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Frenchie was itching. It felt like he’d never stop itching. Skin crawling, scalping burning, eyes stinging—he knew he’d been through worse things in his life, but right this second, he couldn’t imagine anything feeling worse than this.
The rest of the crew was down in the galley, celebrating that they’d rid the ship of Stede’s cursed suit. Frenchie had sat with them, writhing and scratching through about half a drink before he had to get up. He had to do something, or his skin would explode. Out in the evening air, he paced the deck, furiously rubbing his itching eyes. “Arghhhh!” he cried as he tried in vain to reach an especially bad spot on his back.
He heard someone coming up from below deck. Frenchie turned, squinting through his watery eyes, and saw Roach carrying a box. “Mmm—h-hey,” Frenchie said. He leaned against the mast so he could scratch his back that way.
“Still feeling like shit, huh?” Roach asked. Frenchie nodded, gritting his teeth. “Captain said it might take a while for the effects to wear off, and Jim thought that made sense. You’re the only one who fully got hit with the curse, so you didn’t just go back to normal as soon as we gave the suit away.”
“Eurgh, it’s not fair,” Frenchie groaned, twisting himself round to scratch his left arm and his right knee. “How come I’m the only one?”
“Just unlucky, I guess,” Roach replied. He brought his box over to the railing. “Captain also said the curse must have tainted the peanuts or something, so he’s making me throw it all overboard.” He tossed the bag of peanuts into the sea, then picked up the jar of peanut paste he’d made. Giving it a sad look, Roach kissed the jar and threw it into the water as well.
“I didn’t think that’s how curses worked, but he wouldn’t listen to reason,” Roach griped, dropping the box at his feet. He dusted his hands off and walked over to Frenchie. “He kept repeating, ‘I’m your captain!’ in this weird stern voice.”
“Uh huh,” Frenchie said distractedly. This was another reason why he’d left the galley, apart from not feeling like celebrating. He wasn’t good company for anybody when all he could think about was how badly he wanted the itching to stop. He sank his fingers into his hair and scratched his head.
“I might be able to help you feel better,” Roach offered. “I have an idea.”
Frenchie sighed. “I’ll try anything,” he said. “Is it magic?”
“Medicine,” Roach told him. “Well, not really. Sort of. If it’s a matter of just waiting for the curse to wear off, this could make it so you’re not so uncomfortable while you wait.”
“Okay,” Frenchie agreed, nodding. He scratched his chest and blinked gingerly against the burning pain in his eyes. “What is it?”
“Give me half an hour to get things ready,” Roach said. “Meet me in Stede’s quarters.”
“All right,” Frenchie replied with another sigh. “I really hope it works, mate. I’m going mad here.” He writhed as a sudden itch bit into the back of his shoulder.
Roach gave him a reassuring pat on the cheek. “Half an hour,” he repeated.
Frenchie frowned down at the milky white liquid in the captain’s tub. “What’s wrong with the water?” he asked, scratching his neck with one hand and his thigh with the other. “Looks like it’s gone off.”
“I put oats in it!” Roach said with a grin, speaking in a tone that suggested he thought he was explaining himself.
“Babe, I know you’re the doctor and the cook,” Frenchie noted, “but I feel like those roles don’t overlap as much as you think they do.” He grimaced, rubbing his eyes.
“Look, would you just try it?” Roach urged. “The itching can’t get any worse, so either it helps or it doesn’t do anything.”
Frenchie let out an exhausted moan. Oh, what the hell—he said he’d try anything. “Fiiiine.”
He got his clothes off, wriggling as his skin felt alive with maddening pinpricks of stinging irritation. Grimacing, Frenchie stuck one foot, then the other, into the bath and lowered himself down. And felt…relief.
“Oh, fuck!” he exclaimed, sinking deeper into the silky-smooth oat water. It was comfortably warm, but as the water surrounded his legs and lower torso, it cooled the burning itch. “Oh my lord….”
“Heh, what do you think?” Roach asked proudly. “It’s good, right?”
Frenchie’s eyes were watering anyway, but now he could feel them welling up from sheer gratitude. “Roach, mate,” he said, a bit choked up. “Oh god, thank you—fuck!”
“Remember this moment the next time you doubt my abilities,” Roach told him. “It might not stop the itching altogether, but hopefully, it’ll give you enough relief that you can sleep tonight. With any luck, the curse will wear off by morning.”
He knelt down beside the tub. “Here, let’s make sure you get some all over,” he said. “I’ll do your back.”
“Y-yeah.” Frenchie nodded, sniffling a little as he wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. He started scooping up handfuls of the oat water and rubbing it onto his arms and chest.
“Don’t forget your face,” Roach reminded him. Wherever he rubbed the oat water on Frenchie’s back, Frenchie could feel it soothing his poor mistreated skin.
“Right,” Frenchie agreed. Oat water everywhere—on his cheeks, across his nose, under his chin.
“I probably shouldn’t put it on my eyes, should I?” he asked, turning to glance back at Roach. “Or should I? Maybe? Eyes?”
“I’m thinking no oat water in your eyes,” Roach replied flatly.
Frenchie sighed. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right,” he admitted. He blinked hard. Now that his skin was starting to feel better, it made his eyes seem that much worse.
Roach rubbed some of the oat water onto the back of Frenchie’s neck. “What about your head?” he asked. “I could try rubbing it into your scalp, but I don’t know how easy it’ll be to wash this shit out of your hair.”
“Oh,” Frenchie said, wincing; his itching head was on fire too. “Best not then.”
“Here,” Roach said. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it round Frenchie’s hair. “To keep it clean. Now take it easy. Just soak for a while—try to relax.”
Frenchie nodded, sinking as much of his long-limbed self beneath the water as he could manage. He rested his head on the lip of the tub. “Could you rub my eyes?” he asked.
“Sure, hang on.” Roach wiped off his hands, then reached over to firmly but gently rub Frenchie’s stinging eyes.
“Mmm. Cheers, m’dear—god….” Frenchie let out a relieved-sounding sigh. His fingers swirled through the milky water.
“Anytime,” Roach replied, shifting round so he could sit. “You know, when you think about it, there’s lots of ways you can use food as medicine: oranges for scurvy, sugar for hiccups, tea with lemon for a sore throat. Now oat water for a rash.”
“You’re like an actual genius, man,” Frenchie told him. “Smear jam on my forehead to stop a fever if you like. Whatever you say, I’ll do it.”
Roach laughed. “I’m glad it worked.”
After the third time Frenchie reached up to scratch his head through the towel, Roach asked, “Your scalp’s still pretty bad?”
Frenchie nodded. “My eyes too—and my beard,” he replied. “Anything that didn’t get the oat water feels even itchier by comparison now.”
Roach frowned in thought. “When you’re done in the bath, I’ll get some coconut oil for your hair,” he decided, “see if that helps your head any. And I’ll try to come up with something for your eyes.”
“Okay,” Frenchie agreed.
Giving his shoulder a squeeze, Roach rose to his feet. “Wait here,” he instructed. “I’ll go get the oils.”
“Mmm hmmm.”
Frenchie lay curled up in the tub with his eyes closed. He was a bit nervous to get out of the oat bath, scared that the itching would come back, but he couldn’t very well stay there all night. His fingers would get all wrinkly, and he’d catch a chill if he stayed under the water after it turned cold.
No, he’d have to come out. He just needed to trust that Roach was on top of it.
When the cook/doctor returned, he had jars of coconut oil and palm oil, both of which he always kept on hand. Nearly everyone brown on the ship made liberal use of them—Blackbeard, with all his curly hair, went through coconut oil like no tomorrow.
“Here we go,” Roach said, setting the jars down. “First let’s get you rinsed off.”
He’d saved a large pot full of non-milky water next to the tub, with a small pitcher beside it. Roach helped Frenchie stand up, then began pouring clean water over his skin.
“Here—let me get my arse and my bits,” Frenchie said. Roach refilled the pitcher, handing it to him, and Frenchie washed his privates.
Last of all, he stepped out of the tub and they rinsed his feet. Then Roach had Frenchie sit in a chair, a fresh towel laying across his lap. Frenchie rubbed palm oil over as much of his body as he could reach, while Roach worked the coconut oil into his hair and scalp. The combination of the oil and Roach’s patient fingers were like a soothe and a scratch, both in one.
“How’s that?” Roach asked. “Any better?”
“Some,” Frenchie replied. “Not as much as the rest of me, but it’s better than it was.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist.
Once Roach was finished with Frenchie’s head, he said, “Swap,” giving Frenchie the coconut oil. “Now lean forward.” Frenchie did, resting his elbows on his thighs and giving his beard a good scratch as he rubbed coconut oil into it.
“You should sleep next to me tonight,” Roach said, intently spreading palm oil over Frenchie’s back. “So I can look after you.”
“Fine by me,” Frenchie answered, nodding.
He wouldn’t say he felt comfortable by any stretch—his eyes still burned, his head still felt prickly, and while his body was much better, the itching hadn’t gone away entirely. But the difference was day and night.
“Don’t scratch if you can help it,” Roach instructed as he saw Frenchie scratching his shoulder. “Try to rub it instead.” He demonstrated, rubbing Frenchie’s shoulder with his knuckles instead of using his fingernails. Frenchie gave it a try. It helped, but….
“It’s no good, mate,” Frenchie said. “If I fall asleep, I know I’ll start scratching straight off.”
“Right,” Roach murmured. He frowned thoughtfully, then announced, “I can help with that. I might have something for your eyes too. Are you ready for bed?”
Frenchie nodded. “I’m knackered,” he admitted.
“I’m not surprised,” Roach replied. He handed Frenchie his clothes. “Get dressed, then go up on deck. The night air might feel good on your skin—we’ll sleep up there.”
“Okay,” Frenchie said. “Should we clean up?” He looked at the mess they’d made round the tub.
“If Captain asks, I’ll tell him to take care of it himself,” Roach retorted. “It’ll be a reminder of what happens when you meddle with curses.” He gathered up his oils and pots. “I’ll see you on deck.”
Slowly, Frenchie got himself dressed, blinking against the irritation in his eyes and trying to rub instead of scratch like Roach had told him. He decided against buttoning his shirt. If Roach was right that the cool air would be a help, Frenchie wanted more of his skin uncovered.
He passed the captains in the hall, holding hands and deep in conversation. Was that a dead fish Blackbeard was carrying? “Erm, don’t mind me,” Frenchie said, edging past them. They barely seemed to notice, which was handy—when Stede saw the tub, hopefully he wouldn’t draw any connection to Frenchie.
Up on deck, Roach was waiting for him. “Not the fun type of sleeping together, unfortunately,” Roach remarked, “but I don’t think you’re up for anything like that tonight.”
Frenchie frowned, wondering what sort of fun Roach had in mind. Telling spooky stories, a late-night arts and crafts session? “What?” he asked.
“Exactly,” Roach replied. “Here, sit down.” He’d arranged some sacks for pillows and had brought up a few blankets.
“Okay,” Frenchie said, rubbing at an itch on his chest as he settled in. “So you think you’ve got a way to stop me scratching?”
“Simple but effective,” Roach told him. He picked up a towel and started wrapping it round Frenchie’s hand.
“Oh, come on, really?” Frenchie groaned as Roach tied the towel on.
“Can you scratch?” Roach countered. Frenchie tried—he could make the motion, but his fingernails were tucked away beneath the towel. “See? Simple but effective.”
Frenchie sighed. “Fine,” he said, making a face.
Roach covered up Frenchie’s other hand. “Lie down,” he ordered, an odd mix of gentle and bossy.
Frenchie did as he said, pointing out, “I like wrapping my scarf round my eyes when I sleep on deck.”
“I know,” Roach replied. “I’ve got it.” He untied Frenchie’s scarf and pulled it loose.
Frenchie lifted his head a little so Roach could slip the scarf behind him while he covered Frenchie’s eyes. But then Frenchie flinched as something warm was set over them. “Wh-what?” he yelped, clumsily pushing the scarf up with his towel-wrapped hands. “What the hell?” he cried. “Why’ve you got hot rocks?”
Roach was holding a smooth oblong stone in either hand. “I thought the heat might soothe the irritation in your eyes,” he explained defensively. “Was it too hot?”
“Oh.” Frenchie’s alarm quieted down. “No—just startled me is all. Don’t put things on my face without telling me, man!”
“Okay, sorry,” Roach said. “Do you want to try it again? We don’t have to if—”
“No, i-it’s all right,” Frenchie told him. “We can try it.”
“All right.” Roach pulled the scarf back down over Frenchie’s eyes. “Now here’s one,” he said, gently setting a stone on Frenchie’s left eye, “and here’s two,” on his right. “How’s that?”
“Yeah,” Frenchie replied, nodding a little. “Yeah, that’s okay. I think it’s helping some.”
“Good,” Roach said. He wrapped the scarf round Frenchie’s head a second time, probably to hold the rocks down, then tied it in place. “We won’t leave them there all night. They’ll probably cool down after ten or fifteen minutes anyway.”
“Okay,” Frenchie said. He heard Roach lie down beside him. “Can you scratch my head?”
“Sure,” Roach told him. “Where?” Frenchie raised his toweled hand to show him, and soon Roach was giving the spot a good rub with his knuckles.
“Mmm,” Frenchie murmured gratefully. He turned himself toward Roach, who put an arm round him. “Thanks, mate—that’s perfect. Cheers for all this.”
“Of course,” Roach replied. “I take patient care very seriously.” He chuckled. “The others already thought it was weird when I started heating up all that water, but then stones? Pete probably thinks I’ve lost it.”
“I mean it,” Frenchie told him. “I hate feeling this way, and all you’ve done, it really helps.”
“I’m glad,” Roach said. “Now shut up. We don’t know how long the effects of the oat bath will last, and—”
“—And if the itch starts to come back worse, I wanna be asleep before that happens,” Frenchie finished.
“Right.” Roach drew Frenchie in a little closer, rubbing his back.
“Okay,” Frenchie said. “Night, Roach.”
“Good night,” Roach replied. “Feel better.”
“Mmm hmmm,” Frenchie mumbled back, idly rubbing at an itch on his arm. He could feel the day catching up with him, and he hoped he’d be asleep before long. Without his cook/doctor friend, he knew he wouldn’t have had a fighting chance. Tucking himself up against Roach, Frenchie concentrated on the lingering smoothness of the oat bath, the warm comfort of the stones over his eyes, and the reassuring presence of his mate beside him.