Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Frenchie went to bed late. His coat had seen some hurt in their raid that day, and he’d wanted to fix it up. By the time he’d been able to sit down and work at it, the blood had set in, and it took some doing to wash it out. Then he’d started mending the big tear in the shoulder. Not as time-sensitive as the bloodstains, he knew—rips and gashes could keep—but no doubt there’d be a fresh melee for them tomorrow. No time to let things breathe when every day was just the same now.

So he’d sat up, carefully drawing his needle back and forth through the long tear, reinforcing the stitches so they’d hold better. Not thinking about the bloke who’d torn it, how he’d sagged as he clung onto Frenchie’s coat when the cat claws went into his guts. No, he wouldn’t think about that.

But it meant that, when he was finally finished with his coat, the hold was as quiet as it ever got. Nothing but the snores of some of the other crew and the soft creaks of the ship. And Blackbeard, of course, rattling round overhead somewhere. Frenchie wasn’t sure if he ever slept.

Frenchie couldn’t relate, he loved a good bit of TLC. He blew out his candle and stretched out on the floor of the hold—they’d called it the rec center, before. No scarf to wrap round his eyes anymore, but they were below deck, so that was fine. He rested his head on a sack and spread his coat over him for a blanket. Nothing like relaxing into sweet oblivion for a while.

…But Frenchie couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t know why. His body was tired enough for it, but his head was buzzing. Hadn’t slept much last night, come to think of it. Or the night before. Could you catch a lack of sleep from somebody else?

Frenchie turned on his side, rolled onto his back, curled up tight, but nothing helped. Finally, he sat back up with a quiet groan, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“You okay?”

Jim’s voice, low and husky in the gloom of the hold. Lying not too far from Frenchie, they pushed themselves up to a sitting position. The way their eyes peered at Frenchie in the dark like a cat made him shiver a bit.

“Oh, yeah,” Frenchie replied. “You know me. I’m always fine. Just keep getting on with it, you know? Only….” Somehow, he heard himself asking, “Would you maybe wanna sleep together?”

Jim shifted round a little, and their eyes slid away from him. “Oh,” they mumbled. “Listen, Frenchie, I don’t really—”

“Sorry,” he broke in with a sigh. “I wouldn’t ask, but I‘ve not been sleeping.” He was all arms and elbows, limbs going everywhere—they did that sometimes, moved without him meaning to. “I-I’m just tired.”

“Oh!” Jim said again. “You mean, like, actual sleep?”

Frenchie frowned. “Yeah. What’d you think I meant?”

Jim shook their head. “Never mind.”

“I did say ‘sleep,’ didn’t I?” Frenchie asked. “My words don’t always come out right when my head’s muddled, and—”

“Yeah,” Jim interrupted. “Yeah, it’s fine. Get over here.”

With a nod, Frenchie rose, sidestepping their sleeping crewmates. He moved to Jim and sat down beside them, draping his coat back over his legs.

“Do you wanna, like…talk about it or something?” Jim asked warily.

“Like fuck I do,” Frenchie told them. “Just wanna feel somebody close is all. And…” he glanced down, his fingers fidgeting, “and maybe a cuddle, if you fancy it? We don’t have to do anything else. I don’t want—” He cut himself off. “I mean, I know you and I are both missing people. But we’re here, and I just thought, well, might be nice. A bit of comfort, you know?”

Jim was quiet for a minute as they turned this over in their mind. “What the hell?” they finally said with a shrug. “Why not?”

They both lay back down, a bit awkward as they navigated how to fit themselves together. “So just…” Jim ventured.

“Sort of like…” Frenchie said.

“Maybe like this…?” Jim wondered.

They wound up holding each other, tucked up close with Jim’s head under Frenchie’s chin. “Is this okay?” Jim asked.

Frenchie nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “I used to do this with Wee John sometimes. I knew I’d miss him after…I mean, well, after everything. But I hadn’t realized how much I’d miss this.” Jim felt warm in his arms, and he gave them a soft squeeze. 

“Really? You and Wee John?” Jim said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Uh huh,” Frenchie replied. “He’s a good mate.” He was hit with a wistful feeling that gave him a pang in his stomach, and he cleared his throat as he tried to shrug it away. “How ‘bout you? All right?”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Yeah, this is…kinda nice, I guess?” They shifted a little. “God, you’re built like a matchstick.”

Frenchie felt his mouth twitch into a rueful smile. “Sorry I’m not Olu,” he remarked.

Jim took Frenchie’s hand and clasped it. “...Sorry I’m not Wee John.”

“That’s okay,” Frenchie told them. “Guess we’ll just be us, and do our best, eh?”

“Right,” Jim agreed. After another moment of quiet, they asked, “Do you think you can sleep now?”

“I hope so,” Frenchie said. “No, I-I think so.”

Jim held him a bit tighter. “Close your eyes,” they instructed.

“Oh, right.”

“That’s step one,” Jim told him, with a hint of a quiet smile in their voice.

“Yeah,” Frenchie said. In Jim’s arms, he could feel the tense pinch in his shoulders begin to unwind, and the heavy, sleepy feeling in his body seemed to be working its way up to his head. He closed his eyes, hoping he was finally nearing a bit of sweet oblivion.

Chapter Text

Frenchie and Jim didn’t sleep beside each other every night. Jim was guarded as a rule, and Frenchie was guarded when the situation called for it, and their situation now definitely called for it. Besides, sticking to one another all the time would just mark them as the odd ones out, the scared pups from Stede’s crew. And that wasn’t them anymore, was it?

But at least a few times a week, they found their way to each other. Frenchie was relieved the first time Jim had been the one seeking him out for a nighttime cuddle, glad that it wasn’t only him. He always found it easier to sleep when Jim was holding him, and he liked the thought that he could do the same for them.

They both fumbled their way along, and Frenchie found himself getting sort of used to what their lives had become. The daily grind of blood and fighting was its own kind of predictable, he supposed, and he guessed a person could get used to most anything if they had to. It helped when he could sleep.

Every now and then, though, something still came by to knock him sideways. Like the day they hauled Ivan back from a raid bleeding. Frenchie knew that blood was just a part of their lives, but there was so much blood.

Ivan’s head lolling, the splutter of blood dripping from his mouth. The red streaks as they laid him out on the deck, because trying to move him was putting him in so much pain. Frenchie’s feet slipping as the blood pooled around Ivan. Groans, then gurgling rattles, then silence.

They all stood round, staring down at the body. Then Blackbeard said, “Right. Somebody clean this up.” His voice was dull, his eyes lightless. He walked away.

Fang was shaking, and Jim was staring through Ivan’s body like they were seeing someone else. “You heard what your captain said,” Izzy barked, but there was a nervy edge in his voice. He shoved Frenchie and Archie. “You and you, take care of--” his voice caught on something, only for a second, “--just fucking take care of it.”

Frenchie met Archie’s eyes and nodded. “I’ll get something to wrap him up,” Frenchie said quietly. 

“Okay,” Archie replied. “I’ll grab a couple mops.” She hadn’t been with them long, and Frenchie didn’t know her well yet, but not much seemed to faze Archie.

They followed their orders. That was the easiest way to get along here—you did as you were told, you didn’t question it, and you didn’t think about it too hard. Once it was done and Frenchie had cleaned off his coat, he washed his hands until all the blood was gone, but he still couldn’t shake the sticky feel of it.

“You all right?” Jim asked as he trudged down to the hold.

“All right enough,” Frenchie told them. “You?”

Jim shrugged. They sat slumped forward with their elbows on their knees, eyes fixed on the empty space ahead of them. Frenchie reached down and gave their hand a squeeze.

The quiet touch pulled Jim out of whatever haze they were stuck in, and they glanced up at Frenchie. “You look like shit,” they observed.

“Yeah, I guess that tracks,” Frenchie admitted. He rubbed his face with his free hand, then let it trail upward to sink into his hair.

For a long minute, neither of them said anything. Frenchie knew Jim didn’t want to talk about any of it, and by now, they were getting to know him well enough that they probably knew he didn’t want to either. Just being close, that was enough.

Frenchie was the one to break the silence, frowning as he looked round the hold. “Where’s Fang?” he asked.

“He went off by himself somewhere,” Jim replied. “Jam room, I think.”

It was funny that they still called it that. No instruments anymore—right at the start, Blackbeard had had them toss it all overboard, along with Stede’s books and fancy clothes and things. Frenchie still missed the lute, still found his fingers forming chords sometimes when he needed to relax himself.

Giving Jim’s hand one final squeeze, Frenchie stretched, then made his way to the room formerly known as the jam room. But he realized he wouldn’t have needed Jim to tell him where—he could hear Fang crying from halfway down the hall. “All right, mate?” he asked softly as he poked his head in.

Fang shook his head, letting out a whimper as tears streamed down his cheeks. Frenchie stepped inside. “I, er, I’m sorry about Ivan,” he said. “I didn’t know him nearly as well as you did, but he was a good bloke.” 

Fang nodded, drawing in a shuddery breath. Frenchie walked over to where he was sitting and rested his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “B-Blackbeard just walked a-away,” Fang cried. “Ivan was with us f-for years, and he d-didn’t even….”

“Yeah, that was a bit uncalled for,” Frenchie said. At this point, Blackbeard carried himself a lot like a ghost, so Frenchie wouldn’t have expected much different, but it had obviously had an effect on Fang. “Ivan didn’t deserve that.”

“N-no,” Fang agreed, “he didn’t. And Blackbeard, th-that’s not like him.”

Frenchie couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he stood awkwardly in silence for a while as Fang continued to cry. Finally, he asked, “You wanna…cuddle about it?”

Those words seemed to shake Fang out of his lament a little. Sniffling, he turned to Frenchie, a curious look in his eyes as they focused on him. “Wh-what?”

“I’m not very good at the talking bit, sorry,” Frenchie admitted. “But I can just be here. If it’ll help.”

“O-okay,” Fang said, sniffling again. “I-I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” Frenchie said, offering him a wisp of an encouraging smile. “All right, here.”

They both sat leaning against the wall. Frenchie put his arms round Fang, who wrapped Frenchie tightly in his. “Mmmph,” Frenchie grunted.

“Oh, is th-that too hard?” Fang asked.

“No, I—it’s good,” Frenchie replied. “It’s fine with me. Squeeze as tight as you like, I can take it.”

So Fang hugged Frenchie like he was trying to squeeze the stuffing out of him, and there was something safe in the strong embrace. Something familiar.

Frenchie remembered the feeling of lying on the deck with Wee John, his scarf wrapped round his eyes and his mate’s big arms wrapped round his body. Tight and strong and safe.

He suddenly noticed that his eyes felt hot, and as Frenchie shifted a little to rub them, he realized that they were welling up.

“H-hey,” Fang said softly. His grip loosened as he touched Frenchie’s chin, lightly raising it so Fang could see his face. “You okay?”

Frenchie was pretty sure that ought to be his line and not Fang’s, who was still in the middle of a proper cry. “Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out husky. “Yeah, I just needed this too, man. I really needed this today.”

He was about to mention Wee John, then realized it probably wouldn’t do to talk about the friend he was missing when Fang’s friend was dead. But if Frenchie liked it when Jim was the one coming to him, maybe it would help Fang to know he wasn’t the only one getting comfort right now.

Fang gave him another firm squeeze. “Anytime y-you need it, you come f-find me, okay?” 

It looked like Frenchie was right—there Fang was, dripping tears, and still he wanted to look out for Frenchie. So he said, “Thanks, mate. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He and Jim weren’t scared pups, he decided. They weren’t so different from the rest of the crew, and not just because they were getting used to all the raids and violence. No, the rest of the crew wasn’t so different from them, either. Frenchie’s matchstick arms couldn’t equal Fang’s or Wee John’s, but he held onto the grieving man as tight as he could.

Chapter Text

As the weeks went on, Frenchie found himself curled up with either Jim or Fang most nights. Both of them together now and then, after the toughest days. Frenchie’s system for locking away his bad memories held up just fine, and he never really ruminated on the things he’d seen and done. But it was like his body didn’t get the message, because it got so he could only ever sleep if he was holding onto someone.

He and Jim had never been all that close when they were on Stede’s crew, even after Jim had started talking, but they were kind of proper mates now—Frenchie liked that. And Fang was a sweet guy, although he kissed Frenchie a couple times when they were cuddling. Once a soft peck on the forehead that Frenchie didn’t take much notice of, and once a gentle, tentative kiss on the mouth.

“O-oh,” Frenchie mumbled after the second time. “I don’t, er…can we skip that bit?”

Fang frowned, a little confused. “You mean you don’t want to?” he asked, drawing back. “I just thought…”

“No offense, mate—I mean, you’re a good guy and all,” Frenchie fumbled. “But I’m not after anything but cuddles. I-I’m just not looking for that sort of thing right now, from anybody.” He was never looking for it, truth be told. But that was the part that was always harder to explain.

They’d pulled apart now, and Frenchie sat up, arms resting on his tucked-up knees. “I didn’t realize,” Fang murmured.

“It’s all right, really,” Frenchie assured him. “I could’ve said something before. Could’ve been clearer, or whatever.”

It’d be easier if this stuff didn’t blindside him. But it never occurred to Frenchie that other folks might be thinking about him that way, not until he ran smack into moments like this.

As he grabbed one of his coils and started twisting it, Frenchie braced himself at the thought of losing the warm safety of Fang’s arms round him. “If that’s not enough for you, I get it,” he said. “We—“ he grimaced, “we don’t have to do this anymore if you….”

But as he trailed off, Fang said, “No, we don’t have to stop.” He offered Frenchie his hand. “We’ll just be mates, okay?”

Relief flooded through Frenchie, and he slipped his hand into Fang’s. “Okay,” he agreed, nodding. “Good man, Fang.” Lying back down beside his friend, he let his eyes fall closed.

Then came the day they raided the wedding.

Jim gawked at Izzy. “You want us to throw this treasure away so we can steal more treasure?” they asked incredulously.

Good word, incredulous. Not just confused, but so confused it pissed you off. Like, how dare you say something that batshit to me? And it was definitely an incredulous sort of day.

Because that’s the order they’d just been given: toss all the loot overboard. Izzy had said they needed to lighten the load so they could catch up with the next ship they were chasing.

Frenchie had learned to cope with the endless raids, but now they weren’t even getting anything out of it? Was the sum total of their plunder today the cake they’d eaten? Sure, it was delicious cake and all. But what was the fucking point of that?

“Yeah, that definitely makes no sense, man,” Frenchie said, shaking his head. Just because he spoke his words more lightly than Jim, it didn’t mean he thought the situation was any less maddening.

Not that Frenchie’s light touch made any difference to Izzy. “It is not your place to tell me what does or does not make sense,”the first mate growled at him. “It is your job to f--” His voice broke. He tried again, more forcefully. “To follow my fucking orders!”

He was clinging to his authority by a thread. As Frenchie glanced at Jim, he knew they saw it too.

Fang approached Izzy gently. He asked, “How you doing, Izzy? Eh?”

As he reached out to touch Izzy’s shoulder, the first mate insisted, “I'm fine. Unhand me.” He shrugged Fang’s hand away with a gesture that looked dismissive but felt desperate. “Unhand me.”

“You really don't seem fine,” Fang offered.

“Yeah,” Jim ventured in a hesitant tone, exchanging another wary glance with Frenchie. “We think you're in an…unhealthy relationship with Blackbeard.”

“Oh yeah,” Archie agreed. “Yeah, that guy does a lot of rhino horn.”

“Yeah, and he's cut off at least two more of your toes, hasn't he?” Frenchie pointed out. He winced; everyone had seen Izzy limping. “It all seems fairly toxic to me, mate.”

And then, Izzy started to whimper.

Shit, had Frenchie just broken Izzy? This was why you didn’t talk about this stuff. Frenchie had said one thing, and he’d made Izzy fucking Hands cry.

But as Frenchie froze up, Fang stepped into action. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured. “Hey, Izz.” He wrapped his arms round Izzy in the safe, comforting embrace that Frenchie had come to know well.

Frenchie reckoned Fang was a better man than he was. But then, Fang had known Izzy longer, hadn’t he? Most of what Frenchie knew of Izzy didn’t leave much to recommend him: besides constantly barking orders at them like they were idiots, Frenchie still remembered Izzy dueling Stede on his own ship, giving them up to the English, and sneering at them on the deck while he made Fang and Ivan serve him. This guy needs a cuddle wasn’t something Frenchie had ever thought when he looked at Izzy.

But Fang might remember a different Izzy, someone he knew when they were both younger. Besides, whatever fucked-up thing Izzy had going on with Blackbeard, it clearly wasn’t working out like he’d hoped. He might be a bastard, but he was a poor bastard too.

Maybe comfort wasn’t something you deserved. Maybe it was just something you needed.

So Frenchie stepped forward. He didn’t put his arms round Izzy like Fang had done. He wasn’t sure it’d feel natural on him, and Izzy might sense bullshit in it—a pity hug was worse than no hug at all. And anyway, Fang was already doing a bang-up job of that part on his own. But Frenchie grabbed Izzy’s hand, giving it a squeeze as he interlaced his fingers with other man’s. This much closeness, at least, he could give.

Izzy fought them, tried to wrestle away even as he kept up his tear-choked groans, but Fang held him tight. “Shh, it's alright,” he assured Izzy. “Hey, hey. Shh, it's alright.”

Fang rocked Izzy slowly from side to side, and Frenchie swayed in time with them. “Am I crushing you?” Fang crooned. “There we are. Shh, it’s alright….”

As Frenchie kept squeezing Izzy’s hand, the angry little man suddenly squeezed back.

Gradually, Izzy stopped trying to push them off. He gave into Fang’s cuddles and Frenchie’s hand in his, and they held him as he cried out the misery that had been building up in him for lord knows how long.

Chapter Text

When Stede found them, Frenchie’s relief was quickly mixed with dread. Everybody thought Stede had dumped Blackbeard, but now it turned out Stede had been pining to get back to him all this time? After the mutiny, Frenchie wasn’t sure how this could turn out well for them. 

And he really didn’t like the looks Captain Zheng’s first mate was giving them. Her shrewd eyes felt like needles poking Frenchie’s brain.

Still, for now they were alive, so it was glass half full, wasn’t it? Frenchie huddled on the deck of Captain Zheng’s ship, sitting with a blanket over his shoulders and inhaling soup with noodles like he couldn’t get it down quick enough.

Something in his head told him he probably ought to slow down, that he was going to make himself sick. But he was so hungry, and the warm bowl in his hands felt like comfort—he couldn’t make himself stop.

Stede was pushing at Jim, Archie, and Fang, wanting to know where Blackbeard was, and although Stede wasn’t always the most clued-in person, even he was picking up on the nervous glances they were giving one another. “Why can't I get a straight answer from any of you?” he demanded.

Frenchie followed as Izzy tottered up to a standing position, leaning heavily on his crutch as he limped over to Stede. “Bonnet,” Izzy said in what passed for a congenial tone. “Good to see you.”

“Piss off, Izzy,” Stede sniped. “I don't wanna hear from you. Frenchie?”

Frenchie had lifted his bowl to his lips to slurp up some of his broth. “Yeah?” he mumbled, looking up.

“Where is Ed?” Stede pressed. His eyes weren’t like needles in Frenchie’s head, but they did feel like a punch in his belly. Or maybe that was just from eating too fast—not to mention, that seagull hadn’t gone down too well. Frenchie hoped that was it, but given Stede’s forlorn look, he was pretty sure it was guilt gnawing at him.

“Er, he retired,” Frenchie said, thinking quick.

“What?” Stede asked. He searched each face as though he might find Blackbeard hiding behind one of them. “Why are you all looking at each other?”

Jim had Archie now, and because it turned out the others were all still alive, that meant they had Olu too. And Fang had Lucius maybe? They probably didn’t need Frenchie anymore, not for somebody to hold at night. But lying was something he could do for them—call it his last official act as first mate, or else a parting gift from a friend. Everyone was acting way too shifty, and Frenchie was better at this sort of thing than they were.

So he explained to Stede, “When you get old, if you don't wanna work anymore, you can just give up, I guess.”

“Yeah, I know what retirement is,” Stede replied, and the lost look in his eyes made Frenchie feel like such a dick.

The others chimed in, latching onto Frenchie’s lie and repeating it. As Stede looked round at all of them, Frenchie wolfed down another enormous mouthful of noodles. If his stomach was going to hurt, he wanted it to be from something other than guilt.

Stede didn’t sound convinced. “What about my painting?” he asked. “Why is it all stabbed up?”

“That was me,” Izzy replied, and Frenchie had to admit, he was impressed at the smoothness of the lie.

But none of it made any difference with Stede. He just sighed and walked away from them, looking hurt. 

As Frenchie stood there feeling like a fucking disappointment, he suddenly caught sight of Wee John, who sat knitting a little ways off. With his first genuine smile in days, Frenchie sauntered over to his former roommate, bumping fists with him.

“All right, mate?” Frenchie asked, taking a seat next to Wee John.

“I think I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking that,” he pointed out. “What the hell happened to Izzy? And they said you guys were eating a raw seagull?”

“Yeah, not my best moment,” Frenchie admitted. “It’s been—well, we’ve had a pretty fucking crazy time of it.” He slurped down the rest of his broth and wiped his mouth.

“Bottling it up?” Wee John asked.

“Well, yeah,” Frenchie replied. “That’s the healthy thing to do, I figure.”

Wee John nodded. “D’you want a cuddle?”

“God, yes,” Frenchie said. He shrugged his blanket off, leaving his empty bowl behind, and headed below deck with Wee John.

When Blackbeard kept Frenchie and Jim, they’d not known what had happened to the others, if they were alive or dead. He’d tried not to think about Wee John being dead. Only now, seeing Wee John again, Frenchie’s voice was nonchalant but his hands at his sides were fidgeting, and he could feel them shaking a little.

Wee John knew his way round Captain Zheng’s ship all right. He led Frenchie to a storeroom filled with blue uniforms. It was strange to think of, pirates having uniforms. One of the things Frenchie liked about being a pirate was being able to wear whatever he could put together. He wondered if anyone on this ship got to wear bright-colored scarves or have wicked-looking cats sewn onto the back of their coats.

“We all sleep in a big row on deck, but I thought you’d like someplace more private,” Wee John explained. “There’s a lot of commotion right now with all of you showing up, so I doubt anyone will be down here for a while.”

“Thanks, mate,” Frenchie said.

They piled a bunch of uniforms across the floor for a soft surface and lay down. Wee John pulled Frenchie into a tight squeeze, and he heard himself let out a long, grateful sigh.

“Oh lord,” Frenchie mumbled, burying his face in Wee John’s chest. So long as he held onto Wee John’s uniform, his hands didn’t shake.

“I know you don’t like talking about this kind of shit,” Wee John said. “We don’t ever have to talk about it if you don’t want to. You know me, I’m a nosy bitch, but I won’t ask you anything more about it. If my curiosity gets the better of me, I’ll pester one of the others.”

“Thanks,” Frenchie said again. “There’s a lot that I—” he shook his head. “There’s a lot, and I don’t wanna think about it.”

“Then let’s not,” Wee John told him. He stroked Frenchie’s temple with his thumb. “D’you wanna chat about something stupid, or do you just wanna take a nap?”

“God, a nap would be heaven,” Frenchie breathed. “I haven’t slept since—” since they’d killed Blackbeard, “—since the storm.”

Him, Fang, Jim, none of them had slept. The thought of Blackbeard made Frenchie’s belly clench, and he winced. Wee John must’ve felt him getting tense, because he asked, “You okay?”

“It’s fine,” Frenchie replied. “Stomach ache.”

Wee John chuckled lightly. “That’ll be the seagull,” he remarked.

Or the guilt. “Yeah, probably,” Frenchie agreed.

“Why don’t you turn round?” Wee John suggested. “Some little-spoon might be more comfortable for you.”

Frenchie did as Wee John said and rolled over, closing his eyes at the firm pressure of his friend’s hands across the chest. He hung on to Wee John’s wrist, just basking in the feeling of being close to his good mate again.

“Loving the coat, by the way,” Wee John said.

Frenchie smiled. “Me too.”

After all he’d done, right up to lying to Stede, Frenchie definitely didn’t deserve any comfort, but he needed it anyway. And whatever might be to come, at least Frenchie knew he wouldn’t fall apart right now, not while Wee John was there to hold him together.