Work Text:
OCEAN'S 40 (ORANGE GLAZE)
SCENE 1 - THE PARTY
Strange couple months on board the Revenge. Frenchie wouldn't much say he minded it, not any longer at least. Time for mutiny's long since passed. Oluwande was right, after all: the salary was proper cushty, and they didn't have to do that much work, and Captain might be a bit daft but truthfully so are the rest of them. Didn't need one, in the end, and a mutiny probably would have went more like Wee John picking Captain up and shutting him in a cupboard 'til they made port rather than the traditional sense.
Frenchie would be annoyed at Buttons for telling on them, but Buttons swears allegiance to a power higher than any ship and a mutiny would've interfered with his whole prerogative, so he understands.
Buttons is weird but Frenchie's mostly used to him by now, same way he's mostly used to everyone else as well. He'd known, of course, that the majority of being a pirate was working and talking and living on a ship with a lot of other people who'd all come into piracy through similarly obscure and contrived serieses of events as you. This Captain's style of management might have been a little different to what any of them had envisioned, but the things that had to get done to keep a boat ship-shape was largely the same on the Revenge as on any other vessel.
Couple more things to get used to came along afterwards: Hostage, that was well exciting. He'd never been on a ship that had a hostage before. Frenchie'd wave at the Englishman whenever he passed where he was tied to the mizzen mast, and then snicker gleefully at the little bewildered look on his face as he waved back. Jim's not a man and they're also not a woman now, but more importantly to Frenchie they're even more frightening since gaining the ability to speak. Pete and Lucius have a thing going on. Met the Navy. Got invaded. Took up sewing. Invasion is the big one, probably. He got to meet Blackbeard, which was a bit scary because he's Blackbeard but also cool, well, 'cause he's Blackbeard, and yeah he's kind of crashing on their ship but only they know where Captain put the toilets ('snot up at the head like normal. Man doesn't believe in open-air defecation. Frenchie'd learnt that one quickly).
So Blackbeard is calm, apparently. The same cannot be said for the rest of his crew. Most of 'em, sure; Fang and Ivan had stopped feeling like their captors almost as soon as they'd been captured. But, as for one spunk-sock of a First Mate...
Hold that thought: Roach slinks out from the galley holding a cake because today's the day they celebrate this month's birthdays (it's April, so just the Swede) and despite being largely hardtack it manages to look absolutely delicious. It's three fat balls of pound sponge-- with spiced brandy and currents and nutmeg Frenchie had nicked from that party boat especially for Roach-- stacked precariously on top of one another and slathered with thick, loadbearing icing and a sticky orange glaze drizzled over it all.
The rest of the crew crowds around-- summoned to the Lower Deck like cats to a tin-- to ogle and drool the moment it's even within the vicinity of the table. Including Frenchie, even though he's already seen it, because he's probably the least immune to the tantalising wobble of the jellied oranges plumped on top of them all.
"Ooo, tack, tack," The Swede lilts, waiting with his hands up politely against his chest where he sits between Oluwande and Pete. There's a tittering, ticklish little smile on her face that flickers around the table, then lands on Roach specifically. Roach returns it-- proud-- as he sets the cake down, then straightens back up with a flourish.
Frenchie grins too, because he can't help but beam back whenever someone smiles around him. The Swede'll get the first slice because it's his birthday, but Roach is going to be the one to cut the cake because he made it-- he unhooks the cleaver from his belt now. Frenchie might get second because he helped, but then again he might not since he did almost break the stove in the process and Roach did chase him all the way out onto the main deck.
He's not too fussed either way-- happy to let it come whenever it comes-- because he knows that everyone is gonna get a slice eventually.
The Swede is handed her piece and for a short moment it seems like everything is going to go swimmingly. Then, like the avatar of sod on earth, First Mate Hands stalks into the mess and snatches it from her plate. The Swede is devastated. A chorus of boos comes up from everyone else.
"What," shouts Hands through the ruckus, punctuating his phrase with angry jabs of the cake in hand, "the fuck is this?"
"It's cake!" Wee John yells as he settles back down beside Frenchie from where he'd been roused to stand. He indicates the slice in open-palmed disbelief. "You honestly never seen cake before?"
"Bloody wasteful is what it is," snorts Hands in response, holding the sweet up for inspection like it's personally offensive to him. He squeezes it and two fat currents fall to the floor. The Swede gives a choked-out gasp-- allayed by Roach's hand on a shoulder though, in the other, Roach tightens his grip on his cleaver. Izzy sneers, angling at them all. "Christ, you've not known hardship under Captain Bonnet, have you?"
"It's the Swede's birthday," Oluwande explains. He has to bend around to appeal to Izzy from where he's sitting, and when he does he's confronted with the full force of Hands' pissiest glare. Oluwande turns back immediately, one hand reaching toward Jim across the table for support. "It, it's good for morale," he ventures, trailing off with a wince.
Hands looks like he's struck Bonnet Bullshit Gold and almost can't believe it. He bends down toward the Swede with mocking, wide-eyed commendation. "Oh, congratu-fucking-lations," he spits, and she shrinks into Pete at her back. Pete brings his arm up around her protectively. "And we're all just s'posed to empty our coiffers any time one of you brings up the fuckin' accomplishment of being born, are we?"
"Well, no," elaborates Oluwande, because if he doesn't keep a handle on things there's a high likelihood that Roach will initiate his method of diplomacy. He might anyway, the white knuckled seizure of his blade being any sign of the way things are going. "We put all the birthdays in each month together, then celebrate them all on the same day. Which is today."
Hands opens his mouth to retort, and anyone could guess that whatever it would have ended up being would be equally as offensive as anything else that's ever come out of his mouth. Oluwande seems to be aware that there's no way that 'Actually, we only do it twelve times a year' would have ever satisfied the man, and mentally braces himself for the inevitable lashing. Jim seems to know this too, if the way they palm a knife at the curl of Izzy's lip is any indication.
Jim and Izzy will both have to wait, however, because Frenchie has just had A Thought.
"What month's your birthday, Izzy?" Frenchie chimes in, because he doesn't actually know and he reckons it's only polite to ask. Oluwande cracks open an eye and everyone (including Hands, defied) whips their necks around to look at him, then quickly back to Hands for his no-doubt explosive reaction. In one moment he could hear the squelch of frosting hit the floor beneath where Izzy'd crushed the cake in a grip turned vice. But the next was cacophony, everyone else howling their own echoes of the question. Hands went stock-still, unable to contend with such a turn.
"Yeah, when's your birthday, Izzy? It's not April, is it?" says Pete, his becoming the main voice as the others' all died down. He peers over the straw-blonde of Swede where she's buried her head into his shoulder (Lucius has sauntered over to offer further comfort, petting her hair and muttering something about a 'Horrible, horrible man'). Pete continues, "If this is about you feeling left out there's more than enough for everyone."
Izzy remains stunned for a beat before twitching his way out of it, nostrils flared. He leans across and yanks the tray into the centre of the table, then deposits what remains of the thieved and desecrated slice atop the rest of the unmarred cake. Now Roach looks positively murderous, and Frenchie is certain he'd have Hands' head if not for Oluwande's arm stopping his approach, braced against his middle. "It's about," he spits, "the utter, contemptible opulence so nauseatingly on display in every wretched inch of this piss-poor excuse for a vessel."
"You'd know all about nausea, wouldn't you?" snaps Lucius instantly, glaring up from where he's now fully extracted the Swede from Pete to swaddle her in his arms. It's a very funny quip and everyone laughs. Except for Izzy, of course, who simply scoops up the tray and the whole cake with it, then turns on his heel to leave like the ornery old bastard he is.
It's met with a collective 'Hey!' Roach leaps from his seat to strike, but is prevented from coming any closer by Izzy's quick maneuvering of the cake over to an open porthole. OK, shit, he's a speedy little guy when he wants to be. Frenchie blinks and almost misses it.
But Jim's up, poised with dagger in hand in less than an instant. Pete, a bit slower, half-stands and weasels his way in front of Lucius and the Swede. Frenchie nearly tumbles backwards off the bench but is caught by Wee John, who hefts him back upright with one strong arm (this is why being in room people with Wee John is the best). Oluwande, ever the only one capable of Not Escalating Things, staggers up from his seat and eases a hand onto Roach's knife wrist to tug him gently backwards. "C'mon man," he says, placatively, and Frenchie isn't sure which one of them he's addressing until he continues. "It's already been made, can't you just leave it?"
"I worked hard on that," Roach adds, hissing his wrist free to wag the cleaver underhanded at Izzy. Unblinking, Izzy's free hand comes to rest on the grip of the flintlock at his hip, draws it out slightly.
"Sit down," orders Hands, gesturing with his hip, and to the credit of Roach's self-preservation he does (if while grumbling the entire time). Oluwande follows, though Roach took his spot so he perches on the very end of the seat instead, and rubs the length of his back in consolation. Then the Swede opens an arm and Roach collapses into the huddle with a thousand-yard stare.
"Can't exactly let this kind of behaviour go rewarded, can I?" Izzy goes on snidely, leering down at the crew over the bridge of his nose. His hostage teeters something awful when he jerks the plate to illustrate the 'this', but thankfully doesn't spill over. After a moment, he's off, boot heels clicking hollow as he crows back over his shoulder, "Bit of actual discipline wouldn't be remiss with you lot from time to time!"
Lucius scoffs, and shouts after him, "Well, what are we supposed to eat?"
"Not my problem!" comes the reply, quickly shrinking into the distance.
Everyone turns to Jim.
"On it." They nod very seriously, then leap over the table after Izzy. They flatten against the doorframe, peer round the bend, then dart down the hallway in a crouch as soon as he's out of sight. Frenchie watches, entranced by their liquid stealth, until the moment they're gone, then directs his attention back to the rest of the crew. Oluwande, in Jim's brief absence, has already been consumed by the group hug.
The Swede sighs with just a hint of whine. "Awh, I was looking forward to that..." she commisserates, but is soon cut off by Lucius.
"What a dick!" he exclaims, now furiously plaiting the Swede's hair. A murmur of agreement goes round the table. The Swede's lip quivers as though reminded, and on that (or perhaps at the volume of Lucius' sudden outcry, or his braiding skills) he bursts into tears. Lucius brings his head back against his chest, smoothing his hair instead.
Frenchie leans over to offer a comforting hand, though he can't quite reach and almost slips between the table and the bench. He catches himself in what he considers to be an extremely smooth recovery and leans heavily on one cool elbow like that's what he meant to do all along. "It's alright, babes. We'll get you another one."
Roach hacks his cleaver into the table. Frenchie, though Roach probably wasn't aiming at him specifically, jumps back upright straight away. "We're out of oranges," the chef mutters, then flags back into the Swede's arms.
There's a moment of silence, disappointment heavy in the air. With all the excitement promised by the evening, none of them have the slightest idea what to do now.
"Maybe Izzy had a point," Oluwande tries, feeling the discomforted vibes intensely. Everyone glares at him. He puts up his hands in surrender as they expell him from the group hug. "Look, I'm not saying he's not a massive dick. But we do keep running out of oranges." This point is ignored.
"It's okej," the Swede reassures Roach, tenderly patting him on the shoulder in place of acknowledging the traitorous Oluwande. "I appreciate the effort. I'm mostly upset because he's really, really mean."
Roach nods, covering the Swede's hand absently with his own, and that's the extent of that line of conversation. The pileup across from Frenchie shows no sign of ending any time soon, and in fact Wee John begins trying to start up a rival group hug on their side of the table (the side consisting solely of himself and Frenchie). Frenchie takes to it at once, having always been fond of physical affection from his friends. A couple of moments later, Oluwande shuffles over and puts his arms around Wee John as well. He rests his cheek on top of Wee John's head and shoots his former hugmates a dirty look.
After an uninterrupted thirty seconds of this: "We could... steal it back?" Pete offers, with a shrug and a raised-brow tilt of his head.
Frenchie shakes a finger in agreement, careening forwards such that John has to stop him from toppling over once again. "Now there's an idea."
But Oluwande pulls back a bit, and his mouth twists into a frown. "I don't know. Won't that just make him worse?"
"Well we can't just let that kind of behaviour go rewarded," replies Lucius in a voice so hoarse that Frenchie can only assume it's meant to be an impression of Izzy. It's about as good as his Wooden Boy voice, but also it sends him into a coughing fit. Lucius soldiers through regardless. "Can -cough- we? He's probably off somewhere! -cough- Right now, stuffing -cough cough- his face! -cough- Jesus!"
Pete rubs his back, and plants a kiss on the top of his head. Lucius leans back and continues coughing into the crook of his neck. "So, a heist?" Pete proposes, eyebrows up as he points around at everyone.
"Heist?" parrots Jim, having suddenly reappeared next to Oluwande. The Swede yelps. Lucius' coughing becomes choking. Roach leaps for his cleaver. Oluwande startles too, but not nearly as dramatically. Frenchie almost falls off the bench again but nobody notices because all eyes are now on Jim.
"Where did you come from?" Oluwande interrogates in a hush.
Jim gives him a Look, then turns to address the rest of them. "Someone said heist?"
"Yeah," replies Pete slyly, grinning the same way he does whenever he's about to recount some obviously made-up tale. He leans in close around the table, which causes everyone else on his side to also lean in because he's got an arm around all their backs, and continues in a lower tone of voice. It'd be the perfect time for a cutaway, but this is real life and nobody's cutting away.
Oluwande opens an arm for Jim to tuck themselves into the embrace. Jim gives him another Look, then instead drags a crate over to sit at the head of the table. They stab their knife next to Roach's cleaver (Frenchie wishes he has something to stab as well, and wonders if he could split the table with the axe-edge of his lute. He totally could if he went along the grain). Oluwande lets go of John, shaking his hands. John and Frenchie shuffle down to make room for Oluwande to sit nearest to Jim on the bench. "Yeah, group hugs. Pssht, stupid am I right?" he mumbles, trying so hard to seem cool. Jim takes one of his hands in their own, thumbing over his knuckles as they scan the table. Oluwande shuts up instantly.
"Bastardo has locked it in his room," Jim reports grimly, shaking their head. "Didn't see where. Closed the door."
Lucius' face falls, scandalised. He grabs Pete's shoulder to steady himself, though he's securely across the laps of three separate people at this point and there's no way he'd ever fall. "Oh, he's definitely fucking scoffing it!"
"Which is why we should move quickly," Jim agrees. A second dagger, produced from thin air to replace the one in the table, glides expertly through their fingers for emphasis as they gesture. "Strike while the iron is hot."
Wee John's face screws up and he shifts uncomfortably beside Frenchie. Frenchie pats his leg Very Seriously, which seems to settle him a bit. "I dunno. Won't he, like, be on his guard?"
Oluwande looks like he's about to agree, but then Jim squeezes his hand and his change of mind is immediate. "I mean, or maybe not," he stutters, looking all around the table but especially at Jim. "Even Izzy wouldn't expect us to do something that stupid. Right?"
-CUTAWAY-
SCENE 2 - THE HEIST
-CUTBACK-
"So what is it exactly that I have got to do again?"
Jim pushes off the table to slouch back, their arms wound tight around each other. The Swede giggles anxiously at this, the same way she giggles anxiously at most other things in life. "What is it exactly? You don't have to do anything!" Jim sighs, patience tested. The rest of the crew have been at it-- hashing and rehashing out plans for the heist-- for going on two hours now, which was two hours longer than Jim ever wanted to stay the centre of attention. They'd tried to pass the 'leader' torch over to Oluwande on several occasions but, no matter how many times they looked to him for support or to defrustrate their preffered style of communication, the rest of the crew looked to Jim and Jim alone. They tilt their head from side to side, smile tightly pulled across their face beneath the hat. "We already have everything covered. You can just sit tight and wait for your cake."
"Okej," the Swede replies, only sounding moderately disappointed. "I would like to sing though... Is there room in the plan for me to sing?"
"I don't think Izzy will be that impressed by your singing," warns Oluwande, jumping in before Jim has a chance to react. The Swede is generally liked and indulged by the rest of the crew for reasons that are obvious to anyone who meets her, but as hard as Jim tries for her sake it's difficult to keep their lid on forever. Jim, staring right through her, squeezes Oluwande's hand rapid-fire as he continues, "Not that it's bad. It's just... Izzy, y'know?"
"You can sing to me," offers Wee John cheerfully from Frenchie's side. "The acoustics in mine and Frenchie's room are incredible."
The Swede's face lights up, disappointment forgotten. "Ooo, yes please! I would love to. I was not aware that you have an ear for acoustics."
"Aye," replies John, turning slightly red as he leans into a palm. "I've been thinking about breaking into operatics for a while now."
"Oh, I will show you some things definitely. And then one day you can teach me to sew better!"
Wee John and the Swede break off on their own, planning their evening together with excitement as they disappear off towards the Room. Oluwande exhales as Jim releases his hand, and Jim leans on one knee, unsleeves the third knife of the night, and begins fidgeting with that instead.
Frenchie and Lucius get designated as the bag guys: Frenchie for his uncanny luck in navigating the Revenge's many still-novel secret passages, and Lucius for his ability to pick locks and relative uselessness in a fight compared to Jim. Jim themself is lying in ambush within the cupboard nextdoor in case things go sideways, which is the reason they'd given, but they probably would have elected to spend the next indefinite period of time squirreled away in some small dark space whether or not it helped the heist at all.
("I still think I should be the one to do the fake argument," Roach had complained after they'd finished their plan. "Not Olu."
Oluwande had grimaced. "Why? What's wrong with me?"
Roach raised his eyebrows. "You're not much of an arguer," he replied, as if it were obvious. "You're too... nice."
"I can argue. I argue with Pete all the time," Oluwande argued.
Those still present had turned to Pete, who carefully raised his hands up in surrender. "...When was this?" he asked.
"When we was looking for those hostages. You called me babyface and I said 'Don't call me babyface'," Oluwande recounted, gesturing for Pete to confirm this. He was met with silence. When it was clear that the others were unimpressed, he continued, "Well, that's not all I said. There was more."
Pete tilted his head to one side, wincing. "You did kind of just keep repeating 'Don't call me babyface'."
A few murmurs, and a victorious nudge from Roach had Oluwande about to contest. Then Jim used the rest of their rope and knife number three to lash out a decisive, "Olu is doing it." And just like that it was settled.)
In the present, Israel Hands is even more boring than either Frenchie or Lucius could've expected. It's been a couple hours crammed into the walls-- started as reconnaissance and ended up being easier to stay there and wait for their cue, but they're both starting to go a bit stir crazy from understimulation. Frenchie might have anticipated at least a little bit of sword sharpening, or leather polishing, or even some good old-fashioned evil cackling complete with steepled hands and full-bodied careening over the back his evil tyrant chair. Y'know; evilly. Instead, his gaze sags behind narrow spectacles and there's a slight hunch to his posture over the tiny, greening desk that they spy between a crack in the room's wooden walls. More than anything else, he looks tired.
"He's a bit dilfy, don't you think?" Lucius whispers anyway, squinting through the gap. The natural creaks and groans of the ship on the water swallow the sounds of his voice. Frenchie is confused. "In, like, a pathetic, wet-dog kind of way."
"What does dilfy mean?" Frenchie whispers back. They'd gotten a bead on the cake's location; Hands had at one point opened the top near drawer of his desk seemingly for no purpose other than to revile it's contents, then lock it shut without so much as a temptation. Neither of them could imagine anything else provoking that level of disgust from Izzy, except maybe Stede Bonnet, but if Izzy had their captain's head in his drawers his expression would probably have looked a lot more like unbridled glee.
Lucius hesitates for a moment, then glances over at Frenchie. "It's an acronym," he begins, and switches which knee he's putting his weight on. "Stands for 'Dad I'd like to fuck'."
"Oh, right, of course," responds Frenchie, listening very intently. "What's an acronym?"
Lucius shifts back onto his other knee, restless. "Series of letters that stand for words."
"Ah, right. Letters." Frenchie nods, comprehending. Writing.
Lucius doesn't respond and Frenchie doesn't blame him. He looks at him, then peers back through the gap, then curls his lip in frustration at whatever it is that he sees or doesn't see, then looks back at Frenchie, then slumps against the passage wall. He crosses his arms, sighing. "This is so boring," he exclaims, and it's fortunate that the cry is masked by the noise of a particularly big wave.
Frenchie hums in agreement, mirroring Lucius' body language as he leans over for his turn to look through the crack. The angle has them looking up into the room. It's not much bigger than his and Wee John's, just seems that way at a glance from its sparsity. And from Izzy's smallness. After a thoughtful moment encroaching on the man's sanctuary, Frenchie says: "When do you think Izzy's birthday is?"
"You're still on about that?" Lucius asks. Frenchie looks at him-- of course he's still on about it-- and Lucius shrugs, picking at his nails. "I don't know. Who cares? He's a dick."
"I thought you said he was dilfy?"
"He can be dilfy and a dick at the same time."
Frenchie considers this, screwing up his nose. He doesn't get the appeal, but he wouldn't take that away from Lucius. Not that anyone has the ability to take anything away from Lucius in the first place. He frowns off the grimace and goes back to spying. "I reckon he's either a Cancer or a Capricorn."
"Riiight," says Lucius, though he doesn't sound convinced. "What does that mean for possible birthdays?"
"You don't know astrology?"
Lucius throws his hands up. "Why does everyone assume that I know horoscopes?"
Frenchie was not aware that this was A Thing. He shrugs. "Well, first off, it's not horoscopes, it's astrology. You get horoscopes from doing astrology. And second off, you just give that kind of vibe I think babes," Frenchie responds.
Pouting, Lucius mutters something that sounds like, "S'cause I'm gay, isn't it?"
Frenchie can't comment on that 'cause he honestly has no idea so, instead, he checks that Izzy's room has not moved from the other side of the wall. It hasn't, and he leans back against the false panel wall with a dejected sigh. It croaks and bulges under his weight so he shoots back up, then angles toward Lucius again. "Cancer's July. Capricorn's January. Ish."
"Fantastic. Really narrows it down," grumbles Lucius. He shuffles to the side and begins to stretch out his legs, letting the conversation die off.
A couple of moments go by. Frenchie taps out a beat on his knees, then quickly gives up on the whole comfortable silence business. "What's your big three?" he asks.
"My what?"
"Your star sign, for starters."
"Uhhh," Lucius thinks at length, leaning his head back in a struggle to remember. "I'm a Libra?"
Frenchie nods sagely, thumbing at his chin. "And what about your moon and rising?"
Lucius gives him a pleading look. Frenchie drops it, frowning a little. He kind of wishes Buttons were here; even though the man is an utter quack and Frenchie doesn't respect, well, any of his astrological models, he at least respects the fact that Buttons has them.
Fortunately, it isn't long before their cue arrives:
"What did you say about Captain Blackbeard?" comes Pete's voice at last from behind the door at the far side of the room, not shouting so much as talking very conspiciously.
"I said," Oluwande responds, similarly loud and stilted, "That he's a, a lousy, um, pirate. And that Captain Stede could totally, uh, get him."
Frenchie has no reason to believe it's going any other way than well; that is, until Lucius buries his head in his hands beside him and exhales, "Oh Jesus fucking Christ."
"You're so full of it!" Pete continues, rising only in volume with no change of tone at all. Frenchie peers back through the gap; Izzy hasn't yet budged from where he's sitting at the desk. There's a moment's pause, as if Pete's waiting for any sign of reaction from inside the room. "I ought to teach you a lesson, about respecting your co-captain!" he continues, when there is none.
"You're gonna teach me a lesson?" Oluwande replies, then laughs twice, sharp, "Well, I'll just... I'll get Captain Stede on you, in that case!"
Another long pause. Izzy doesn't move.
"You know what, Olu? You've convinced me! Captain Stede is totally the better and more impressive and scarier pirate." It sounds like it pains him to say.
Frenchie watches Izzy very briskly shove away from the desk and storm over to the door not two seconds after Pete had spoken. He swings it open wide, then shouts from the doorway, "What kind of cuntery is this that you can't do it outside someone else's fucking door?"
"Hey guys," says Roach, manifesting. Pete and Oluwande startle. Frenchie sees Izzy's shoulders sag. Roach grins and looks between them all. "I miss the party?"
Pete blinks his recovery from the shock then turns back to Izzy. "Olu was just failing to convince me that he honestly believes our Captain could take the legendary Blackbeard in a fight. He's lying, of course."
"Oh, and you never fib, do you?"
"La la la la la-!"
Oluwande clearly struck a chord, and they descend into actual squabbling now, petty and spiteful and incoherent. "Don't ignore me," Oluwande says, and knocks Pete's fingers out of his ears. Pete slaps his hand in retaliation, and Oluwande slaps Pete's hand then again, and soon enough they're caught in a full-blown cat fight. Roach grins excitedly at Izzy, points at the two, then tries wholeheartedly to get involved, batting at the duo's hands from the outside.
Izzy crosses his arms and allows the situation to continue escalating for approximately ten seconds. "ALRIGHT!" he bellows, at last, and the three of them jump with their hands back to themselves. "Do ANY of you want to fucking tell me what this is actually about?"
"Your face is bad and the control you have over your crew is flimsy at best," Roach announces, leaning between Pete and Oluwande to wag an accusatory finger at Izzy.
"What are you doing here?" Oluwande hisses, an aside to Roach.
Roach shrugs. "There is nothing for me with Wee John and Swede."
"Then go find Buttons!"
Oluwande and Roach start bickering now, though Roach just looks ecstatic the madder Oluwande gets. Roach goes to pinch his cheeks, saying something that might be 'babyface', and Oluwande bats his hand off and turns away, pouting, with his arms crossed. Roach continues attempting to badger.
"He still hasn't actually stepped out of the room." Lucius frowns, face pressed right up against the gap. "What a paranoid little man."
Frenchie eyes the desk too, and tries to weigh up the probability of success if he made a dash for the cake now, while the other three had Izzy distracted. It looks like Oluwande is currently giving the others the silent treatment, but it could work. He's stealthy. He could totally do it.
"Now, Mr. Boodhari, I think you'll find that the proper question is: What are any of you lot doing here?" Hands says then, as if the universe were conspiring to prove Lucius correct. Oluwande perks up and Roach stops trying to torture him for the moment. Izzy drums his fingers along the hilt of his cutlass like he expects a kidnapping, and Frenchie can hear the sneer in his voice as his continues, "Haven't seen two of your little friends around for a few hours now. Not planning anything stupid, are you?"
"No," Oluwande replies, far too quickly, then pivots, pointing back over his shoulder with a thumb. "There's actually a, uh... Now that you're here, we could really use your help with a, a thing on the other side of the ship."
"A thing. D'you think me daft?"
Frenchie, nodding, watches Oluwande sputter to respond, and finds that he has to agree with Lucius' assessment. "Distrustful. Classic Taurus," he declares, then crosses his arms as he reclines decidedly against the false wall.
It gives way.
The wood panel meets the desk before it hits the floor: sends papers sliding off everywhere, bulges under Frenchie's weight because the desk certainly isn't giving way any time soon, splinters, snaps, clatters back in on itself and hits Frenchie on the way down as well. Yelping, Frenchie fights off the falling planks-- twists and frets to stop himself landing too ungracefully-- but it was his coordination that got him into this mess and it's not about to get him out of it. Lucius, behind him, balks wide-eyed into the headlights of the room. Frenchie scrambles onto his front. It's a moment before he can gather the courage to look up but, when he does, Izzy appears positively vindicated.
"Oh my God." Frenchie thinks this comes from Oluwande, but it's hard to be certain 'cause he's a bit preoccupied at the moment.
"Well, well, well," Izzy tuts, because of course he does; he seems to know that he's a villain and, at this point, he's not even trying to hide it. Venom drips onto the floor with every click of heel on wood, and the fullness of his approach is absolute torture. Izzy comes to a still right in front of Frenchie. "Now, just what do we have here?"
"We were just, uh, checkin' for mice. 'Cause y'know we don't have any cats on the ship, 'cause they're evil, so I reckoned I'd take Lucius with me and check. For mice. In the walls. Haven't found any, so, good news!" Frenchie blasts two thumbs-ups Izzy's way, head nodding as he blinks a mile a minute (soothes him, he reckons; always felt a bit inclined toward doing it). He stammers a bit from nervous laughter and tries to rise to his feet. Izzy stops him with a boot on his shoulder and oh, maybe he does see the appeal, just a little bit. Frenchie sits back down, cheeks burning. "Right, yep, OK."
"Oh! Is that so, Mr. Spriggs?" Izzy gasps, feigning shock. He turns his attention to Lucius, who has risen (unbooted) to a crouch. "Somehow, I find it hard to believe that the scribe would volunteer for vermin duty."
Lucius nods once, petrified. "Yes. I... love mice. And rats. All small rodents, actually."
Oluwande calls, sighing, from the doorway, "Look, the jig's up, yeah? We can just leave. You don't have to drag it out."
"Yeah, Jizzy, just give us the cake," Roach choruses unhelpfully.
Izzy ignores them in favour of dragging it out. His brows shoot up into his hairline, which doesn't move because of all the pomade. "Do you now?" He steps past Frenchie, who looses a sigh of relief before immediately catching it again on Lucius' behalf as Izzy looms over him instead. Tiny prick must be enjoying them being on the floor. "S'pose you won't mind a trip to the bilge, then. If you've been about checking for rats then I imagine you've seen it needs a good scrub."
"Right." Lucius slowly begins to unfurl. He gestures twitchily over a shoulder-- back down the passage-- and makes eye contact with Pete as he creeps backwards. "I'll just head there now ifthat'sOKbye," he says, cringing, and disappears.
Pete waits a few seconds. "I'll... help him," he says, then fucks off too.
Cowards, Frenchie thinks with a frown, then winces because it's not very nice. He can't really blame them, he supposes. Frenchie starts clambering to his feet to make likewise, but is stopped again by a plank of splintered wood come to rest on his shoulder.
"Not you." Izzy spits. Not actually at Frenchie, thankfully. He tosses the wood to the side once he's sat back down. "You broke my wall."
"I mean, technically, it was a fake wall," Frenchie counters, veering back to look at Izzy behind him. Izzy huffs through his nose and crosses his arms. Alright, long shot. Frenchie tries to change the subject, "When's your birthday?" at the same time that Oluwande finally yells:
"Jim!"
There's a loud bang as Jim bursts out of the cupboard. They dart past the crowd at the doorway and come barrelling into the room. By the time Izzy's registered what's going on, a knife's sailed through the air and pinned him by the collar to the wall as he looked up to see. Another dagger catches him by one of his stupid puffy sleeves, then another pins back the other one, then one more punches in an inch above the last for good measure. Jim stands tall, thumbs looped in their belt, considering. They launch one more knife into the wall-- shoots into the wood slats at the side of Izzy's neck-- and then extend a hand down to Frenchie. He takes it, and Jim pulls him up to standing.
Frenchie thinks it'd be really cool if Jim said something right now. Some kind of one-liner, maybe something in Spanish (or half in Spanish so he could get the gist). Instead, Jim just nods, pleased, to themself-- hands on their hips as they grin up at their handiwork-- and succinctly turns to leave with a truly unfair amount of swagger. They grab Oluwande by the hand and tug him along after them. Oluwande, of course, does not resist.
Roach steps into the room and places a hand on Izzy's shoulder from an arm's length away. "I don't think your face is bad. That was just part of the bit," he says, sounding incredibly sincere.
Izzy just stares up at him mutely before nodding, quiet, "Yeah, OK." He continues to dangle by the collar, hangs his head as Roach extracts his hand and then wanders off as well, whistling a tune. Frenchie means to call that they haven't actually got the cake yet but he's already out of sight, so instead he decides to look around. Turns wide to the right, then the left, alights on the little desk and tries to yank open the top right drawer. It's locked.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Izzy says after a moment, disbelieving.
"Looking for the cake," Frenchie responds. He glances over at Izzy, smiles tersely, and straightens up. "Um, where's the key?"
"Fucking Christ," he groans, throwing his head back. It hits the wall with a thunk, and Izzy deflates. "That's what this is all about? It's not in there."
Frenchie frowns. "Oh. We thought-"
"You did, didn't you?" Izzy sighs. "Shew it to Ed but he didn't care. He's probably forgotten what he did with it."
"So you didn't, y'know, eat it?"
Izzy grimaces and looks like he wants to shake his head but is reminded of the dagger at the side of his neck. He curls his lip instead. "Defeat the whole fucking point, that," he sneers. "No, I didn't fucking eat it."
Frenchie takes this in studiously, crosses one arm and rests the side of a fist against his lip. He realises that it's not quite a surprise; he doesn't think he's seen Izzy so much as gnaw on hardtack before, let alone devour an entire cake to himself. Not sure the man eats, or sleeps, or does anything other than be evil and work. Sad kind of life, he reckons.
"Can you fuck off now?" the man rasps then impatiently, fixing him with a glare. The usual effect is somewhat undercut.
"D'you need some help?" Frenchie offers, gesturing at his prison of knives.
"Just fuck off."
Frenchie takes the request into account, but ignores him in favour of, y'know, dragging it out. Just a little bit. He considers Izzy, who has managed to get his tippy-toes on the ground so he's no longer exactly dangling, and finds himself smiling. S'not exactly difficult to smile at, and the situation is so honestly ridiculous that he can't bring himself to feel bad about it, either. "So, when is your birthday?"
"I'm in Hell," Izzy mutters to himself.
"C'mon, just tell me. What's the harm?" Frenchie pleads, affecting just a little bit of whine. For persuasive purposes, of course.
Izzy stays perfectly still, staring at him, and then lets his head sag. He looks utterly defeated. Frenchie is ashamed to say that it takes an embarrassingly long time for the ball to drop, but when it does-
Oh.
He tilts his head and asks, gently, "Do you not know?"
Izzy scoffs and looks up at him like he hates it. "Do you?"
Frenchie grimaces and swings one long leg, scuffing his sole against the floor. "I mean, no, not exactly. But I can tell that I'm a Gemini, 'cause it's an air sign and it's mutable. And I might be a Cancer cusp as well, or close to it, 'cause I think that water also fits me, but Cancer's modality is cardinal and I'm not exactly sure about that so I just say Gemini."
"Sounds like a crock of bullshit," Izzy grumbles, and Frenchie is hurt for a second before reminding himself that he's pushing it, at the moment, and that Izzy's the one nailed to the wall unable to leave, and he really can't expect him to be pleasant when he's barely even tolerable at the best of times. He lets it slide off of him, shrugging.
"It makes sense, though. To me. Means that I celebrate my birthday in June, which is nice. Weather-wise," he replies. He lets sentiment-- any notion of him finding comfort in the stars-- go unsaid, knowing that Izzy wouldn't appreciate it anyway. Not gonna even bother trying with that. He thinks about it for a second before he continues, "For what it's worth, mate, I reckon you're a Scorpio."
Izzy, resigned, responds, "I don't know what that means."
"Well, for starters it means you'd have been born, like, end of October, first two-thirds of November," Frenchie begins. "And Scorpio's fixed, so it's steady and consistent, but it's also a water sign so it's emotional. And most people hate Scorpios and say they're evil-," Izzy flares, about to become emotional about it, so Frenchie rushes to finish before he has the chance, "-But it actually has three aspects: snake, eagle, and phoenix. Buttons'll tell you that it's actually scorpion, snake, eagle but Buttons doesn't know what he's talking about and phoenixes are real, I've met one."
"Sure you have."
Frenchie ignores him. "Anyway, most of them fall under the snake, or start there, which is why they've got a reputation for being a bit evil. But all Scorpios have the potential to ascend to higher aspects, which are better."
Izzy squints, eyeing him with undisguised suspicion. "Are you trying to awaken something in me?" he asks with a growl.
Frenchie considers moving to place a hand on his shoulder like Roach had done, because that had looked cool, but he thinks there's a high likelihood of him getting bitten if he does, so he doesn't. "Maybe." He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets instead. "Maybe you're not a Scorpio. You dont have to be. You can choose."
Izzy doesn't respond. He huffs his head to the side, stewing, and doesn't look at Frenchie again. Oh well. Conversation was probably over, anyway. Despite this, Frenchie hangs around for a moment, feeling suddenly unsure as to how exactly he's going to leave.
"I'm leaving now," he announces, after a moment.
"Good."
"You sure you don't need any help?"
"Yes."
"Right, OK," Frenchie nods and makes his way to the door, only looking back over his shoulder a couple of times as he does. Izzy doesn't move. Frenchie calls back, "Um, see you around?" as he closes the door carefully, cringing at the noise it makes as it clicks shut. He hears Izzy sigh on the other side, then hears a rhythmic thumping like he's hitting his head against the wall repeatedly.
Eh. Could've gone worse.
Frenchie shakes off the interaction with his hands as he turns to make his way above deck, then finds that it feels quite nice, really, so he keeps doing it. Time to ask Captain Blackbeard about the cake, except that sounds a bit scary, so maybe he'll just tell Oluwande and Oluwande can ask Captain Stede about it.
'Izzy Hands, Scorpio', is the thought that keeps floating through his mind as he moves through the ship. And he can't help the giddy little giggles that threaten to overtake him as he does, so he lets them come, accepts it. Maybe he'll think about it. Maybe he'll come around. The idea is out there, at least.
Be a bit of a shock if he did, but it'd be nice, he thinks. Stranger things have happened.