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Frenchie is bleeding.
Well, he thinks he is. Maybe he’s not, but there’s certainly an upsetting amount of blood on his hands and face, and he thinks it must be his (its not) because there’s no other explanation for that amount of blood being on him (there’s an explanation, just not one he likes). It’s ruining his cool new clothes, too- say what you will about the general vibe on the Revenge right now, but they really look the coolest they’ve ever looked, Frenchie included. He likes his coat. And now it’s ripped (sword) and there’s blood on it (not his) and he’s bleeding (he is, but only a little bit-somewhere out there on another ship, a different bloke has bled and died and put bloody hands all over Frenchie’s coat in the process).
Wee John could fix it, if he was here, but he’s not. Jim’s not really the sewing type. Out of everyone on the ship, actually, Frenchie’s probably the one who would know best how to do this. He’s sure he can patch it, it’s the blood that’s the issue. He’s got no clue how to get blood out of clothes. He’s never really had clothes he liked enough to want to get blood out of them.
He’s also never really had occasion to get other people’s blood out of his clothes. He’s killed before, sure, he’s a pirate, that’s what pirates do, and he’s never had a super strong moral objection to any of that, but it’s not usually this bloody. There’s not usually the type of begging that proceeded this particular time, either.
The man was bald. Frenchie remembers that much. Blood on a bare scalp-
“Lock it up, Frenchie,” he mutters under his breath. “Come on now. There’s no problems here.”
With a sigh, he puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself up. No use wallowing. Wallowing’s never done anything for him. If he just pushes this gross and squirmy feeling in his stomach way, way back, he’ll be right as rain come morning- so long as he can fix his coat.
In pursuit of this goal, he heads to the kitchens. He’s not sure what he’ll find there, but there has to be something he can use, something he can work with.
He does find something. It’s just not exactly what he expects. He was thinking thread, a needle, maybe something to wash off the blood.
Instead, he finds the first mate.
—
In a weird and somewhat sick and definitely twisted way, it makes sense that Frenchie’s first act as first mate would be to betray his captain.
In his defense, it’s not like he asked for the first mate position. He’s not even sure why Ed chose him. Part of him wonders if it’s because in Ed’s eyes, Frenchie is about as far from Izzy, who lies bleeding and groaning on the deck only feet away, as someone can get. Part of him wonders if Ed is remembering the fuckery aboard the French party ship, if he sees Frenchie as an ally of sorts. Part of him wonders if he was just the first person Ed saw. A much larger part of him tells him to push that down, lock it up, and never look at it again.
“Clean up this mess,” Ed says, and Frenchie nods. He knows full well what mess Ed’s referring to, the mess currently bleeding out that Ed’s decided to dispose of.
He doesn’t love the idea, if he’s honest, but thing is, it’s an order from a man who just shot Frenchie’s predecessor straight through the leg. Right now, Frenchie really should be more focused on just surviving than on whether he actually feels good about any of the things that Ed tells him to do. Frenchie does what he has to do to make it through. He always has, always does.
And yet, startling everyone, himself most of all, his first act after Ed retreats is to fully abandon his orders and instead, crouch next to Izzy.
There’s a really alarming amount of blood, which is probably to be expected after a leg injury of that magnitude. Frenchie’s no doctor, but best guess, the leg’s gone. He’s seen men lose limbs over far less- and at this point, Izzy will be lucky if it’s only the leg that gets lost. If not his leg, it’ll be his life.
Honestly, maybe Ed’s order is a twisted act of mercy. Izzy’s certainly in pain. He’s stopped screaming, but he’s whimpering now, eyes glazed over and teeth gritted, body rocking involuntarily on the deck. He’s starting to shake.
“Oh man, Izzy,” Frenchie murmurs as Jim joins him. “Why’d you say that, huh? You knew what he’d do.”
Izzy does not answer. Frenchie doesn’t think he even could, if his words have reached him at all. It’s more of a question that doesn’t require an answer.
“What do we do?” Jim murmurs. Their face is pinched. Frenchie has had neither the time nor willpower to look into how Jim is relating to the rest of the crew- mostly, he knows they’re just trying to survive, same as he is. He knows they’re close with Archie, close with Fang, but he thinks they might be closer with Izzy than they’re letting on. He thinks they’re all closer with Izzy than they’re willing to let on, at least in front of Ed.
Izzy groans, a long, pronounced sound, anguished. Frenchie’s hand fists in his coat.
Maybe it would be an act of mercy to put him out of his misery. But Izzy has been kind to Frenchie before. Genuinely kind. Frenchie knows how to tell the difference, and he’s the sort of guy who repays kindness.
“Take him below, please.”
—
“Frenchie? That you?”
He’s not sure how Izzy knows that. He’s not looking at him- his hands are clenched on the countertop, knuckles turning white, facing away. There’s a bowl of bloody rags in front of him, and he’s clearly trying to take the weight off of his foot. That’ll be another toe gone, then. Frenchie’s not sure how many that makes.
“Yeah, it’s just me,” he says, inching closer. “Don’t bother yourself.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Izzy says.
“You ok?” Frenchie posits. It’s not a question he really wants the answer to- or rather, it’s a question he knows the answer to, so it doesn’t need to be spoken out loud. The toe thing- well, it’s happened enough times that he’s noticed a pattern, and he’s not the only one who has. Someone fucks up, and Izzy gets hurt. It’s not a puzzle Frenchie can solve without wanting to scream. But it means, obviously, that he’s not ok. No one’s ok, these days.
“I’m fucking fine,” Izzy says. He turns a bit as Frenchie comes into his peripheral. “Yourself?”
“Ah, you know me.”
It’s not really an answer, and Izzy, even in pain, even white as a sheet like he is, catches it.
“You hurt?”
“Um-” Frenchie pauses. “You know, I’m not actually sure.”
He looks down at himself, then back up again when he sees the blood. Still holding onto the counter, Izzy makes a short, stunted hop to face him, which would probably be funny under different circumstances, if there was anyone left on this ship to laugh with.
“Have you been checked?”
“No.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Izzy says. “Drag a chair over, then. I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“We don’t need to be losing any more crew today,” Izzy says tightly. Something in the locked chest in Frenchie’s mind screams- Ivan, falling on deck from a gunshot to the chest, Frenchie dropping to his knees beside him, pressing down on the wound, knowing it’s futile- and he clenches his hands.
Right. Not all of the blood is from the bald bloke. Only some of it. The rest is from Ivan. And the captain hadn’t even blinked.
Izzy’s blinking now. Not literally, exactly, but his face is screwed up in a way that tells Frenchie Ivan’s death has hit him harder than anyone would have expected. Without another word, he drags a chair over, and Izzy collapses into it, a sheen of sweat across his face. He takes in a heavy breath, clenching his fists once, twice, three times, and lets it out. With this centering ritual complete, he’s able to scan Frenchie with all his usual tact (which is to say, none).
“You’re covered in blood,” Izzy says bluntly.
“Yeah, that’ll happen after a raid, you know.”
It’s absolutely withering, the look Izzy gives him, but it’s true- they’ve all got more than a little blood on them, these days. He doesn’t dignify it with a response- just reaches for a wet rag (not one of the bloody ones in the bowl, thankfully, if any of this blood does belong to Frenchie then the idea of mixing it with Izzy’s is a little strange and weirdly intimate) and, in a truly insane gesture, begins to wipe at Frenchie’s hands, up to his arms where the blood has splattered, staining the rag red as he goes.
It’s business-like, really, even though Frenchie doesn’t think there’s usually anything business-like about gently washing your crewmate’s- or whatever he is on this ship- hands, but it’s kind of nice. Izzy’s hands are rough and calloused from years of labor when he flips Frenchie’s hands around, and he moves the rag like he was never taught to be gentle, but it’s nice. It’s almost relaxing, even though Frenchie can’t parse out what the hell Izzy’s doing.
“There,” Izzy says after a moment, placing the rag to the side. “Easier to see now. You’ve not got any injuries under all that. ”
Then he tilts his head. “That cut get to you?”
He jerks his chin towards the cut in his coat that has Frenchie so bothered.
“No idea, really,” Frenchie says. He moves the side of the coat out of the way, and lifts the hem of his shirt a few inches. Now that Izzy points it out, there’s something on the backside of his left hip that feels hot and itches, just out of his own line of sight.
“Anything?” he asks, turning a bit. Izzy beckons him forward, and Frenchie steps further into his space. He puts a hand on Frenchie’s hip, turning him till he’s sideways.
Once the wound comes into sharper view, Izzy lets out a long breath through his nose.
“Just a scratch,” he says, and his hand is heavy on Frenchie’s hip, warm against his skin. “You’ll live.”
—
“Will he live, you think?” Frenchie asks quietly. He’s standing in the corner of the tiny room they’ve discovered in the ship’s passages. Izzy is sprawled out on the cot they’ve dragged down here, head lolling to the side. He’s passed out- no surprise. He’s lost a lot of blood already, and more is trickling out at a steady rate, staining the blankets. Frenchie feels a bit ill.
“I don’t know,” Jim says. “You ever known anyone to survive a shot like that?”
“Oh, sure,” Archie says, from the other side of Izzy’s bed. The question wasn’t directed at her, but she answers all the same. Her help had been surprising, if not unwelcome- Archie’s not particularly attached to Izzy, but seems happy enough to tag along wherever Jim goes. “Usually the leg has to go though.”
She makes a chopping motion with her hands. Frenchie flinches.
“Sorry,” she says, holding up a hand.
“You think he’s gotta lose the leg?”
“I ain’t a doctor,” she says. “Don’t ask me.”
“How do we tell?” Jim muses. “Maybe once he starts to smell real bad?”
“He already kinda smells,” Archie says.
“We all kinda smell. I mean real bad. Like rotting meat bad.”
Yeah, absolutely none of this is helping the sick feeling crawling up Frenchie’s gut the longer Izzy lays there like this, motionless.
“Hey, woah,” Jim says, placing a hand on his arm. “You ok, Frenchie?”
“What?”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” Frenchie says at once. Jim frowns.
“I don’t think you are.”
“I’m fine,” Frenchie says again, about as harsh as he ever gets. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He really doesn’t want to talk about it, actually. Talking about things never gets them anywhere. Talking about things is what got Izzy’s leg blown nearly in two. Talking about things didn’t stop their crew from being marooned, or Stede from abandoning them all, or any of the other terrible things that have happened since. Talking about things hasn’t stopped anyone from getting hurt. He really doesn’t want to talk about why the sight of Izzy laying here now is making him feel like this, when once upon a time he was perfectly happy to throw Izzy overboard in the name of mutiny. He doesn’t want to talk about remembering Izzy’s hand on his hip or the kindness he’d shown Frenchie or the way he’d nearly cried in front of all of them only the day before this happened. He doesn’t want to talk or think about the way Izzy clenched at his hand like it was a lifeline when Frenchie offered it to him.
“Can you give us a minute?” Jim says to Archie, who blinks, like she’d never considered the possibility.
“Course, yeah,” she says. “Take all the minutes you need.”
She clicks her fingers together and sort of forms them into guns, shooting playfully at Jim. “I’ll be around.”
She leaves, and Jim, with very little protest from Frenchie, tugs him down until he can rest his head on their shoulder, wrapping their arms around him fiercely.
“I’m sorry,” they say. “I’m sorry this is on you now. You know we’ll help how we can.”
“Please don’t make me do it,” Frenchie manages to gasp out in between the pounding of his heart and the shortness of his breath.
“I think that ship has sailed, man,” Jim says. “I’m sorry. You’re first mate whether you like it or not.”
“Not that, the leg,” Frenchie says. His throat is really tight all of a sudden. “Izzy’s leg. Please don’t make me do it.”
He’s desperate to know that this won’t be put on his plate, too. He’s compartmentalizing quite a lot, these days. He’s not sure how he’d compartmentalize the sight, sound, and feeling of Izzy’s leg severing under his own two hands.
“You won’t have to,” Jim says, grimly. “I’ll handle it.”
—-
“Probably should get a doctor at some point, hey?” Frenchie says, tugging his shirt back down. It’s a shallow enough cut that it doesn’t even merit bandaging- his shirt should soak up any remaining blood. And it’s not the shirt he’s worried about getting bloody, anyhow. He leans back against the counter, but doesn’t move all that far from Izzy, still close enough that if he moves his leg too much it’ll bump into Izzy’s knee.
“Right, yeah,” Izzy says. “At some point.”
He laughs, but it’s humorless, dry and splintery as nails on sunbaked wood. “My first priority, if we ever make landfall again.”
“Right, yeah,” Frenchie echoes, then pauses. “I’m not loving the if there, you know.”
“No one’s asking you to fucking love it,” Izzy says. “Just facing truth.”
“I mean, we have to make landfall at some point.”
“Do we?” Izzy says. “We’re taking in more than enough loot to keep us going. If we just keep taking ships-”
“We can’t keep taking ships forever, though,” Frenchie says. His heartbeat is picking up, and he feels very suddenly alarmed. “We can’t keep doing- this, forever, can we?”
Izzy’s mouth tightens, any sort of pantomime of humor lost in the flint of his eyes.
“Izzy. We can’t keep doing this forever.”
It’s not a question this time. Izzy’s talking about facing facts, and for all that Frenchie’s become an expert in compartmentalization, this is a fact that anyone has to face. They have to make land sometime. This isn’t sustainable.
“If the captain wishes it, we’ll make it so,” Izzy says. Its neither a kind sentence, nor an optimistic one, and its devoid of any of the mania and delusion that Frenchie’s come to expect from Izzy when it comes to Blackbeard. It’s just bleak, plain and simple.
“Not all wishes are supposed to be granted, though,” Frenchie says. “Ask literally any witch. Half of what they do is just avoiding granting certain wishes.”
“Fairy godmothers,” Izzy says absently.
“What?”
“It’s fairy godmothers that grant wishes,” Izzy says, then shakes his head slightly, like he’s not sure why he said that.
“Is it?” Frenchie says. “I think witches do wishes too. You ever met a fairy godmother?”
“What? No. They’re not real.”
“Then how do you know they’re the ones that grant wishes?”
“I was a fucking kid once. I heard stories.”
“Did you?”
“Obviously.”
“I never did.”
Whatever Izzy was going to say next dies in his throat. He looks up at Frenchie, brow furrowed. Frenchie keeps his face blank. His childhood is another thing that stays locked up in a little box, way back in his mind. It’s not for anyone, let alone Izzy, to see or know.
Still. Izzy seems to see something all the same.
“You didn’t miss much on that score,” he says, and it’s nearly kind.
“I think I might have, actually,” Frenchie says. He’s thinking of the first time Stede read them a story on the ship, with all the funny voices. He thinks he’d have liked to hear a story like that when he was a kid. He thinks it might have made the bad things easier to bear, if someone would have told him a story, just once.
But now they’re delving into territory that Frenchie has no interest in delving into, and Izzy’s being nice and it’s sort of freaking him out (he’s been an absolute tyrant, is the thing, ever since Ed took that first toe), so Frenchie takes a risk.
“You know you sorta called yourself Ed’s fairy godmother there, right? Granting his wishes and that?”
It’s a tease. He’s teasing. Izzy doesn’t react like he’s teasing, though, not at first. His lips part and his jaw slackens and for a moment, he doesn’t seem to feel the pain of his missing toe. Then he leans back his head and laughs. It’s still dry, but feels a little less brittle.
“Fuck me,” he mutters. “S’pose I am, at that.”
He barks another laugh, then sobers. “Bit of a shit one, though.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s not happy,” Izzy says. His jaw is set again, and something deeply self-hating glimmers in his eyes. “That’s on me.”
Jesus, what’s Frenchie meant to say to that? It’s not entirely untrue. Ed is unhappy, and it’s obvious that Izzy played a part in making that come about. The blame’s not all his, but it is definitely partly his, and Frenchie and his friends have suffered quite a lot because of it.
Thing is, though- poison’s poison, isn’t it? Someone put poison in the water, and they’re all drinking it. No one’s coming out of this unscathed, certainly not Ed, and certainly not Izzy, and certainly not Frenchie. If things are bad all around, you can either ride it out, turn on each other, or band together to make it better, even with people you wouldn’t expect.
They’re still riding it out now. But Frenchie thinks, maybe one day, the banding together bit can happen, rather than the turning.
“We know you’re trying,” he says finally.
Izzy’s face screws up, and he jerks his head to the left, away from Frenchie. His throat bobs as he bites something back- a sob or a curse, Frenchie’s not sure which. Could be both.
“You-” Izzy starts, but he starts too early, when whatever he bit off is still stuck in his throat, and coughs to clear it. “You and Jimenez, you’ve done well. Fought well, taken orders, followed through. Earned us plenty of loot.”
He nods, sharp and decisive. “You’ve proven yourself, the both of you. You’re part of the crew.”
Frenchie doesn’t really want to be a part of this crew, but he thinks that’s not entirely what Izzy’s saying. He thinks, if he’s reading this right, that Izzy’s saying they’re part of his crew, not the crew, same way Fang is, same way Ivan was. He thinks Izzy’s saying that they’re on the same side. In the shit together, as it were. He thinks, in his own way, Izzy’s offering the both of them a lifeline.
“Well, you know, happy to be here. Happy to help,” Frenchie says, even though he’s very much less than happy. How could he be happy, when there’s still blood on his coat?
He pushes himself up and rolls his shoulders. He goes to leave, then stops. His fingers drum on his thigh.
Stupid to ask. Stupid. He asks anyway.
“If I’m part of the crew, you’re supposed to help me, right? That’s what a first mate does?” he asks, without turning around. Behind him, Izzy’s silence speaks volumes. Frenchie can practically hear him rewriting some vital tenants of his existence.
“Yes. Yeah, that’s right,” Izzy says quietly, resigned.
“Do you know how to get blood out of clothes?” Frenchie asks, turning back around. It takes Izzy a second to catch up, frowning. Whatever he thought Frenchie was about to request, this clearly wasn’t it.
“Aye.”
“How?”
Izzy looks him up and down, and his eyes narrow.
“Better to leave it,” he says. “Makes you look like a pirate.”
“Yeah, I know, it’s just- I like this coat.”
It’s a lame statement, certainly, and it’s not like he says it in a cool way, more pleading than anything else. Izzy holds his gaze, and whatever it is that Frenchie isn’t saying, he seems to see.
“Hand it over,” he says brusquely. “I’ll do it.”
That evening, when Frenchie returns to his hammock, he finds the coat. It’s folded, sitting in the center of his hammock, blood-free- and, though he hadn’t mentioned the rip bothering him, and had planned to mend it himself, the tear is mended in neat, even stitching. The thread even matches.
—
They take it in shifts to watch Izzy. Frenchie’s shift falls at night, hoping that by then Ed will be asleep or passed out and Frenchie’s absence will go unnoticed. On their way out, Jim reports that Izzy was awake, very briefly- just enough to spit some truly vile insults at them before passing out again.
“So, you know, prepare yourself for that,” Jim says, clapping his shoulder. Frenchie thanks them, and slips in, closing the opening behind him.
He’s not looking any better. The bleeding has trickled to a slow stop, aided by Jim’s best attempts at medicine, but Izzy’s deathly pale and sallow-looking, with bright red blotches on his cheeks that speak to fever. His head lolls to one side, and his breathing, even as Frenchie watches, stutters.
“Jesus,” Frenchie murmurs. “I hope you don’t like that leg all that much, Izzy. I don’t know that we can help you keep it.”
Izzy, of course, does not respond. Frenchie settles in next to the cot. He’s on high alert- listening for any sounds of Ed making midnight rounds outside, listening for any falter in Izzy’s breathing, so he’s not exactly settled as much as he is just sitting in one place. He reaches out, then pulls back, then reaches out again, and quickly puts his hand on Izzy’s forehead.
“Man, you’re burning,” Frenchie says. He glances around, and manages to locate a cup of water and a cloth. He soaks the cloth, though the water is lukewarm at best, so he’s not sure how much it’ll help, and as gently as he can manage, wipes at Izzy’s face, hoping to cool him down a bit.
“You know, I hear wound wort’s good for that,” he says as he works. “Fever, I mean. Dunno how much it would help the leg, but hey, try whatever, right?”
Again, no response. Usually, Frenchie’s pretty decent at holding a conversation all on his lonesome, but tonight- well. It’s been a long day. He’s tired, and he’s worried, and he’s pretty fucking scared that Izzy’s going to die on his watch, that this attempt at repaying the act of kindness Izzy once did for him just prolonged Izzy’s suffering.
“You’re not ready to go, right?” he asks. “You’d- I dunno, we’d know, if you were, right?”
He reaches out again, this time resting his hand on Izzy’s chest. Izzy doesn’t usually do touch, Frenchie’s pretty sure, but for a moment, he opens the box in his mind and lets himself remember the way Izzy’s body shook when Fang managed to drag him into a hug, the way his fingers clutched at Frenchie’s when he took his hand, like he needed something to hold on to. Maybe touch is only a comfort to him on a bad day. Frenchie thinks this counts as a bad day, if anything does.
Under his fingertips, under the thin fabric covering Izzy’s skin, soaked through with sweat, Izzy’s heart pounds strong as anything, in spite of it all.
“There you are,” Frenchie says, relieved. “I knew you weren’t ready. There’s still more for you out there.”
He’s not sure why he’s so certain about that, but he is. He doesn’t see things ending for Izzy here, in this cot, hidden away from a world that already thinks he’s dead. He’s not sure what the something more looks like- not sure what anything looks like, especially not after what Ed said about never making land again- but he thinks there has to be more. There can’t only be suffering and then that’s it. Not for him, and not for Ed, and not for Izzy.
“We’re trying, you know,” he says, tapping a finger on Izzy’s chest. “All of us. Trying to help. We’re crew, like you said, so-”
He clears his throat. His eyes feel warm, and he blinks that back, pushes it back into the box. “So that’s what we do. That whole helping thing isn’t a one way street. Just, you know-”
He sighs. “Try to stick around a while longer, will you? We probably might need you, before all this is over.”
Under his palm, Izzy’s chest rises and falls in an arrhythmic cadence. Still, Frenchie can almost imagine that he hears the word “fine” somewhere in there, tired and dry, but there.
“Great, then,” he says. “It’s decided. Done and done.”
Frenchie doesn’t sleep that night. He simply keeps watch, one hand on Izzy’s chest, one ear listening for threats. He doesn’t know it, but something takes root in Izzy’s chest, whether he can hear Frenchie or not- a tiny tendril of survival instinct, with the barest hint of hope.
Just for tonight, just for a moment, they both manage to breathe a little easier.