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The Box won’t close.
The raid had been pretty normal, all things considered. With Stede back at the helm of things, raids aren’t the bloody horror show they had been under Blackbeard’s Captainship. Frenchie didn’t even kill anyone, he just tied up two poor fuckers, and accidentally cut another. The cat jumping out at him unexpectedly from behind a crate shouldn’t make him feel so fucked up, but the little shit had scared the daylights out of Frenchie. The shock of it had the lid to the Internal Trauma Box flying off, and all of the scariest things in Frenchie’s life come flooding back.
Now, the crew is back on the ship, sorting through the plunder, and the Box won’t fucking close.
Jim notices first. They’ve got eyes like a hawk; they seem to notice anytime anything is even slightly off. They shove an elbow into Oluwande’s side and gesture in Frenchie’s direction pointedly, where he’s staring at middle-nothing, swaying a little bit on his feet, his shoulders tense.
“Oh, shit,” Olu whispers.
“I don’t know what that is, but it can’t be good,” Jim comments, their voice quiet and graveled.
Frenchie has no awareness of how off he’s being. He’s staring off into his own memories, hearing screaming, and crying, and violence, he smells smoke and burning flesh, he sees blood and mayhem. Tears streaking down his mother’s cheeks. Begging, pleading desperation. It feels like his heart might explode in his chest. He feels like he can’t breathe, like he doesn’t deserve to breathe. Why won’t the Box close? Why won’t the fucking Box close?
“Okay, I’ll try and talk to him, you find Izzy,” Olu comments. Jim nods in agreement, offering a hand to Olu. They do their little secret handshake and split off in opposite directions. Jim flies up onto the deck of the ship, and Oluwande approaches Frenchie, very slowly. “Hey.” Frenchie doesn’t react. “Hey, French.” The lights are on, but no one seems to be home. “Frenchie?”
Frenchie flinches at something only he can hear in between a high ringing. “Stop,” he whispers to his memories that are demanding his attention. His hands are trembling. His lungs ache in a way that forces him to suck in a ragged breath.
Oluwande’s never seen anyone have a panic attack before. He’s aware of them, knows enough about them to recognize what’s happening, but he’s never seen one in action, not like this. He’d been so sure that he could help with something like this, but now, faced with Frenchie looking pale and traumatized and half-dead, Olu knows he has no idea.
“Frenchie,” Oluwande murmurs, somewhere between soft enough to not startle him, but firm enough to get his attention. He reaches a hand out and gently puts it on Frenchie’s arm.
It doesn’t matter how gentle Olu is, Frenchie flinches away. “Don’t touch me,” he insists, flying back until he hits the wall with enough force to push the ragged breath from his lungs. Frenchie collapses and curls into himself, sucking in sharp, uneven breaths, unable to get his head to stop spinning.
“Okay!” Olu nods, backing up two paces and holding up his hands. “It’s okay, Frenchie.”
Frenchie can’t actually hear his friend trying to soothe him over the rushing of his own heart trying to escape from his chest. He hears a rhythmic thump getting closer and closer, faster and faster. He doesn’t hear Izzy’s voice, though, as it cuts through the tension of everyone below decks staring at Frenchie.
“Everyone out,” Izzy says, commanding, but quiet, not trying to startle Frenchie anymore than he already obviously is. “Now.” With that order from the First Mate, the crew clears out, rushing past Izzy, who can’t look away from Frenchie from his position on the stairs. As he goes past, Izzy stops Oluwande with a hand to his arm. “Get some drinking water.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Olu nods quickly. “Of course.” He’s gone, too, and it’s just Izzy with Frenchie in the hold.
Slowly, Izzy approaches where Frenchie is huddled on the floor, gasping and trembling. “Frenchie,” he tries, which gets no response. He gets down on the ground and crawls slowly over, which is hard to do with one leg. “Can you hear me, love?” Frenchie looks like he wants to respond, but can’t get his body to obey, trapped in his own mind. “I need you to look at me. Can you do that? Luc?”
Frenchie’s eyes snap to Izzy’s at the sound of his name. “Izzy,” he croaks.
Like there’s nothing to hinder his movement, Izzy slides in beside Frenchie, careful to give him his space. “There you are,” Izzy smiles, hopeful, but knowing this isn’t over. “I need you to breathe for me.”
Suddenly, air is an entirely foreign concept. His lungs won’t accept any. “I ca—,” he chokes out. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“Hey, hey, no,” Izzy says. “Eyes on me.” Frenchie listens, his eyes opening. He looks at Izzy, glancing away, looking for danger in any possible corner, but his eyes always fall back to Izzy. “Can I touch you, love? I’m not going to hurt you.” Frenchie nods like it’s painful, but it’s all Izzy needs to reach out and slowly put his hands on Frenchie’s, pulling them away from his face. “Good. That’s good. You’re okay.”
“Izzy,” Frenchie whimpers.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Izzy soothes, wrapping his arms around Frenchie. He can feel Frenchie’s stuttering, rabbiting pulse. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Frenchie can actually process that. He knows, deep inside him, that he’s safe with Izzy. He knows he’s inside Izzy’s arms, and not anyone else’s, and that starts to usher him back into his body. “It hurts,” he gasps.
“Breathe,” Izzy instructs. “Come on, breathe with me. Can you do that? Follow my breath.”
It takes a minute or two of copying the rhythm of Izzy’s breathing for Frenchie to get his his own breath back, for the most part. He’s still gasping, still ragged, but at least he’s taking breaths, at least he’s not trembling as hard. All the while, Izzy murmurs to him that he’s okay, that he’s safe, and to keep breathing. The clenching weight on his chest is there, but lighter. The flashes of the past are shorter, and fewer, and less intense than the ones that had been fighting to get out of the Box for the longest. The dread, though, that lingers, creeping over Frenchie’s shoulders, around his feet.
Olu creeps down the creaking stairs with water. Frenchie only just notices, opting to focus on Izzy’s breathing.
“Leave it,” Izzy instructs, not even looking at Oluwande. “Get out.”
“Yeah, got it, of course, yep!” Olu stammers all the way back up.
“I’m sorry,” Frenchie whispers, squeezing his eyes shut.
Izzy shakes his head, caressing Frenchie’s cheek as gently as he possibly can. “No, don’t be,” he insists. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Can you tell me what happened?” Frenchie shakes his head firmly. He doesn’t want to, but even if he did, what can he say? “Okay. Keep breathing. You’re alright, I’ve got you. Can you sing for me?”
“Sing?” Frenchie repeats, unsure if he hears correctly.
“Yeah, will you sing me my song?” Izzy asks of his, his voice all soft.
It takes a moment for Frenchie’s Bard brain to kick on. Far more important than a panic attack, the first in more than twenty years, is the fact that his husband wants to hear his song. “When the rain is blowing in your face,” Frenchie sings, shaky and quiet.
“Little louder,” Izzy encourages him.
Frenchie listens, and takes in more air to do so. “And the whole world is on your case,” Frenchie continues. “I could offer you a warm embrace—.” Izzy’s arms around him get a little tighter. “—To make you feel my love.”
By the time the first half of the song is over, Frenchie feels a little more stable, his breathing is nearly completely even. He’s not shaking like a leaf anymore. Now, embarrassment starts to kick in. The crew saw him like that. Izzy had to see him like that, to talk him down from whatever childish bullshit this is. Frenchie kind of wants to die now, in a completely different way than five minutes ago.
“Here,” Izzy murmurs, lifting some water to Frenchie’s lips. He doesn’t pull the cup away until Frenchie’s had several gulps. “Back with me?”
Frenchie nods, trying to swallow back his shame. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and he sounds pathetic.
“Fuck off,” Izzy groans, pulling Frenchie completely into his arms, between his legs, until Frenchie is surrounded by Izzy. “Don’t apologize. Not to me. Not for that. I’ve got you.”
“Yeah,” Frenchie whispers, letting his eyes fall closed. He feels exhausted, like everything got sucked out of him. His muscles ache, his head is still swimming a little bit. He lets himself be held, sagging against Izzy.
“Will you tell me what happened, Luc?” Izzy asks against Frenchie’s forehead, where he presses a soft kiss.
Frenchie wants to lock it up. He does not want to share with the class, even if the class is only his Izzy. But Izzy asks so sweetly, so gently, and Frenchie knows he’s safe. “Fucking cat,” he sighs.
“A cat?” Izzy repeats, and Frenchie can tell he’s bewildered, but trying to keep his voice even for Frenchie.
“Flew out of nowhere,” Frenchie grumbles. “Scared me. So fucking stupid.”
“No,” Izzy insists. One of his hands gently rubs Frenchie’s back. “It’s not stupid. Not if it made you feel like this.”
“I just—,” Frenchie cuts himself off. He doesn’t even know how to say it in words. How can he explain nearly forty years of trauma pouring out of him because of a fucking cat? “It—. The Box.”
“The Box,” Izzy repeats.
“The one in my head,” Frenchie explains, barely more than a whisper. “That holds all the bad stuff so I don’t have to think about it.”
“Yeah,” Izzy nods, knowingly, having heard about this Box before. “It got too full.”
“Yeah,” Frenchie agrees.
“We’ve got to take some stuff out of it,” Izzy tells him.
Frenchie’s rumples at the idea. “I don’t want to,” he whines, turning more into Izzy to hide his face from the memories that won’t leave him alone. “I just want it to stop. I want to stop. I want to stop hearing screams and smelling smoke. I don’t want to feel like this.”
“It’ll keep happening like this,” Izzy insists. “If we just leave it, it’ll only get worse and worse. We have to unpack at least a little bit of this trauma of yours, love.” Frenchie sighs, but he nods in agreement, just enough for Izzy to feel. “Yeah?” Frenchie nods again, more firmly this time. “Okay. Tell me something. Tell me about your parents.”
“Some lazy psychology there, Dr. Hands,” Frenchie grumbles against Izzy’s neck, his voice weak and watery.
Izzy cards his hand through Frenchie’s hair to gently pull his face out from the crook of his neck to give Frenchie a flat look. “Frenchie,” he says. “This is serious.”
Frenchie sighs and sags, but nods in agreement. Izzy’s right. Izzy’s always right. Frenchie trusts Izzy more than anyone else on the planet. He sniffles, and remembers. “My mum is a good woman,” he says, quietly. “Good. Kind. Hard worker. She had the best singing voice in the world, like an angel. She was a house worker, a cleaner. She was the Master’s favorite. The Mistress hated her, though, ‘cause of me. ‘Cause I looked more like the Master than any of her sons did.”
Izzy hadn’t known any of this. He knew Frenchie was from somewhere near the coast of New France, and that he was a runaway. He knew Frenchie’s mother used to call him Luc. He knew Frenchie hated his surname. He never could have known any of this. Izzy doesn’t interrupt, he doesn’t react, he just gives Frenchie his space to say his piece, knowing it’s very likely that Frenchie’s never said any of this before.
“Her sons, they were dicks,” Frenchie continues. “Fat, ugly motherfuckers with nasty mean streaks. Slow, but packed a fucking punch. They’d punish me double for ducking when they’d try to hit me. One of ‘em—, he broke my arm and popped it out of my shoulder, just because I ran past him in a way he didn’t like. They both hated me, too, just as much as the Mistress. ‘Cause the Master favored me, over them. He even called me his son once, to them. I didn’t want to be his son, not if it meant like I had to be like them. I used to hate it when they would come home from Paris.
“It was nice, I got to work close to Mum, though. We were both in the house, usually, unless I got sent off to the market or something. They had a piano in the house. I remember it was so beautiful, all shiny and enormous. When the Master had parties, he would let me play for the guests, and Mum would be allowed to watch me. I think he kept us both in the house to piss off the Mistress. God, she hated us. She hated all of us, but me and Mum and Sophie the most.”
“Sophie?” Izzy asks, quietly.
“My sister,” Frenchie says, quietly, his voice trembling, just a little. “My little sister. I was there when Mum, y’know—, pushed her out. God, horrible. I’ve never—.” Frenchie shudders, and Izzy holds him steady. “I thought she was going to die. Both of them. She was screaming, and there was blood everywhere. It looked like she was getting ripped apart! But everyone said everything was totally normal. Mum said that Sophie was even easier than me, but I don’t believe it. That was—. Fucking impossible. Watching the head come out? Fucking monster. But—, but not really. She wasn’t really a monster. My little baby sister. She was the best baby. All of the other babies were ugly, terrible things, crying all the time, always hungry, always shitting themselves. But not Sophie. She was sweet, she liked to play. She was the best. I loved her. I still love her; I’ll always love her. I miss her. I miss them both. I didn’t even know—.” Frenchie’s voice gives out, and he sucks in a shuttering breath. Izzy can feel a few tears dripping onto his shirt, but he doesn’t mention that.
After a few long moments of silence, with Izzy holding Frenchie close, Izzy breaks the quiet. “Do you know what happened to them?” He asks, just above a whisper. Frenchie shakes his head, and his chest wracks. Izzy wraps his arms even tighter around Frenchie, pulling Frenchie’s legs on top of his own. He doesn’t even mind the extra pinch around his prosthetic, not if he can give Frenchie a little more comfort. The action only makes Frenchie let out an audible sob. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not there anymore, are you? You’re here, with me, you’re with your husband, who loves you. You’re on this ship, with a whole crew of weirdos who love you. You’ve done so good, love, you have. I’m so proud of you.”
“I—,” Frenchie stammers, through ragged breaths. “I don’t—. When I—.”
“It’s okay,” Izzy soothes. “You don’t have to share anymore with me. That can be enough for now.”
Frenchie shakes his head and pulls himself up just enough to look at Izzy, sucking in a deep breath, then sniffling a little. He looks ragged, more than Izzy has ever seen him. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy, and there are unfamiliar lines of sorrow in his face. Izzy still looks at Frenchie the same, which makes Frenchie’s next breath easier. “I need to tell you,” he says, “because if I don’t say it now, it goes back in the Box.”
“Okay,” Izzy agrees with a nod. “Take your time. Say what you need to say. Just breathe, yeah?”
God, Frenchie loves him. He makes it so easy for it to come out. He leans back against Izzy and looks down at the ground in front of their legs. “I caught the Mistress with another man,” he says, quietly, remembering that night vividly for the first time since it happened. “He was some war hero or something. Some kind of Navy man or whatever. It doesn’t matter. I saw them. The Master wasn’t home, he was away on some business or something. I saw them. And they saw me. And I thought, for sure, she was going to kill me. She was going to send this Admiral dickhead after me and he was going to slit my throat. So I ran. I heard them chasing after me, but I didn’t stop, not even after they gave up. I made it down through the village, past the next one, to the port without stopping. Climbed in a box, got taken aboard a ship. Merchants. They found me pretty quick, but, I dunno, I guess they liked me? ‘Cause they didn’t immediately throw me overboard. They kept me around for a while, called me their lucky charm. I wasn’t much help around the ship, but they noticed I had an ear for music.”
Izzy smiles a little. “You never went back?” He asks, gently.
Frenchie shakes his head. “No,” he said. “I—. I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“That my mum and sister are dead,” Frenchie admits, quietly. “That the Mistress took it out on them, instead, and killed them. Or that she killed the Master and got them sold off to someone worse. I’m scared they forgot about me.”
“No,” Izzy insists, shaking his head.
“Sophie was only seven when I left,” Frenchie frowns. “That was a long time ago.”
“You remember when you were seven, right?” Izzy questions. Frenchie hesitates, then nods. “If you love her half as much as I know you do, then I know she remembers you. I know your mum remembers you.”
Frenchie worries at the inside of his lip, his brow furrowing. “What if they hate me for leaving them?” He whispers, like that’s the worst possibility.
“They don’t,” Izzy says. “I don’t know them, but I know you, and I know what it’s like to be loved by you, Jean-Luc. I know they would never blame you for stealing freedom instead of accepting death. I know they’d be glad to know that you’re alive, and that you have family who cares about you. And if you ever want to find out the answers to your questions, I happen to know of a ship with a crew who would do anything for you, like you’d do anything for them. And if they don’t agree, fuck ‘em, we’ll throw them overboard and go anyway.”
Frenchie sputters out a surprised laugh, which breaks through how dazed and fluttery he feels. He drops his forehead against Izzy’s shoulder and sighs, softly. “Thank you,” he whispers. Izzy cranes his neck to kiss Frenchie’s hair. “Fuck. So embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, I don’t care,” Izzy scoffs, and it, somehow, sounds nice. “You’ve seen me in far worse positions.”
“Not you,” Frenchie wrinkles his nose. “I’m not embarrassed about you seeing me cry. So I trauma-dumped on my husband, whatever. I’m embarrassed the crew saw me have a mental breakdown because of a stupid, evil cat. I keep saying it! They’re evil! It stole my breath!”
“Oh, my god, Frenchie,” Izzy rolls his eyes. He pulls Frenchie’s attention back to him. He looks over every inch of Frenchie’s face, then meets his eyes and holds his gaze for a long moment. “Are you okay? Seriously.”
Frenchie takes a deep breath and nods. “No,” he says, plainly, despite his nodding. “But I’m better. I mean, not completely. Obviously. There’s some things I’m probably never going to be able to talk about, but—. For now, I’m alright.”
“Okay,” Izzy accepts, softly. “I’m glad I got to learn more about you. I’m sorry that shit happened, but I’m glad you got away. I’m glad you’re here, now.”
Frenchie smiles a little, nodding in agreement. “Did you mean what you said?” He asks, almost timidly. “About—. Going?”
Izzy nods. He’d meant everything he’d said. “Yeah,” he says. “Whether that’s a social visit or a pirate attack, that’s entirely up to you. But, say the word, and the ship’s headed that way. If that’s what you want.” Frenchie takes a deep breath and looks away, thinking hard about if that’s what he wants. It feels like it’s such a huge choice to make. “You don’t have to decide right now.” Izzy runs his hand over Frenchie’s chest. “In fact, I’m going to insist that you don’t. You need to rest.”
“No, I’m okay, I can get back to work,” Frenchie nods. “We’ve got a lot to do, and this has only held us back.”
“No,” Izzy says, the firmest he’s been since coming below deck. “You’ve been through a lot, and I’m pretty sure you just relived literally all of it. You need to rest. That’s an order, you dog.”
Frenchie chuckles and reluctantly nods. “Aye aye, sir,” he sighs. He leans in and kisses Izzy on the cheek, softly. “Thank you. I don’t think I would be moderately okay if you weren’t here right now. So, thank you.”
Izzy leans in and presses his forehead to Frenchie’s, meeting his eyes directly. “I’ll be here as long as you want me,” Izzy promises.
Frenchie smiles, soft at first, but with the Box closed again, his annoying spark is back. “That sounds like another proposal for the books,” he teases, a little weakly. “At this rate, our ghosts will be haunting each other.”
Izzy chuckles and kisses Frenchie, soft and quick, and then moves to kiss his cheek. “Sounds like a plan,” Izzy agrees. “Now, you have to get up, because I don’t think I can stand from here.”
Frenchie snorts out a soft laugh, then slowly pulls himself and Izzy up onto their feet. As Frenchie starts to head for the door, Izzy grabs his hand and pulls him back into a tight hug. Frenchie sucks in a deep breath and sinks into Izzy, sagging down to bury his against Izzy’s hair. Izzy’s arms are so strong and so warm; for a man who hasn’t had many hugs, he gives great ones.
“I love you,” Izzy murmurs, muffled against Frenchie’s neck. Frenchie feels it clearly, though, all the same. It solidifies as a part of who Frenchie is: his name is Jean-Luc, he’s a Bard, he’s a pirate aboard the Revenge, and Izzy Hands loves him. Even after seeing that, he’s still firmly and safely got his arms around Frenchie.
“I love you, too,” Frenchie breathes. “I love you so fucking much. I know I say it all the time, because I’m a soft, poor bastard when it comes to you, but it’s not nearly enough. I love you. I’m grateful for you. You are my golden heart. Shout out to all the losers and suckers who were willing to give up the best thing in the world so that you could be here with me right now.”
Izzy chuckles softly, and it rumbles against Frenchie’s chest in a way that’s strangely soothing. Pulling back, but not letting go, Izzy looks up at Frenchie, reaching up to brush his cheek gently. His fingers curl into Frenchie’s nape, massaging gently. “I wasn’t ready, remember?” Izzy smiles softly. “I needed help finding the person worth keeping. You found him first. You showed me he was really still in there.”
Frenchie sighs and presses his forehead against Izzy’s, his eyes falling shut. He takes a moment to follow Izzy’s breathing again, feeling far more steady than he thought he could just a few minutes ago. He opens his eyes and meets Izzy’s, then smiles softly at him. “Will you marry me?”
Izzy chuckles, low and quiet. “Yeah,” he agrees, easily and casually, like he does every time Frenchie asks.
Even though they probably ask each other every few days, it still makes Frenchie grin like a fool, every single time. “Cool,” he beams.
Fondly, Izzy rolls his eyes and pulls away to carefully climb up the stairs. Frenchie follows a few paces back, waiting until he knows Izzy is situated on deck to emerge from the hold. “At least fucking pretend like you’re working,” Izzy complains at the crew.
“Wh—, all of the work is over there!” Jim complains back, their voice distant.
“We wanted to give you some privacy,” Lucius explains, his voice carrying, as usual.
Frenchie climbs up the last few stairs and onto the deck, and sees that the crew is on the other side of the ship, giving them their space. It’s so kind, Frenchie could cry, but he doesn’t. He refuses to cry anymore. Slowly, Izzy and Frenchie head towards the cabins, which is where the crew is, and the crew inches toward the hold.
“Sorry, guys,” Frenchie croaks.
All at once, the crew voices their sympathetic dismissal of his apology. As they pass, they give him firm nods, and soft pats, and wishes for him to feel better. Especially after reliving the family from which he originates, Frenchie couldn’t be more grateful for the family he chose.
Izzy leads them to their cabin. He takes Frenchie’s jacket off of his shoulders, then gently pushes Frenchie towards the bed. Not needing that direction, but appreciating the contact, Frenchie clumsily flops onto the bed, feeling every muscle in his body ache. He revels in the feeling of the overwhelming exhaustion for a long moment, face pressed into the mattress. He feels Izzy taking off his boots, each of them dropping heavily onto the wooden floor.
“Up you go,” Izzy groans, pushing Frenchie into moving to a position that would be a lot more comfortable. With a groan of his own, Frenchie follows the order and pulls himself up the bed, taking a long moment to settle down. Once he’s lying on his side, a little bit curled up on himself, Frenchie looks at Izzy, who is watching him carefully. “Get some rest. I’ll bring you some food later.”
Izzy goes to leave, but Frenchie grabs his hand and his attention before he can get away. “Will you stay with me?” He asks, weakly, and a little pathetic.
Izzy’s shoulders soften as he takes the half-step back towards his husband. “You know these idiots can’t do anything on their own,” he murmurs, smiling a little bit apologetically. Izzy would rather be here, making sure Frenchie’s okay, as opposed to with the crew, playing spectator as they organize the loot.
“Just for a minute,” Frenchie pleads. He doesn’t need much convincing; Izzy gives him a nod and carefully sits on the edge of the bed. He keeps holding Frenchie’s hand, and the other hand comes up to rest on Frenchie’s side. “Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble to sit with you for a minute,” Izzy grumbles, rolling his eyes, but stroking Frenchie’s side lovingly. “Trust me, I’d rather watch over you than watch over them. But they need more guidance than you do.” Frenchie scoffs and rolls his eyes in disagreement. “Don’t start huffing at me, mate. You’re going to be just fine. The jury’s still out on that lot, especially without a babysitter.”
Frenchie sucks in a deep breath, and slowly releases it, sinking further into bed. “I knew I was fucked up, but I didn’t think it was this bad,” he mumbles.
“No, love,” Izzy murmurs back, leaning down towards him. It’s not a comfortable position; his prosthetic pinches tightly against his leg. It’s worth it, though, to lend Frenchie a little comfort. “No, you’re alright.”
Frenchie’s not sure if that’s true or not, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he enjoys the feeling of his man leaned against him. He squeezes the hand Izzy’s holding gently and gives him a small smile. The more he comes back out of his head and into his body, the more he feels his own screaming exhaustion. His eyes begin to droop.
After a few minutes, more than Frenchie thought he’d get, but still not nearly enough, Izzy leans down and presses a soft kiss to Frenchie’s cheek. Frenchie doesn’t even open his eyes, just tilting his chin in the right way to steal a kiss from Izzy’s lips. “I’ll be back,” Izzy promises, softer than velvet. “Get some rest. You don’t even have to fucking sleep if you can’t, I just want you to lie here. Yeah?”
“Okay,” Frenchie whispers, peeking an eye up at Izzy.
“And try not to think,” Izzy suggests.
Frenchie snorts, giving Izzy a weak ‘a-okay’ with his hand. “No problem,” he agrees. “I definitely got that in the bag.” Izzy narrows his eyes at Frenchie but doesn’t further comment. Instead, Izzy presses another soft kiss to Frenchie’s cheek, then hoists himself off of the edge of the bed. When he gets to the door, he hears Frenchie mutter a soft, “Love you.”
Izzy stops in the doorway and turns to look at Frenchie with soft eyes. Frenchie’s got his eyes closed, and he almost looks restful, if not for the slight crease between his brows and around his mouth. “I love you, too,” Izzy murmurs back, quiet, but knowing that Frenchie would hear him. He watches Frenchie for a moment or two, and then a moment or two longer, before he drags himself back into the deck.
Frenchie floats in his body for some amount of time. Working his way up from the tips of his toes, he checks in with every part of his body. Somewhere between the knees and the hips, Frenchie dozed off, only waking when he feels the bed dip. He opens his eyes to see Izzy carefully undoing the straps to his prosthetic. On the little table by the bed is a flagon, likely full of water, an orange, and two biscuits. Frenchie watches as Izzy removes his wooden leg and sets it aside, then rubs at the tender stump. Frenchie knows that it still aches, and that, some days, the nerves are so raw that Izzy can hardly stand it.
“Do you need your salve?” Frenchie asks, knowing it’s on the other side of the room, which means Izzy can’t exactly reach it.
Izzy jumps a little and looks over his shoulder at Frenchie. “Nah, it’s not bad today,” he says, visibly softening as he looks at Frenchie. He resituate himself to turn more toward’s Frenchie, reaching a hand to the other side of the bed to loom over him. “How are you feeling?”
Frenchie blinks a few times as he turns his head toward Izzy. “Better, I think,” he sighs.
Izzy nods, assured by that, knowing Frenchie won’t lie to him about that. “Alright,” he accepts. “Do you want to eat something?”
“Not right now,” Frenchie shakes his head. “I just want a cuddle.”
Izzy smiles, warm and soft, down to Frenchie, then he gives a steady nod. “I can have that arranged,” he says. He lets his eyes linger on Frenchie for a few moments, and then he crawls in behind Frenchie to spoon him. Frenchie wriggles back into him, pulling his arms more firmly around Frenchie. When Izzy kisses the juncture of his shoulder and neck, Frenchie sighs, contentedly. “How’s the Box?” His voice his low, knowing it’s a touchy subject right now, but he doesn’t want Frenchie to lock down again.
“Closed,” Frenchie says, and it would be conversational if it weren’t so quiet. “Secure. But—. I should probably work on—. Y’know. Clearing it all out.”
“A little bit at a time is okay,” Izzy promises. “It’s not going to be all gone in a day or a week or a year. And that’s okay. You can talk to me, or to Wee John, and I bet Jim would give you a listen, too. You don’t have to do this on your own. You’re not on your own.”
Frenchie nods and pulls Izzy even closer, until Izzy is practically on top of him. “I’ll work on it,” he promises, softly. “Anytime I tell you that I don’t want to, I want you to remind me of how shit I feel right now.”
Izzy chuckles softly and kisses Frenchie’s jaw. “Okay,” Izzy agrees. “I think I can manage that.” Izzy can feel the way Frenchie’s muscles relax in his arms. Slowly, Frenchie’s breathing evens out, and he falls asleep pressed against Izzy.
Izzy’s not a religious man. As a lad, his mother would make him go to church, but the last time he’d been in one was for his wedding to Maggie. He’s not one for prayer. He’s not even sure if he believes in God like that, after all he’s seen and done. But, as he holds Frenchie, Izzy thinks about angels. He thinks about impossible beings who do the Lord’s bidding, who protect those who need protecting. He’s grateful for the angels who have been protecting his man, he’s grateful for the woman who showed his Frenchie what love is under impossible circumstances. He thinks about Frenchie’s mother, and about Sophie, and he thinks they must be angels, too. How could they not be? Izzy doesn’t believe in a higher power, but he believes that Frenchie is an angel, just for him. He’s battered and worn, like the rest of the crew, but he beams a light Izzy’s never known. He heals the parts of Izzy he thought were too old to be healed. Even his voice when he sings silly songs is angelic.
Frenchie twitches in his sleep, just on the wrong side of violently. Izzy holds his steady and soothes him without waking him. He decides he’d spend his life like this, every day, if it meant he got to keep Frenchie. He loves Frenchie, every part of him, even his trauma. He’ll help Frenchie all the way through this, and love him all the same. And in Frenchie’s dream, he’s a child, running through endless woods, the fear of death hot on his feet, but he feels a comfort around him, a knowing that he’s not really there, and that he’s safe.