Chapter Text
Frenchie’s first day as captain of the Revenge was officially under his belt, and all things considered, he thought things had gone well. After they said goodbye to Stede and Blackbeard, Frenchie had had Zheng help him plot a course and they set off. Even though she’d forcefully removed herself from the running for captain, he’d still felt a bit weird asking the pirate queen for help.
“Look, just drop it,” she’d said after Frenchie’s second awkward apology. “I said I didn’t want to be captain, and I meant it. I’m not in the headspace for that right now.”
Peering over Zheng’s shoulder at the map, Frenchie had realized he was going to need help there too. He knew the Caribbean pretty well and had a decent lay of the land—well, sea—but there were a shitload of islands out here, and as he’d puzzled over the map, it occurred to him that he couldn’t name every one by sight. All right for Zheng, ‘cause she could read it. But Frenchie didn’t want to go mixing up Tortuga and Antigua or something. So he’d made plans with Lucius to sit down tomorrow and go over it all.
Giving orders felt strange. Frenchie knew what to do, and he knew how to tell people to do it, but it was an odd sensation. As he strode across the deck, saying to hoist the anchor and drop the mainsail, he imagined himself as someone slightly different, like he’d taken on a role for a grift. That made it feel more natural.
For supper, Roach went all out. It was a weird night all round, a swirl of beginnings and endings. The toasts started early on and never really stopped.
“To Lucius and Pete!”
“To Izzy—rest in peace.”
“To Stede and Blackbeard—best of luck with their…inn thing!”
“To the Red Flag.”
“To Jackie poisoning the British!”
“To Captain Frenchie!”
“To not getting killed by the British!”
Whether the reason was happy or sad, the toasts kept coming, long after they finished supper. They all sat round the table, talking and laughing and thinking up new things to drink to. By the time Frenchie was ready to turn in, his head was buzzing.
“Hold on, where d’you think you’re going?” Archie asked as Frenchie started heading up onto the deck with a cluster of the others.
“Huh?” Frenchie replied, rubbing his face. “What do you mean?”
“You’re the captain now, mate!” Olu pointed out.
Roach slung his arm over Frenchie’s shoulder. “You’ve got the fucking stateroom!”
“Oh—mmm, oh right,” Frenchie said, shaking his head a little to clear it. “Captain’s quarters for the captain.”
“Don’t worry, I washed the sheets for you,” Wee John added.
“Yeah,” Frenchie replied, which wasn’t quite an answer, but it was all his muddled head could think of.
Jim grabbed Frenchie and turned him round so he could walk back down the hall. “Enjoy your fancy new digs, captain!” they said, giving him a small shove.
“Good night!” Fang called after him.
“Good night,” Frenchie echoed, stumbling into the wall a bit as he looked over his shoulder to wave at the crew. “Just gonna…bed down, rest fit for a captain.”
“That’s right—to Captain Frenchie!” the Swede yelled.
“Captain Frenchie!” everyone joined in, and their voices sounded loud in the narrow hall. Frenchie suspected he’d be starting his second day as captain with a headache.
Once he made it to the stateroom, Frenchie poked his head in as if he was checking that Stede wasn’t in there. But Stede wasn’t there—him or Blackbeard. Not anymore. It was Frenchie’s room now.
When he first joined the Revenge, Frenchie’s usual curiosity had him itching to explore everything on the swanky ship, and naturally, that had extended to the captain’s quarters. Back then, he’d snuck in furtively, poking round and freezing up when Stede had walked in on him. But he’d quickly learned that Stede wasn’t that sort of captain, not that sort of boss. His moods would vary from a warm “Make yourself at home!” to a squeaky-voiced “I’ve asked you not to touch my things!”, but even at his most tetchy, he’d never give Frenchie a smack for being somewhere he wasn’t supposed to.
Blackbeard had been…well, that was different. The only time Frenchie had gone into the stateroom then was during his brief but disastrous stint as the other captain’s first mate, and while Blackbeard had never hurt Frenchie either, this had been right after shooting Izzy, so it had always felt to Frenchie like the potential was there. He’d crept in nervously, bracing himself to be ready for anything but still managing to get a fright when Blackbeard inevitably popped up while he wasn’t expecting it.
No Stede, no Blackbeard—just Frenchie. Slipping into the stateroom, Frenchie lit a candle and took stock of the place, only wobbling a little from the rum. He’d already found a couple secret passages Stede had built into the Revenge, but he hadn’t checked in here yet. Frenchie stamped about looking for loose floorboards, crouched down to stick his head under the fancy table, and tapped on wall panels. There was a promising wall over by the shelves, and he investigated until he found a lever that opened up a hidden door.
Secret cupboard! Not bad. Frenchie smiled to himself as he closed it up again.
Frenchie set down his candle and flopped backwards onto the sofa, letting his legs dangle over one end. Captain Frenchie. His quarters. His sofa. His secret cupboard. The sofa was awfully comfy, and the table would come in handy for keeping the maps and things. He lifted his head, looking round. He’d known how, well, roomy the stateroom was, but had it always been this roomy? It felt enormous. Maybe it’d seem smaller when he’d not been drinking.
Getting himself up again, Frenchie walked over to the bed nook. He peeked through the curtains as if he expected Stede to tell him to get out, but there was nobody there. His curtains. His bed nook.
It was late, and Frenchie’s head was swimming. He’d better get some rest if he wanted to be ready to read maps with Lucius. Blowing out the candle, he opened the curtains all the way and sat down on the bed, taking off his vest and shoes. He wiggled his toes as he drew the blanket over his legs. Nice pillow. Nice curtains. He liked the window.
He closed the curtains, then thought it might be better to have them open. Frenchie tried it both ways, lying down in between to see how each one felt. Open, he decided. Maybe he’d close them some other night, but for now, it felt a bit eerie to have them closed.
Scarf on or off, he wondered? Probably on, what with the window—he couldn’t abide trying to stay asleep when light was coming in. Frenchie sat up, wrapped his scarf securely round his eyes, and lay back down.
He should’ve been out like a shot. Frenchie was tired and decently drunk, and he’d never lain down in a bed that was half this comfy. It was good and dark, good and quiet too. But Frenchie kept turning like a chicken on a spit. Not ‘cause he couldn’t find a good position—‘cause his head wouldn’t settle down.
“C’mon,” Frenchie muttered to himself. “Go to sleep now. Just sleep. Please sleep.”
When Blackbeard was captain, Frenchie had gotten used to sleeping alongside Jim or Fang, or both of ‘em together now and again. But that was only because those were bad days. Everything was all right now. He was fine. No reason he shouldn’t be able to sleep on his own.
He couldn’t, though. Frenchie’s restless head didn’t seem to care that his body was tired. After tossing and turning a while longer, he finally sat back up, pulling his scarf off.
Frenchie got out of bed. He was glad now that he hadn’t closed the curtains, because he probably would’ve forgotten and walked into them in the dark. Stepping out into the hall, Frenchie rubbed his eyes as he made his way to the galley. Hopefully, Roach would have something that could help him sleep.
But Roach wasn’t there. Why would he be? He was probably asleep up on deck. Everyone was asleep. On this whole ship, Frenchie was the only one who was still—
No, wait, there was somebody. Frenchie could hear voices over by the ration stores. Maybe Roach was up after all. “Hey,” he said, coming round the corner. “Roach, is that you? I just wanted…oh.”
Not Roach. Lucius and Pete’s heads had popped up behind some barrels and sacks. “Hey-yyyy, captain,” Lucius said in a singsong voice.
“Yeah—hey,” Pete muttered. He was still probably a bit sore that Frenchie was captain and not him.
“I’m interrupting, aren’t I?” Frenchie said. He’d been a pirate long enough to know what was going on when two or more people’s heads popped up from a private corner somewhere. “Sorry, I was just looking for Roach.”
“It’s okay, we were taking a breather between rounds,” Lucius told him. “Why do you need Roach? He’s probably asleep.”
“Right, yeah,” Frenchie said, nodding. One of his hands found its way to his hair and started fiddling.
Lucius gave Frenchie a thoughtful look. “Is something the matter?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” Frenchie insisted. “Just, I can’t sleep is all. Thought he might have—but it’s fine.” He turned to go. “I’ll leave you to it, sorry.”
“Hold on!” Lucius called. He stood up, buttoning his trousers as he walked over to Frenchie. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Frenchie told him.
“Did you know that you’re both the best and worst liar I’ve ever met?” Lucius remarked. “You’re either smooth as fuck or laughably transparent; you don’t do in-between. And right now?” He rested a hand on Frenchie’s shoulder. “Laughably transparent.”
Giving a long sigh, Frenchie scrubbed at his face with his hands. “I dunno,” he admitted. “It’s that room. I don’t think I can sleep in there.”
“Sounds like a room that requires a captain’s disposition,” Pete observed.
“Shh-shh-shhhh!” Lucius replied, waving a hand to quiet him. He turned back to Frenchie. “Why not? What’s the problem?” He winked. “Is the bed too luxurious?”
Frenchie’s mouth twitched—not all the way to a smile, but making the effort. “No, it’s not that,” he replied. “I just haven’t slept alone since…well, all that stuff with Blackbeard, and I-I can’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Oh god,” Lucius murmured. He slipped an arm round Frenchie’s waist and pulled him into a side hug, resting his head on Frenchie’s shoulder. “I’ve been there, unfortunately. I don’t know what all happened to you guys during that time, but I know it was bad. No wonder you can’t sleep.”
He lifted his head, flashing Frenchie a bemused smile. “But Frenchie, it’s just the captain’s quarters! You’re across the ship, not in Australia. You can have people stay over.”
When Frenchie and Wee John had shared a room, the thought of people coming over had been sort of horrible, but now, Frenchie grabbed hold of it like a lifeline. “Yeah? You’d stay over?” he asked.
“Oh—us?” Lucius said, sounding surprised. He looked back at Pete.
“We have always wanted to do it in that bed,” Pete conceded.
“Very true.” Lucius grinned at him. “What do you think? Sexy sleepover with the captain?”
“I was thinking more sleepover-sleepover,” Frenchie put in.
Lucius let out a dramatic groan. “If you insist,” he said. Giving Frenchie’s chin a small stroke, he added, “Maybe some other night, when your head’s on straight, yeah?”
Frenchie frowned. “‘Some other night’ what?”
“Did you forget that we’re on our honeymoon?” Pete argued.
“I know, but he’s all tired and lonesome, in like a sweet, hot way,” Lucius replied. “Besides, we’ve fucked four times today and twice tonight. We can hold off until tomorrow if it’ll help Frenchie out.”
“Sorry—are you coming or not coming?” Frenchie asked. Somewhere along the line, he’d lost track of the conversation.
Lucius looked at his new husband with a playful pout. Pete sighed. “Yeah, we’re coming,” he said.
Frenchie was a bit embarrassed at how relieved he was to hear that. “Okay, thanks,” he said, nodding.
When they got back to the stateroom and stepped inside, Lucius said, “Oh, right—a bit tricky.”
“Huh?” Frenchie asked, frowning.
Lucius nodded toward the bed. “The bed nook is absolutely adorable, but there’s no way we’ll fit the three of us in there,” he explained.
As he looked at the bed, Frenchie knew Lucius was right. “Oh, yeah,” he realized. “Eurgh, shit-tits….” Just like that, his relief started leaking out.
“We could take the bed and you could sleep on the sofa,” Pete suggested.
“Yeah, maybe,” Frenchie mumbled. He could feel his fingers starting to fidget.
“But that’s not enough, is it?” Lucius observed. “To sleep, you need somebody closer than that, am I right?” Frenchie nodded.
After a moment of consideration, Lucius said, “So when Blackbeard was in here—oh, not for all the horrible stuff! Before that, when he was just writing sad breakup songs and shit. Well, anyway, he made a blanket fort, right over there.” He offered Frenchie an encouraging look. “We could try it, make one big enough for three.”
“O-okay,” Frenchie agreed.
“So we don’t get to make sweet love, and we don’t even get to sleep in the bed?!?” Pete exclaimed.
“How ‘bout we try the blanket fort thing for the night, and you two can have a go in the bed tomorrow morning?” Frenchie offered.
“Sold!” Pete said.
“You don’t have to bribe us with bed-sex to get some company when you need it,” Lucius told Frenchie. “Although, yeah, we’ll definitely take it.” He slipped his hand into Frenchie’s and gave it a squeeze. “Come on.”
Right before Blackbeard took the ship, he’d had them throw Stede’s nice clothes overboard, along with all the books and instruments and stuff. But he’d left the bed alone, plus there was still one trunk that had a few extra blankets and pillows in it. Frenchie, Pete, and Lucius grabbed it all, swiping the sofa cushions too, and built themselves a cozy hideaway on the floor. When they crawled inside, there was plenty of cushy space to lie down, and it was dark enough that Frenchie didn’t need his scarf.
“Cheers, m'dears,” he said, feeling himself smile a little.
“Of course,” Lucius replied, and Frenchie heard him leaning over to kiss Pete. “This one’s had to deal with all my fucking trauma, so we know how it goes. Now, what’re we thinking for sleeping arrangements? Maybe a nice Frenchie sandwich?”
“Yeah,” Frenchie said with a nod. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
They lay down together in the blanket fort, Frenchie in the middle with Lucius and Pete on either side of him. Pete was conked out in minutes, and as Frenchie held hands with Lucius, he could feel his mind starting to quiet down.
“You okay?” came Lucius’s voice, soft and gentle in the velvety dark.
“Uh huh,” Frenchie replied. “I feel sort of dumb about this. I never had any trouble sleeping before, and…” he grimaced, “...I dunno, it’s not very captainy, is it?”
“Fuck that,” Lucius told him. “Captains have just as much right to be a mess as anyone else, god knows we’ve all seen that. Did you know that Stede sat up all night after Blackbeard went away with Calico Jack, watching them on the beach with a telescope?” He chuckled a little. “Good captains just know how to ask for help, I reckon.”
Frenchie thought about Zheng helping him plot a course, his plan for Lucius to help him read the maps. Yeah, asking for help was all right.
Lucius shifted round, snuggling a bit closer to Frenchie. “Like, okay, this is ‘The Captain’s Quarters’ and all,” he continued, “but you know what that makes it now? Your room. You’re not Stede, and you’re not Blackbeard—you’ll be your own sort of captain, and this’ll be your own sort of room. If you figure out what it’ll take to make it feel like Frenchie’s room, I think that will help.”
Frenchie smiled as Pete wrapped his arm round him, mumbling in his sleep. “Yeah,” Frenchie agreed, turning so his forehead was resting against Lucius’s. He let his eyes fall closed. “Yeah, I think so too.”