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There’s a cat on the ship. Frenchie swears he’s seen it.
-
“There’s a cat on the ship,” he tells Lucius when he sneaks him his dinner.
Weeks with no sunlight or fresh air and only what little food and drink Frenchie and Jim can smuggle to him have rendered the young man too pale and too scrawny, but the expressiveness of his eyeroll remains the same. “Oh, god. You smelled it too? I swear it claimed the entire alcove behind the ball room as its personal toilet, I can’t even walk past it anymore,” he complains between frantic bites of food.
Frenchie stares. “Wait, it’s in the passageways with you?? Holy fuck, mate, aren’t you scared?”
Lucius pauses eating – a momentous occurrence – just long enough to give him a Look. “No. No, I’m not scared of a cat. Because it’s a fucking cat.”
-
It had to have gotten on at the last port. Frenchie knew they should have left then, should have snuck off the ship in the middle of the night, but Jim had said no and damn him, he’d listened. It was too small a town, they’d said. Too easy for Blackbeard to track them down if he wanted to, and no guarantee of pursuing any of the various “what next?” scenarios they’d been tossing back and forth. So they’d waited, and where are they now? Stuck on a ship being stalked by a cat, that’s where!
-
“Por el amor de Dios, Frenchie, cats aren’t bad luck! We had a cat when I was a kid. It’s just an animal.”
He consider this. “Okay, but didn’t, like, your whole family get murdered?”
Jim’s glare says that this was, perhaps, the wrong argument to make. “Okay, one, not because of the cat, and two, thanks a bunch for bringing up my fucking childhood trauma at the fucking dinner table, Jesus Christ!”
Frenchie is quiet for a moment, chastened. It doesn’t last. “Okay, but they are bad luck though! Especially on a ship, cuz they can summon storms! With their tails!”
They stare. Sigh. “Frenchie… look. If anything, a cat on a ship is good luck, because they hunt the rats.”
This, at least, is surprising enough to distract him from the topic at hand. “Wait, what? We don’t have rats on this ship!”
“Yeah, we do. All ships do. You never noticed ‘em before cuz me an' Roach used to keep the population down. We’d take turns throwing knives at the little fuckers.”
Frenchie nods; that tracks, actually. “And now…?”
“And now it’s a good thing we have a cat, because Roach isn’t here and I don’t do that anymore, because fuck Blackbeard.”
Their face has gone hard, the way that means it’s time to leave them alone because they’re thinking about Olu. Frenchie can only agree. Fuck Blackbeard, indeed.
-
It’s not a pure black cat, at least. So there’s that. It’s almost as bad, though, a mottled combination of black and brown and tan, its fur just long and messy enough to break up its silhouette. Perfect for hiding, for blending in. Perfect for sneaking up on someone.
It sits in the shadows sometimes and waits, and he’ll make it almost all the way past it, not even knowing it’s there, before he spots those shining eyes looking at him. Fucking diabolical.
He’s pretty sure it can teleport, too. Or maybe step through shadows? Because he’ll see it out of the corner of his eyes and when he turns there’s nothing there, or he’ll hear a noise behind him and turn and find nothing, but when he turns back it’s just in time to see a fluffy tail disappear around a corner.
Izzy cursed him out the night before for being “so damnably jumpy,” but he can’t help it. He can’t let his guard down. It could be anywhere.
-
Fang’s face transforms into an expression of almost perfect joy. “AwwwwwWWWWW!!”
“No! Not ‘aww!’ This is a vicious beast-"
“Of course, I’m more of a dog person,” Fang interrupts, still with that wide delighted grin. “But they’re so adorable, aren’t they? With their fluffy bellies?”
Frenchie feels like he’s going insane. “The bellies are a trap! They lure you in and then gouge out your eyeballs! Half the ship's gonna be walking around blind soon, you’ll see!”
“Yeah, but you gotta be careful, mate,” Ivan warns, looking more serious. Good. That’s more like it. “If the captain sees it, he’s gonna want to get rid of it.”
“Oh yeah,” Fang replies, suddenly crestfallen. “No pets allowed.” Are they somehow under the impression that he wants the damned thing to stay? Are they even listening? “But buck up! Cats are real good at staying out of sight, it’ll probably be fine.”
Frenchie leaves. They are clearly not taking this threat seriously.
For a minute he actually considers telling Blackbeard and letting him take care of it, but that would require talking to Blackbeard.
Roach would have listened. Wee John would have sympathized. But they’re not here, are they? Yeah, no, fuck Blackbeard.
-
With Roach gone, they all take turns in the mess. None of them can cook worth a damn, but at least this way it’s not just one person getting the blame when the food is shit. So Frenchie is alone, trying to figure out how to turn unappetizing rations into something someone might actually want to eat, when the cat confronts him.
It appears (out of nowhere, his mind shrieks, it appeared out of fucking nowhere) in the middle of the galley, sitting and staring at him with a baleful glare. He freezes. Holds his breath. The cat continues staring.
Is it casting a spell on him? Cursing him? Oh fuck, is it that making eye contact with a cat would let it steal your soul, or is it that if you look away first it’ll take advantage and attack? He swears he’s heard both and he can’t remember which one is true, and the difference seems pretty important right now.
Maybe there’s something he can do to appease it. To make it go away. An offering? Slowly, hardly daring to move, his hand inches towards the food. “Hey, kitty,” he whispers. Oh fuck, was that too informal? Do cats get offended? “Sorry, I mean – hello, Mister Cat. Or Missus Cat? Or… look, d'you like salt pork?” He holds up a piece hopefully. “Yeah? I’ll give you some salt pork if you’ll just please, please go away and not hurt me?”
He waits for any sign that the creature is willing to take the deal, but it just keeps watching him silently. Okay. Act of trust, then. Swallowing hard, he tosses the meat towards the beast.
For just a moment, it doesn’t react. Then, much more slowly than his rapidly-hammering heart would like, the cat inspects the offering, picks it up gingerly with its fangs… and finally, finally trots off.
Frenchie slumps with relief. He’ll live another day.
-
He’s almost asleep when some sixth sense sends a shiver up his spine, insists he open his eyes now. Just in time – the demon is there, it’s right there, eyes glowing in the moonlight, next to him. He stifles a scream. It’s almost invisible in the night, except he can make out the shape of it where it blocks out the stars.
Jesus, it’s so close. He can see it considering, deciding whether to slit his throat first or eat him alive. He trembles, wondering whether it’s even worth the effort to fight back. The beast lowers its head – he can feel its hot breath against his hand – and then – oh horrors! – and then-
-
Jim laughs, in that awkward lilting way they have. “He likes you!”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me correctly!” he hisses back. “Jim! It was licking my hand! Tasting me! Deciding whether or not to eat me!!”
They were sitting on the top deck, all three of them. It was a risk, bringing Lucius out in the open, but not much of one; in the middle of the night it was hard to make out facial features, and anyway Jim had the watch for the next hour, so no one else would be stirring. And next on watch was Fang, who probably wouldn’t rat Lucius out even if he woke up early and caught them. All in all, Lucius had agreed it was well worth the risk. Another night in those secret passages, he’d said, and he’d have gone stir crazy and started knocking holes in the walls just to have something to do.
Besides, Buttons always claimed moonlight was good for body and soul. Lucius, his face tilted up as if to drink in the night sky and sea breeze, seems to agree.
Meanwhile, Jim is still laughing. “Frenchie, that’s just what cats do! It’s a way they show affection! It doesn’t mean he wants to eat you, and even if he did, you’re a lot bigger than a cat, you could take him in a fight.”
“You don’t understand!” The exclamation bursts out of him; at his friends' frantic shushing he lowers his voice, but the anguish remains. “You’re all acting like I’m being ridiculous, but you weren’t there! I’m telling you, that cat has it in for me! It’s working some sort of sorcery, I know it, it’s got some sort of evil scheme, and I can’t take this anymore, lads!” His voice, he’s not ashamed to admit, cracks a little towards the end. “I’m at my wit's end! It’s going to do something horrible to me, and nobody even cares!”
Lucius sighs. Sitting up, he takes both of Frenchie’s hands in his. “Frenchie, look. It’s not that we don’t care, okay? Of course we care. We’re all we’ve got left, we don’t want you to get hurt. And obviously you’re scared, and we shouldn’t laugh at that.” He nudges Jim none-too-gently with his foot; Jim obediently tries to wipe the smirk off their face.
Lucius clears his throat. “But here’s the thing. Maybe… some cats are witches,” he says, although something in his tone says that even this small concession pains him. “And they do black magic and evil plots or whatever. But most cats are just… cats. They’re small and they’re furry and they hunt mice and knock things over. If they like you they curl up in your lap and if they don’t like you they piss on your books while you sleep, which, yes, is pretty evil, but not like. EVIL-evil, you know?” He tilts his head, an expression both sympathetic and condescending; Frenchie has seen him give the same look to the captain when trying to talk him through a bad spot. “And from everything you’re saying, it really does sound like this is just… a cat. Sorry. It watched you because you were working with food, it likes you because you gave it food, and it probably licked your hand because your fingers still tasted like food.”
“That’s what I’ve been tryna tell you,” Jim chimes in. “I grew up with a cat. Everything you’re talking about really is just normal cat behavior. Sorry for saying it in a shitty way, but it’s still true.”
Frenchie's hands are shaking. “Really? All of it? None of that strikes you as sinister or creepy at all?”
Lucius looks like he’s choosing his words very carefully. “Is it… possible… that you being afraid of cats made it seem scarier than it really was? And that’s why it seems creepy to you?”
He draws a deep, shaky breath. Another. Tries to calm his heart, still beating fast with residual panic. “…Yeah, mate. Yeah. Okay. That… that makes sense.” He tries a smile. “I guess I overreacted.”
“Oh, thank god.” Dropping his hands, Lucius flops back dramatically and turns his face to the moon again. “Frenchie, don’t take this the wrong way, you know I adore you, but you were about to drive me around the bend with this cat obsession of yours.”
“Ass.” Chuckling, Frenchie pretends to punch him in the shoulder, his fist barely grazing the rawboned flesh. “Fine. If my cat stories are so boring, what’ve you been up to lately? I’m sure your life in the walls is just fucking fascinating.”
It’s fine. It’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about; never was. He was just overreacting, he’s calmed down now, and everything will be fine.
-
He was not overreacting, he’s not calm, and everything is decidedly not fine.
Because the cat is back, and it is on his chest.
This is how I die, he thinks, his mind a terrified flutter of reactions. It’s true, it’s all true, it’s going to steal my breath and this is how I’m going to die.
He won’t even get the satisfaction of telling his friends I told you so.
The monster had pounced on him while he was sleeping, forcing the air from his lungs and waking him in a panic. Then it had walked on him for a while, each step so heavy it seemed about to punch holes in him, razor-sharp talons pricking his flesh in warning, ready to pierce his heart if he dared move.
Then it had settled down, laying atop his chest with its face too close to his, breathing on him, staring at him. A perfect position to steal his breath and soul, to suffocate him to death.
Then it started to growl.
He’d nearly passed out when it happened, sure the attack was about to come any moment. But no – it’s still growling, low and steady and rhythmic, but no attack seems to be forthcoming.
It’s a weird sounding growl, honestly. A low rumbling that resonates through the cat and him both. Oddly soothing, actually. The rhythm of it, the steady rise and fall, reminds him of Wee John’s snoring.
God, he misses him. Misses all of them, really. He misses talking to Wee John, misses the shenanigans he’d get up to with Roach and Oluwande. He misses Pete's blustery boasts and the Swede's earnest misunderstandings and Buttons' whole… Buttons-ness. He misses the captain. Lucius is living in the walls and Jim barely talks and Fang and Ivan are great but they’re not the same, and he’s scared and sad and angry all the time and he’s just so fucking lonely.
And this cat keeps making that weird vibrating growl as he lets himself miss them, as he lets himself feel the things he’s been hiding from, as he lets himself be comforted by the sound that lets him pretend his friend is sleeping there across the way from him, and too late he realizes the cat has mind magic, it’s lulling him back to sleep, and he should care but it’s working too well already. He’s falling back asleep, and it promises to be a good sleep, too, deep and dreamless. If the cat kills him as soon as he’s vulnerable, at least he’ll have that first.
-
In the morning the cat is still there. He opens his eyes to find round green ones looking back at him. Slowly, deliberately, they blink once. Then the cat surges forward, knocking its head against his chin. It’s a clumsy gesture, but something in it makes him think of his own playful punch at Lucius's shoulder.
He feels incredible. Best night of sleep he’s had since… well, since Ed left and Blackbeard returned.
The cat might still be a witch. But a witch that can make him feel that safe, that not-alone, can’t be all bad.
“Come on, Mister Cat,” he says softly, using his hands to ease the furry body down as he sits up. It’s softer than he’d imagined. “Sun's up and Blackbeard’s up and about. You’d better hide before he spots you.”
He’s not entirely sure the cat understands, but once he’s standing it rubs its whole body against his legs once before sauntering off and blending once more into shadow.
He thinks he’ll call it Big John.