Work Text:
A few extra screws
Tom briefly surfaces, not for air, but to get a look at his surroundings. Not that he could see much, as Aqua Laguna drove the waves high enough to swamp the sidewalks, but a few landmarks registered, helped to orient the fishman, and he quickly dove again.
Said he needed a few extra screws
Foolish. Foolish, stupid, short-sighted - thinking a kid who’d grown up at sea would be appropriately wary of storms, would know how to take shelter and stay put. Assuming that Franky would give Aqua Laguna the same respect as those who’d grown up in Water 7. Not that Tom counted among their number either, of course, being a native of Fishman Island; but it only took one experience with the fearsome annual storm to hammer home the seriousness of her strength.
One time out in the howling wind and powerful waves for a fishman meant some bruises the next day, where he’d gotten slammed against underwater buildings a few times.
One time out in the storm for a tiny, scrawny, slip of a human child would mean certain death.
Hey Iceburg, where’s Franky gotten to?
Out in the workshop, said he needed a few extra screws
Nah, I just came from the workshop, he ain’t out there
...oh shit
The next time Tom surfaces, he catches the tail end of a bitten-off shriek, the pitch ever so subtly different from the screaming gale. A powerful kick launches him up out of the water, better able to see, to search, to spot- there. He twists coming back down, cutting smoothly through the next wave. Two more kicks and a careful spin, and Tom comes up at the base of a tower that’s more wood than stone at this point, looking liable to tip over with only a few more impacts from the rising tide.
Halfway up, clinging like a barnacle, is his kid.
“FRANKY,” Tom bellows, loud as any foghorn. Instantly the boy’s screwed-shut eyes pop open. At the same time, though, it’s clear the last of his strength gives out. Another shriek as the kid slips, bare feet and fingers scrabbling to try and get a grip back on the soaked wood planks, even as he falls down to a point where the waves can easily hit and whisk him away- “IT’S OKAY, KID, JUST DROP! I GOTCHA!”
It’s only been a few months since Franky first came home with him. Since Iceburg declared ‘Cutty Flam’ to be stupid and bestow the younger boy with a nickname. Since Kokoro tutted about adjusting their budget to account for another mouth to feed, but with a smile on her face as she said it.
Not long enough for the kid to learn to take Tom seriously when he said Aqua Laguna is no joke.
But just long enough, apparently, for Franky to let go.
He tumbles gracelessly towards the waves, away from the tower he must’ve climbed in frantic desperation once he realized walking back to the workshop wouldn’t be an option as the canals overflowed. Tom surges up and catches him just before the kid can hit the water. They both still submerge, after, as another wave rises, but at least it’s a softer landing in Tom’s arms, and they do a far better job of keeping Franky from being swept away than the boy’s own.
A few extra screws. Hell. He almost lost this brat over screws. Which Franky probably didn’t even manage to get, considering the hour at which he went out; every supply shop owner with a pinch of sense will have boarded up their businesses and homes alike to wait out the store, yet another thing Franky has yet to learn about life in Water 7.
Not the time to lecture him, though. Not when he’s soaking wet and trembling, clinging to Tom’s vest with a white-knuckled grip. Still. Tom can’t resist saying this much, at least: “When I tell you to live your life with gusto, kid, this isn’t the sort of thing I’m talking about!”
He says it with as light a tone as he can manage, swimming one-handed back up the street, aiming for the quickest way home. Franky doesn’t reply. Just buries his face against Tom’s shoulder and keeps on trembling. And crying, Tom realizes, when a momentary dip in the wind lets him just pick up the sound of a sob.
Hell. A few damn screws.
He keeps quiet and focuses on swimming as fast as possible, without risking the apprentice tucked close.
Iceburg is actively pacing when they get back, Tom shoving quickly through the rear door and slamming the heavy metal slab back into place, locking the mechanism that keeps it sealed water-tight. As soon as he turns, his older boy is there, practically climbing up to get at Franky. “You idiot, we told you everyone stays home during Aqua Laguna, where’d you get hurt?!”
Tom almost says the kid’s fine, just wet, but that’s before Franky lets out a faint hiss and carefully extends one of his hands. There’s raw skin on his fingers and palms, a couple of nails torn to the quick. Even as Tom stares, taken aback, a few more beads of blood ooze up and drip away, falling to the floor. Iceburg lets out a hiss of his own, sounding sympathetic, before grabbing onto Tom and practically hauling them both through the interior door.
Even with Kokoro gone to shelter in place with her family, the kitchen is warm, full of a sweet, comforting scent. There are some candles burning, and both kettles on the stove, the smaller one they use for tea and the big one usually reserved for early morning coffee. A stack of towels is perched on the table, ready to be put to use drying off both Tom and Franky; the fishman handles himself just fine, while Iceburg grumbles under his breath as he scrubs down the younger boy.
‘Useless brat not worth the berri spent to clothe him’, ha, and yet Iceburg goes and drops his nicest warm sweater over Franky’s head as soon as the kid is dry enough. Tom was never quite so snarly with his own younger brother, but he recognizes the care in how Iceburg goes about this, in the gentle way he smoothes some ointment over damaged skin before wrapping up the kid's injuries.
The smaller kettle is indeed full of tea, which is promptly poured into a pair of mugs sized for hands of very different sizes. The bigger one apparently is just full of hot water, which Iceburg dumps into their biggest casserole dish directly in front of Franky’s chair. “Put you feet in that, it’ll help you keep from catching cold.”
Franky gives him a baffled stare, almost but not quite back to his usually grumpy self. “H-how, exactl-ly?” Ah, teeth are still chattering, though. That’s not a good sign in humans.
“I don’t know how, just that it does, so shut up and do it, Flunky.”
“S-screw you, Ice-for-br-bruh-brains.”
“At least I’m not the one who got ‘screwed’, going out for screws-!”
“Boys,” Tom rumbles. Still not the time for lectures. Iceburg backs off with a huff, retreating towards their cupboards, probably in search of something else to do to distract himself.
Franky, well. Franky peers down at the bowl of steaming water, biting his lower lip with obvious hesitance. Tom doesn’t need to encourage him, though. The kid slowly eases both feet in of his own accord, and slumps back with a shaky sigh as the heat must do him some good.
His full, proper lecture can wait until morning, when the world is bright with sunshine reflecting off settled waves once more. But. In the meantime. Tom reaches over to gently set his hand on top of Franky’s head, and ruffle half-dry hair. “Don’t scare us like that again, okay?”
“Won’t.”
“Good boy.”