somewhat. 

He wasn’t in a dark, dusty cabin, he was in a sunny forest. A pleasant meadow, full of strange colors and odd light. 

He spent his time wandering around, looking at trees and unfamiliar plants. 

It was nice. 

Peaceful. 

Time seemed to flow past him, like a gentle mountain creek. It rippled and cascaded, then stretched out softly. He was reminded of his childhood, of times when he could lay back and observe the passerbys for a while without worry.

He sighed, placated.

Something seemed to pull at him, but he ignored it diligently. 

He could not tell how much time he spent wandering here, nor did it matter. He didn’t care why he was here, or where this was, whether it was real or another fever dream. 

Here, he could ignore the aches and dull sensations on him. 

Soft whispers and gentle winds were washing over him pleasantly. It was a nice summer afternoon, or any other nondescript time and date. He wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t quite matter.

He tried to ignore the voices and lights dancing over him. 

The meadow seemed foggy, less clear than before. 

Dull aching had turned into prodding and poking. He put all his focus into not focusing on it. 

When he looked back, the forest had gone, a sweet memory like a fading dream. 

How disappointing. 

Charles let out a long, long sigh. 

“...is he so out of it?”

“Honeymazed. Should come back around any time.”

An unfamiliar male voice and a familiar voice. The Navigator, again. 

“Mhm. What did you do to treat this?”

“Washed it with water several times, changed bandages every day.” The First Officer, along with the rustling of papers and scratching of a pen. 

“Not much else we coulda been doing out on Zee.” The other stoker, with a sniffle. 

Charles felt heavy. He blinked drowsily, trying to get his bearings. The telltale swaying of the waves on a ship was gone, so his own dizziness was all the more noticeable. 

His chin was suddenly tilted upwards and someone pried his right eye open, shining light into it. Charles tried to turn away his head, blinded and blinking irritated. 

“He’s been in and out of it the whole time. Fevers, too.”

A hand checked his forehead roughly, then another hum. 

“Put him down on the table. I’ll have to clean his wounds with rubbing alcohol properly, see whats going on. Then i can put on some meds and bandage him up.”

“Do you think the kid’s gonna make it, doc?” He was being heaved up and laid down on an icy cold, hard surface, drawing a pained groan from his lips. 

“Well if he made it this far… Oh jeez, he’s really looking awful.” Hands gently pried off bandages, and Charles heard air being sucked in through teeth. “Yikes.”

“Well ain’t that a pleasure to hear from a doctor.” The Navigator commented dryly. 

Charles tried to lift his head, trying to figure out what was happening. His surroundings were blurry, stark white. A man in a white coat with a properly trimmed beard and glasses was bent over him. Instinctively, Charles twitched away, attempting to get up from the table he was laid on. 

“Whoah! Hey there, Raymond.” The stoker came into view, giving him a smile that was meant to be reassuring. “You’re up.”

“Well that's a shame.”, the doctor said morbidly, swirling a bottle of brown glass in one hand and several cotton swabs in the other.

Hazy, Charles tried to worm out of it. Something in his brain short circuited, and he started to panic as the doctor approached, flailing his arms and kicking out with his legs to get off the table. Something was knocked over to the side of him. 

The Navigator ran up to him as well. “Great way to reassure your patients, doc!”

“Whoah whoah stop it, kid! I- ouch!” The other stoker got his elbow in his face, grimly pinning down his arm and chest after it. “It’s fine, Raymond! Calm down, bloody hell! This is for your own good.”

“No, no, no more...!” Charles cried out, squirming. The Navigator got his legs, using almost her whole body weight to keep him put. His skin was on fire, scraping against fabric and the table alike, being set off by his erratic, panicked movement. He didn’t care, he just wanted to get out. Adrenaline overrode his pain response, and he buckled against the hold on him. 

“Can’t ya give him anything, doc?” The Navigator asked, strained. 

“I didn’t think-... Aight, sure. That’s gonna cost extra, though.”

Displeased grumbling from the First Officer. 

Charles was in tears of pain and exhaustion when the doctor returned to him with a new bottle and a spoon. He refused whatever it was that they were trying to put into him, closing his lips and turning his head, until it got to the point where the First Officer themselves had to come up and help. Bitter, sharp alcohol poured down his throat. They fed him another two spoonfuls for good measure, then finally let go of him. 

Freed, he flopped over his arm to get up, but his muscles suddenly felt like they were made of lead. It was like moving through syrup. His thoughts were foggy and his vision hazy and dark - and just like that, he was gone. 

When Charles woke up again, he felt much much clearer. His muscles were sore, his left side throbbed and hurt, and he felt weak and frayed - but that feverish fog and half-awareness that had followed him for the past who-knows-how-long had lifted. He opened his eyes, realizing he was sporting a hefty headache along his other ailments. 

“Ugh… hbuh?” Upon his vague mumbling, several heads turned to face him. 

Right next to him was the other stoker, bags under his eyes, hat in his lap, and moustache frazzled. The Navigator was sitting at the side of the bed, and next to her Ed the Gunner. She waved at him. The First Officer was sitting properly in a chair to his left, looking up from a newspaper. They inclined their head. 

“Good to see you up.”

“Raymond! Kid, you're awake! Bloody bastard, how are ye?”

“Uhh, well. Been better. Not gonna lie.” Charles mumbled, lifting his arms and looking down on himself. 

Thick, but clean bandages were covering him all over. They firmly embraced his left biceps and shoulder, severely impairing his movement. Bandages spread over his chest, and he lifted his other hand to gingerly feel around his neck and finally, face. More bandages wrapped around his head, covering the left side completely. His eye was patched up, and he could just barely see out the other eye from below all the fabric. The wrapping felt firm and tight. Dull aching laid beneath it. It hurt, badly, but it was less… sharp compared to before. It wasn’t as all-consuming anymore. 

He took a brief look around - this was obviously a hospital wing, several other beds lining the walls. Most of them had patients in them, some had family or friends sitting around them, some were walled off with a curtain. 

“So, are ye still about to kick it?” The other stoker asked. 

“Sorry?”

“You gonna die?”

“Well, uh. I hope not.”

“The doc said if the fever lifted you’d probably survive, so. You still feeling feverish, kid?”

“Uhm, no? I don't think so. Maybe. I’m not sure. I’m not a doctor.” Charles stammered. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to this.

“Jeez dude, don’t ask the lad if he’s gonna die! First thing he wakes up to and then this.” The Navigator stemmed her hands into her hips, glaring at the stoker. A little gentler, she turned to Charles. “I’m glad to see you back together, Raymond. Was looking pretty grim back there.”

Charles looked up to her, then to the other stoker, then to the First Officer, who was looking impartial as per usual. He grimaced a little as his skin stretched when he raised an arm to pluck at a bandage over his nose. “What… exactly happened?” He asked into the room.

The other stoker cleared his throat, scratching the scalp under his hat. “Well we brought ye to the doc, and he did his thing. Wasn’t great. You gave me a good knock over the chin, lad. Doc had to give you some drugs, eventually, so you’d stop shoutin’.” He looked uncomfortable upon the re-telling of the events. 

“Charged us extra as well.” The First Officer added slightly judgemental, earning two even more judgmental glares from both of the girls.

The other stoker clapped his hands, taking on a slightly off smile. “Doc said you’d prolly be fine if you woke up from it, so. Well. There we are. Glad ya made it through it - was really worried for you, kid.”

“Ah…” Charles let his head sink down. He was, of course, still confused. His whole body was sore and aching, and he blinked slowly, trying to catch up. Several moments passed, with everyone still looking at him expectantly. “I-... well. 'Preciate it, but I meant, uh. Before that. I’m not… I don’t quite remember what happened.”

The Stoker and the Navigator shared a look. 

“What do you remember?” Ed the Gunner asked. “The whole thing happened when we were running from a giant crab.”

“Crab?”

“Yep. Nasty thing. Would’ve loved to blow it up some more but then the whole mess started happening in the engine room.”

Realization sank into Charles, and he bristled. A Zee monster attack, right. “Did we lose anyone?” He asked, fearful.

“...It got one of the Gunners, Heinrich.” Ed said with an appropriate amount of forlornness.

Charles looked over to the other stoker. 
“The short one with the bald spot.” The stoker explained, voice kept low.

The small group fell into a befitting few seconds of silence.

“And the Harpooneer broke an arm, but thankfully no worse than that. And, well, you.” Ed then continued, crossing her arms uncomfortably.

“Me.” Charles repeated blankly. Once again, the others exchanged glances. 

“Do you remember what happened down in the engine room, lad?” The other stoker asked sympathetically. 

“Umm the um. Steam.” Memories slotted back into place, steam hissing violently and skin being boiled. Charles cringed. “I think there was an explosion, with the steam pipes. The engine pressure?”

The other stoker just nodded. “Got heated up. The pipe that broke was directly behind you, got you quite badly. We brought you to the Officers cabin.” He jerked a thumb towards said Officer, who was observing Charles with an unreadable expression. This was pretty normal behaviour for them.

“What about that crab?”, Charles asked instead.

“Managed to get away from it by pulling an U-Turn.” The Navigator explained. “It gave up after a while, luckily.”

Charles let out a breath. “Whew, that’s a relief.”

The other stoker inclined his head. “How can you be surp-...? Kid, it’s been one week since that happened.”

“It’s been what?”

“We’re back in London.”

“We’re where?”

“Raymond, serious question, how long do you think you’ve been out of commission?” The Navigator asked, leaning closer. 

Charles was a little taken aback. “I. Well, maybe a night and a day? I remember sleeping pretty horridly and… oh, and there was also a time... or two when… well… Someone taking my skin off…” He trailed off, knowing he was wrong.

"You are wrong!" The First Officer confirmed, folding down their newspaper. "It has been several days. The first night after the incident, you already developed a strong fever."

Charles remembered the heat, the damp sweatiness and hazy thoughts and dreams. And the pain. Quite a lot of it. He felt his skin crawl. 
"I remember that it hurt. Lots. Still does, i think." He said softly, pulling up his shoulders. Currently, the pain was a bit dampened. Was it the secure wrapping of bandages around it? Had they put anything on them? Other medications? Either way, he wasn't complaining. 

"It's, uh. It got you over a good portion of your back, kid. And around the front a little. Up your neck, and, well, your face." The other stoker seemed sheepish. 

Absentmindedly, Charles touched the wrappings around his head, the light pressure directly translating into a jab of pain. It sure did get a good portion of his face - and the whole side of his head, it seemed. He was gingerly patting around the bandages, trying to figure out exactly how far the injuries went.

The other stoker sighed. “Well kid, there’s no talking around it - yer face is pretty scuffed. It’s, uh. It’s not looking pretty.”

Charles looked at him blankly. “...what do you mean?”

“Well you got boiled all over your face, right? Even once it heals, it’s gonna leave some scars.”

“...that’s all? Surely it can’t be that bad.”

The other stoker took a deep breath and pulled a grimace, sharing a look with the Navigator who had a similarly sheepish face. 

“Ehhh you’d be surprised...” The Navigator got an elbow jab into the ribs. “I mean. There’s not much sweet-talking it. Steam got you good over your head.”

“But! The Doctor said your eye is perfectly fine, so you don’t gotta worry about that!” The other stoker said, painfully optimistic.

“Not your eyebrow, though.” Ed added. 

“What about my eyebrows?”

“Well, you still have one.” 

Against his best conscience, Charles snorted at the comment. The others shared a look, a slight smile lifting their faces. 
“I think I’ll make it even without an eyebrow.”

“And some hair?” The other stoker didn’t seem convinced.

“Such a shame for such a young face to get that messed up…” The Navigator said, looking awfully sorry.

Charles sat up a bit straighter, despite the pulling and tearing it caused. After a short grimace, he lightly plucked at his bandages again, half wishing to see his face, half being glad he didn’t have to. He thought about it for a moment, then looked up to the others again. 
“Well, if it’s just scars, I’ll be fine. Lots of peeps have scars out on the Zee, right?”

The other stoker scratched his moustache, then slapped his thigh. “Well I’ll be darned, can’t argue with that!”

“I’m sure the Doctor will make sure it’s as well cared for as possible. Who knows, it might even heal better than we think!” Ed tried to cheer Charles up. The Navigator nodded. 

The First Officer gave them a glance. “I am not giving that guy any more money than we already have.”

The other stokers moustache bristled. “Well excuse me, Officer! If the doc needs more money to take care of Raymon we will give it to him. Pull it from my pay, if you have to.”

“What? No!” Charles threw in. “If anything, I should pay!”

“Raymond, you're not gonna be able to work for a while.” The First Officer said bluntly.

Charles looked at them, a shock of realization running through him. His aching arms sank down, and his exhausted body seemed to slump together. Sure he needed some time to heal, but then? Would the crew still want to take him with them? Wouldn’t he get back to full strength? Wouldn’t he be able to work again? To go out onto the Zee again, see new regions and islands and adventures? See more of what was out there? 

He suddenly got hit with a sense of sadness, a yearning. With big eyes, he turned towards the other stoker, folding his hands in his lap again. 
“Am I still allowed to go back out to Zee with you guys?” He asked, earnestly and concerned.

He felt the eyes of the other crew members on him for a good few seconds, then the other stoker burst into a bellowing laughter, to the point where it earned him mildly offended glances from the other hospital visitors. The Navigator and Ed were giggling, even though Ed was trying her best to look at Charles empathetically and give him an apologizing smile. She burst into another fit of snickers. 

A little confused and clueless, Charles turned towards the First Officer for help. They had their face hidden behind their newspaper again. 

“Did… Did I say something wrong?”

“No, honey,” The Navigator wheezed out between laughs. She patted his knee, trying to keep in her grin. “You didn’t-... You said nothing wrong, lad.”

“You can come back aboard to work once you are sufficiently healed.” The First Officers voice piped up behind the newspaper. They sounded a lot more choked than usual. 

Charles lit up again upon hearing those words. He had gotten really concerned for a minute, what if he was a liability and they didn’t want him back after all this? But if the First Officer said so, then it should be okay. He turned back to the other stoker, giving him a grin. Only a small one, though, as his face strained at the movement. 

“Kid, you’re a delight.” The other stoker simply said, taking deep breaths after his laughter had turned into a brief coughing fit. 

Charles grinned back at him, knowing there’d be more at the end of whatever pain he was in right now.