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Chapter Text

Frenchie gave an enormous yawn as he woke, disentangling the long limbs that always seemed to wind themselves together when he slept. He sat up and looked about his room with bleary eyes before grabbing his vest, which he’d thrown haphazardly over a chair last night. No rest for the busy.

First order of business, of course, was checking on Wee John. Frenchie’s roommate had finally dropped off to something like a sound sleep, which was good. Frenchie had heard him tossing and turning much of the night, coughing and sneezing from that cold that had been going round. The poor guy was due some decent rest.

Wee John was out cold now, clutching his hankie in his sleep and snuffling congested snores into his pillow. Frenchie leaned over the sleeping man to feel his forehead; still feverish, all right. He found the cloth that had slipped off Wee John’s face in the night and rewet it from the bowl of water beside the bed.

“There we are, mate,” Frenchie said softly, wiping Wee John’s sweaty face with the cloth. He laid it over his roommate’s neck and gave Wee John’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Just gotta sleep it off.” He slipped quietly out of the room and headed to the galley for his next stop.

Roach was already up—no matter how early Frenchie woke, Roach always had the jump on him. “Hey, morning,” Frenchie said, stifling another yawn into the back of his hand. “How’s it going, man?”

“Morning,” Roach replied, not looking up from the garlic he was chopping. “Biscuits in the canister on the table there. I’m just getting started on today’s soup.”

“Right,” Frenchie said with a nod. He strolled over to the long dining table and got himself a hard biscuit. “How’re you on supplies? Running low on anything?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a wider variety of vegetables,” Roach said. “I can work with what I have, but the soups are going to start tasting all the same.” He grimaced.

Frenchie knew this was a sore spot for Roach. On account of so many of the crew being ill, he’d been making soup every day for the past week. He did his best to do each one up special—different mix of meat and vegetables, different seasonings—but even so, it was starting to wear thin. He wouldn’t like having to keep remaking the same soup as his ingredients dwindled.

“I’ll get on it,” Frenchie told him. “See where we can make a stop and resupply. Keep working that kitchen magic!”

Roach nodded, dumping the garlic and some onions into a pot. “Once the soup is ready, I’ll make my house calls. Let me know if I need to take a look at anybody before then. Is Jim any better?”

“Haven’t made my way up top yet,” Frenchie replied. “I’ll give you a shout once I’ve checked on them.”  As he turned to go, he halted on the threshold. “Oh—Wee John had a fuck of a time getting to sleep last night.”

“Which you know because you were awake too,” Roach remarked, half distracted, as he went to grab some salt beef.

“Never mind that,” Frenchie replied dismissively. “He’s finally worn himself out and nodded off, but if it happens again, is there anything that can help him sleep?”

Roach considered this for a moment. Brandishing his cleaver, he hacked into the beef. “Maybe some hot rum,” he decided. “Won’t stop the sneezing or the cough, but it might relax him enough that he’ll conk out anyway.”

“Thanks, Roach,” Frenchie told him. “Lifesaver.”

“Remember this feeling after our next raid, when it comes time to split the treasure!” Roach called after him.

Lucius and Pete were in Stede’s old quarters, what Frenchie called the sofa room now. Technically, Frenchie had rights to all of it—he did like using the sofa, and he kept his maps on the big table—but he hadn’t wanted it for his room. Although he supposed he could’ve moved Wee John in with him, it wouldn’t have felt right for Frenchie to have the nice bed with the window while Wee John just had a regular one. So the newlyweds had got the fancy bed, and Frenchie used the sofa or the table when they weren’t in here sleeping or fucking.

“Anyone up?” Frenchie asked in a low voice, drawing the curtain back a little.

“Hey, captain,” Lucius replied softly. He was sitting up in bed, eyes closed and forehead resting against the window. His voice still sounded stuffed-up and raspy, but his color looked better than it had in days. Under the covers, Pete let out a long groan.

Frenchie pulled back the curtain the rest of the way. “How’re you faring, m’dears?”

“I’m feeling better,” Lucius told him. “I mean, not ‘out of bed and doing work’ better, obviously, but better than I-I-haahhhh…” He paused, buying his nose in his hankie. “Ehhhhh-shioooooo!” Dabbing at his nose, he finished, “Better than I have been.”

“Good to hear it,” Frenchie said. He lifted up the blanket to peek at Pete, who was curled up in a ball. “How ‘bout you, Pete?”

He gave another miserable-sounding groan. “huhhhhh-CHIUHHHHH!” Pete sneezed wetly. “Just kill me now….”

“Oi,” Frenchie replied. “If I didn’t kill Izzy when his leg needed chopping off, I’m definitely not killing you over a cough and a stuffy nose.” He kept his voice light, like a joke, but at his side, his hand fidgeted at the memory.

“You have no compassion,” Pete grumbled. He let out another loud “aaahhhhhh-CHOOOOO-ehhhhh!”, then broke off into coughing.

“This from the man who thought I was ‘milking it,’” Lucius remarked, rolling his eyes. “Meanwhile, he only caught it yesterday, and he already wants me to take down his will.”

Feeling Pete’s forehead, Frenchie observed, “No fever—not yet, anyway.” He turned to Lucius. “Are you up for looking after him?”

“I suppose,” Lucius reasoned. He sniffled. “Long as he doesn’t annoy me too much.”

“You’re a bad husband,” Pete informed him.

“I’m a fantastic husband,” Lucius replied. “I’ll take care of you, but if you keep whining about it, I’m going to sketch you, so the whole crew can see—” he waited as Pete exploded with a “hehhhhh-uhhhhh-SHIUHHHHH!”, “—what a fucking baby you are when you’re ill.”

“I wouldn’t test him, mate,” Frenchie warned Pete. “I know you’re feeling shit right now, but appreciate what you’ve got.”

More groans and coughing from Pete. “Taking that as a yes,” Frenchie said. “Roach will check on you later today.”

The hard biscuit had helped Frenchie wake all the way up, and he sauntered up onto the main deck with a bit more energy. As he walked over to check on the quartet, a breathy, sleepy-sounding “hihhhh-chioooooo!” caught his ear and stopped him in his tracks.

Spinning on his heels, Frenchie traced the sneeze to the Swede, who was hazily rubbing his nose as he slept nestled against Spanish Jackie’s chest. “Fuck,” Frenchie muttered. Another one down. Plus, Jackie would likely catch it before long too.

The Swede was still sleeping, so he could keep for the time being. Giving a quick nod of acknowledgement to Auntie up at the helm, Frenchie side-stepped Fang, asleep in his hammock, and crossed the deck to where the quartet—or were they more of a trio plus a featured soloist?—had bedded down last night. 

“How’re they doing?” Frenchie asked Archie, who stood leaning against the railing not far from her sleeping companions.

“Olu’s about the same as yesterday,” Archie said, rocking on her heels as she looked out at the water, “and I think Jim’s fever finally broke.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Frenchie remarked, dropping into a crouch. Jim’s nose was chapped and sore-looking, and their breath was still wheezy, but their forehead was cool.

Archie had been the first one to catch cold—with both Jim and Oluwande taking care of her, no surprise that those two had been next to come down with the snotty, sneezing mess. Zheng had followed a few days after that. So far, Archie was the only one all the way back on her feet. Frenchie hoped Olu and Jim, at least, wouldn’t be far behind, and it was reassuring that Lucius was looking better too. Up till now, it had mainly been watching folks go down like ninepins, and they could use an upswing. Besides that, Frenchie just didn’t like seeing any of his friends ill.

“Hehhhhh….aaahhhhhh…” Jim’s breath started to hitch, and Frenchie shuffled back just before they burst with a hard “hahhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhh!”

“Mmm…” they mumbled, sniffling, as they blinked slowly awake. “Hey, Frenchie.”

“Bless,” Frenchie replied. “Hear you’re back amongst the living.” Lighthearted tone again, like nothing more than a joke.

“I think so,” Jim said, sputtering with a cough into the back of their hand. “I still feel pretty shitty, but at least the deck isn’t spinning aaa-anymo-ore…” They caught an “ihhhhh-shuhhhhhhh!” in their hands. “And—and I’m not….” They trailed off, rubbing their nose as they started to push themselves up to a sitting position.

“It’s okay,” Frenchie assured them—he was sure Jim didn’t want to talk about it any more than he did. “Easy does it, all right?” He helped Jim sit up the rest of the way. They leaned wearily against him, and Frenchie slung his arm over their shoulder.

In truth, Jim had scared Frenchie something awful. They’d spent days delirious with fever, yelling and railing in Spanish at things that weren’t there. Roach’s prescription had been to try and keep them cool, but how were you meant to do that in the Caribbean? Mostly, it had meant carrying a shouting, wrestling Jim up onto the deck at night, then back below during the day. Archie, Oluwande, and Zheng had fanned them as best they could, trying to coax water down their painfully sore throat.

Frenchie didn’t know why, but seeing Jim like that had conjured up flashes from the Bad Days: that nasty sound the cat claws made when they entered a body, Izzy crazed with fever and bellowing for them to kill him, staggering on the deck as the ship listed in the storm. Oluwande had worried himself frantic, sitting up with Jim for hours, holding them steady and keeping up a soothing whisper in Spanish as he bathed their face with a wet cloth. And when Olu was too ill himself and Zheng had forced him to lie down, Frenchie had sat playing his guitar for Jim, hoping the soft strumming might calm them down a little.

“Jim? J-- Jim?” This from Oluwande now, stifling hard coughs into the crook of his arm as he rolled over.

“They’re right here,” Frenchie told him.

“Mmm…” Olu scrambled himself round toward Frenchie, locking his eyes on Jim. “Should you be up?” he asked anxiously. “I-ehhhhh…huhhhhh-SHOOOO!”

“Relax!” Jim said. “I’m okay.”

“Over the worst of it, at any rate,” Frenchie added as Olu looked to him for confirmation. “And Jim’s right—just relax, babe. No need to work yourself into a state.”

“O-oh,” Oluwande replied, looking worn. As he sat up too, he pressed a sudden “hehhhhh-ihhhhh-shuhhhhhh!” into the back of his hand.

“Salud,” Jim said. “How are you feeling?”

Olu gave a long, wet sniffle. “Never mind about me,” he insisted. “What about you? You’re really okay?”

“Would you stop?” Jim countered. “You heard wh-whuuhhhh…aaahhhhh-chioooooo!” They turned away from Frenchie, burying the sneeze in the crook of their arm. With a cough, they repeated, “You heard what Frenchie said.”

“Yeah?” Frenchie broke in. “Then since you feel like listening to me, here are your orders for today. Stay below deck, eat what you can, and don’t argue when Olu, Archie, or Zheng tell you to rest.” He glanced about with a puzzled frown. “Where is Zheng, anyway?”

Frenchie wasn’t a good judge of that sort of thing, but from the crew’s gossip, he’d gathered that Zheng fancied Oluwande, was warming up to Jim, and was cautiously curious about Archie. Although she wasn’t one for getting cozy with the whole group, she could usually be found somewhere close to the other three. But Frenchie didn’t see the pirate queen anywhere.

“She went off on her own last night,” Oluwande supplied, sniffling again. Jim slipped out from under Frenchie’s arm and joined Olu, settling comfortably into his arms. “Said she couldn’t take my snoring, but I think it’s more that she doesn’t like other people seeing her weak.”

Frenchie swallowed an internal sigh. “So she’s feeling worse then?” he asked. Zheng hadn’t been too bad off to start with, and he’d hoped maybe the cold wouldn’t hit her as hard. No such luck apparently.

Olu nodded. “Could you find her?” he asked Frenchie. “We’ll g-go-o…” Hastily, he shifted so he could pull his hankie out of his pocket. “hahhhhhh-SHIOOOOOO! Eurgh…” He blotted at his nose. “We’ll go down to our room, like we’ve been doing. She doesn’t have to come with us, I just wanna know she’s all right.”

“Leave it with me,” Frenchie said. “I’ll see where she got to.” Oluwande had those mother-hen instincts, bless him, and Frenchie knew it was harder for him to rest when he was busy fretting over the others.

Oluwande let out a relieved-sounding sigh. “Thanks,” he replied. At a rapid “hihhhhhh-chiooooo! hehhhhhh-shiuhhhhh!” from Jim, he gave them a squeeze and kissed their forehead.

“I’ll take care of it, mate,” Frenchie promised. He reached forward, holding the back of his hand to Olu’s cheek. “You just look after your own fever today, yeah? I gotta get my first mate back to ship-shape.” Olu nodded, rubbing his nose. “Oi, Archie!”

She turned round. “Yeah, boss?”

“You’re on Jim-and-Oluwande duty,” Frenchie told her. “Hunker down below deck, and I’ll have Roach come by in a bit to look them over.”

“Sure thing,” Archie said, ambling over to them. She leaned down, giving Olu and Jim a sloppy forehead kiss each.

Frenchie rose to his feet. “I’m off to find Zheng.” He patted Oluwande’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, all right? You two, rest.”

“Yes, captain,” Jim, Olu, and Archie chorused like a trio of hoity-toity school kids.

Giving them all his middle finger and a smile, Frenchie headed off below deck, where he suppressed a sigh. He’d been up for less than an hour, and his to-do list was already growing.

Chapter Text

Where to find an ill pirate queen on the ship? The Revenge had any number of crannies where someone could tuck themselves away, but Zheng hadn’t been here that long. When she was feeling shit and wanted to keep herself to herself, she probably wasn’t going to do much exploring. More likely, she took the first out-of-the-way refuge she could find.

That’s what led Frenchie to the ball room. Certainly not the most comfortable spot, but there’d been no need to man the cannons lately, so nobody one else would be popping in. 

“Zheng?” he called quietly, sticking his head inside. “You in here?”

Frenchie heard sniffling, but before he could have a proper look, something came sailing toward his head. Too fast to be a cannonball—one of Zheng’s shoes maybe? Frenchie didn’t stay to find out. He ducked behind the door just in time to hear the loud smack. Even when she was ill, Zheng had a strong arm.

“Hey,” Frenchie went on, staying behind the door for now. “Feeling a bit rubbish, are we?”

“Get the fuck out!” came Zheng’s scratchy, stuffed-up voice, followed by hard muffled coughs.

“Want some privacy?” Frenchie asked.

“Was throwing a-a shoe aa-aaat…haahhhhh…dammit!” Frenchie listened to Zheng’s breath hitch until she let out a strangled-sounding “hehhhhh-shhnnggkkkhhhh!” There was quiet for a couple seconds, save a few more sniffles. And then, “Was throwing a shoe at your head too subtle for you?”

“No, I get that you want me to go,” Frenchie replied. “Just, if you let me in without throwing anything at me, I can show you someplace more private.”

Zheng went quiet again, and Frenchie thought she was maybe looking for something else to throw. But then she muttered, “Fine.”

“Yeah?” Frenchie said. “No more throwing things at my head, pinkie promise?”

“J-juhhh-hihhhhh…ehhhhhh-hhnnkkhhhh!” Zheng sneezed. Sighing heavily, she said, “Just get in here.”

Frenchie came into the ball room, where Zheng was huddled in the corner, looking rough. Shivering despite the blanket over her shoulders, she was pale, and she scowled as she scrubbed at her nose. He knew better than to try and feel her forehead—she didn’t look armed, but you never know, and Frenchie wouldn’t put a bit of light stabbing past her if he crowded her right now. Still, he would’ve bet money she was running a fever.

“All right?” he asked.

“We can do this with less talking,” Zheng replied dully.

“Gotcha,” Frenchie said. “C’mon, up you get. It’s just here.”

Zheng narrowed her eyes, but she stood up—a little unsteadily, truth be told. She followed Frenchie at a wary distance, doing her best to stifle coughs into her hankie. He took her round to the secret room over by the ration stores, the one where they’d stashed Izzy after—

Well, after.

They’d hidden Blackbeard here too. After. Frenchie loved the Revenge, and most of the time he could move through the ship without dwelling on the Bad Days, but he hated this room. It was what Zheng needed, though, so here they were.

“What the hell is this?” she asked. She winced as she cleared her throat.

“This is quite the ship that Stede had built,” Frenchie told her. “You’d be surprised what you can find when you’re bored and poking round. Most importantly, it’s private. No one comes down here, ever.”

Zheng’s tired eyes roved about the secret room, taking it in. “Wait,” she said. “I’ve seen this place before. Isn’t this where–?”

“Yep,” Frenchie replied quickly, cutting her off. Even though she was presently exhausted and shaky, Zheng was clever, and if she said she remembered, no doubt she remembered it right. No need to have her say it.

“That’s why no one comes down here,” Frenchie explained. “A lot of the crew don’t know about it, and not the best memories for those that do. No one will bother you.”

Zheng managed a quick nod before another sneeze hit her, and she buried her nose in her hankie. “ahhhhhhh-shhhnnhhhhh!” Sniffling, she muttered, “Thanks.”

Most of the time when you talked to Zheng, she was working some kind of angle. Frenchie noticed how she’d put people at ease by acting sweet and inviting, and she was good at buttering folks up until they thought her ideas were theirs. As a fellow grifter, Frenchie could respect the hustle.

So seeing Zheng act all moody and surly showed just how awful she was feeling. Whether she felt too ill and muddled to put on her usual act, or just too miserable to bother with it, it was clear that she was going through it.

“Right,” Frenchie said. “Are you gonna be needing Roach to look you over, or—?”

“No.”

“In that case, if you’d like, I can have him leave you off the list when he’s bringing the soup round,” Frenchie offered. “I could bring it down here to you.” Zheng didn’t reply. “Or maybe Auntie?”

Zheng turned away from him to arrange her blanket, making up her bed. “You or Auntie would be okay,” she said in a low voice.

“Fine by me,” Frenchie told her. Even though she was saying things like “thanks” and “okay,” the scowl hadn’t left Zheng’s face, and he figured he’d pushed his luck long enough. “I’ll leave you to it then; rest up.” 

He showed Zheng how to open the secret room from the inside, so she could come out later if she wanted, then left her to her sniffly solitude.

On it went, one thing after another. Frenchie supposed the days were always like that, but they’d felt even more like that this week. He went back to the sofa room to consult his maps, figuring out where best to go for restocking the galley. When he took over as captain, Lucius had sat with Frenchie and read all the features on the map to him—the names of the islands and everything—and Frenchie had doodled reminders on bits of paper so he could get his bearings. It had been slow going at first, but now Frenchie could follow the map on his own without much trouble.

He checked on the Swede, who was sneezy and stuffed up and headachy. “All right, man, looks like you’ve earned yourself some hooky,” Frenchie said. “Get some fluids in you, and lie back down. I’ll send Roach up soonish.”

“Okay, Frenchie,” the Swede agreed, sniffling thickly. He fluffed his pillow and curled up again.

At least they had a good supply of blankets and pillows now. On raids, Frenchie and Wee John were always on the lookout for nice clothes or bedding, or just fabric that they could turn into something useful. They were building up a tidy wardrobe of disguises to help with their raids, and there was plenty of comfy bedding to go round.

“Jackie, could you relieve Auntie at the helm?” Frenchie asked. “I’ve got a few more things to do, but I can come switch with you in a bit. Set a course for Dominica, if you don’t mind.”

It was always better to make requests of Spanish Jackie instead of giving orders—she’d made it clear that she was a free agent aboard the Revenge, and anything she did on behalf of the ship or the others was simply a favor.

“I guess I could do that,” Jackie decided. She tweaked the Swede’s nose, which set it off, and he caught an “ehhhhh-hihhhh-chiiaahhhhhh!” in his hands. “Bless you—look after yourself, sexy.”

The Swede gave her a drowsy thumbs up. “I will,” he said, sniffling again.

“Thanks, Jackie,” Frenchie said. He clapped the Swede on the back. “Take it easy, all right?” Picking up the sack lying nearby, Frenchie made his way to Fang, who was winding a big coil of rope.

“Morning, captain,” Fang said brightly.

“Hiya,” Frenchie replied. “How’re you doing? Not feeling ill or anything?”

“Oh no, I’m right as rain,” Fang assured him.

“That’s what I like to hear—keep it up,” Frenchie said. He held out the sack. “Listen, mate, Swede’s caught cold now too, so I need you to take over laundry duty.”

Speaking of useful fabric, Frenchie and Wee John had made up a bunch more hankies after the cold had started spreading—enough for everybody to have two, although hopefully they wouldn’t all be needed at once. Every day, the Swede had been going round to give everyone who was ill a fresh hankie, collecting the used ones to wash and dry for the next day.

“Sure thing, captain,” Fang said, nodding as Frenchie explained the routine to him. “Happy to.”

“There’s my dude!” Frenchie enthused. “Thanks, mate. Oh, wait.” He reached into the sack and plucked one of the clean hankies out. “You needn’t bother with Zheng—I’ll see to her. But everybody else.”

Then it was back below deck. Frenchie swung by to assure Oluwande that he’d found Zheng and she was resting, then he gave Roach an update down in the galley: check on Jim, Olu, and the Swede this morning, no need to take soup for Zheng when he was making his rounds, and think about what supplies he needed for when they got to port.

When he reemerged into the daylight, Frenchie saw that Auntie was still at the wheel, not Jackie. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Besides Zheng, and Oluwande a bit, Auntie didn’t mix much with the others, so she usually preferred having something to work on by herself. Frenchie didn’t imagine Jackie would’ve tried too hard to dissuade her.

So, he made his way up to the helm. “Auntie—”

“Bearing due north for Dominica,” Auntie told him. “If we maintain our present course, we should be there by early afternoon tomorrow.”

“Great, thanks for that,” Frenchie said. “I can take over for a while.”

“I have a surer eye than you,” Auntie replied in clipped tones. She wasn’t really looking to make friends with any of them, but Frenchie thought she was especially wary of anyone who’d been on the crew during the Bad Days.

“No arguments there,” Frenchie agreed. “The thing is, Zheng’s feeling right poorly.”

“Oh?” Auntie’s voice was even, but Frenchie saw how her grip tightened, just a little, on the wheel. “Good thing she has Oluwande and the other two looking after her.”

“That’s the trouble, though,” Frenchie went on. “She was all right looking after them, but she doesn’t really want them returning the favor. Rather be on her own.”

He leaned casually against the rail, not looking her way. He didn’t want Auntie to think he was getting too familiar—you couldn’t do that with Auntie, you had to let her come to you.

“Yes, that sounds like her,” Auntie said quietly. Frenchie felt the woman’s shrewd eyes fall on him for a moment. “But she’ll be all right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Frenchie replied. “Nothing to worry about, she’s just awfully miserable right now.” He let that hang for a beat. “I’m sure it’d help, if there was someone she’d let take care of her.”

For a good minute, neither of them spoke. The silence made Frenchie itchy, and he longed to fill it, but he made himself hold his tongue. Finally, Auntie said, “I don’t know how much good I’d do. She might not want to see me.”

Frenchie gave her a moment before he replied. “I asked if she’d be all right with you or me bringing her food and the like,” he offered. “She said she would.”

Auntie considered this. “I’d like to do that.”

“Thanks—glad to have something taken off my plate,” Frenchie said lightly. “She’s, erm,” his fingers started fidgeting, “she’s in the room you found after we first met? The one that landed me in the brig.”

Auntie’s eyes were definitely on him now. Frenchie glanced her way and saw her giving him a dirty look. He tried for a casual smile, which she really didn’t like. But she said, “All right.”

“If you could give her this,” Frenchie added, holding out the hankie.

Auntie took it, nodding. “The wheel is yours,” she said.

“Cheers,” Frenchie replied. “Sometimes you just need your auntie seeing to you, eh?”

Oh, she was giving him a proper stink eye now. “Do you think my queen can’t see to herself?” Auntie asked.

Right—too familiar. Reel it back. “Nope, didn’t say that,” Frenchie said. “Nothing of the kind. See you later.”

Without a goodbye, Auntie left the helm and went below deck. After a busy morning of hoofing it all round the Revenge, Frenchie was glad for the opportunity to be still for a bit. Steering the ship, he could take a breather, maybe work on coming up with a new song if he got bored. The next thing would pop up soon enough, because it always did, but for now, he could have one thing to focus on instead of six. He could do with that for a while.

Chapter Text

Auntie found it intriguing that the lanky singing captain had taken pains to talk around where she could find Zheng. Did he want to remind her of the mutiny as little as possible? It was ridiculous. First mate turned mutineer—allowed, not just to survive, but to stay on as first mate!—now turned captain. Or perhaps it was a test of some kind for Auntie? Look after Zheng when she’s sick, if you can find her. That was ridiculous too. Of course Auntie remembered the hidden room. It might take her a few minutes to retrace her steps to its exact location, but she had a good idea where it was. Or perhaps Frenchie had been vague purely for himself, not Auntie. Still too cowardly to even allude to what he’d done out loud?

Whatever the reason, his tied tongue didn’t slow her down for long. Soon, Auntie was standing outside the hidden room, where she suddenly balked at the compartment that concealed the entrance. Maybe Zheng wouldn’t want her there. Maybe Auntie had taught her too well, drilled such self-reliance into her ferocious queen that Auntie was the last person Zheng would want to lean on when she was ailing.

That had certainly been the pattern aboard the Red Flag. Zheng didn’t get sick often, and when she did, she usually pushed through and stayed on her feet. But on the occasions when she was too sick to work, she’d disappear to her cabin, giving orders from behind a door and accepting nothing more than trays of food left outside for her.

Auntie had been surprised, maybe even a little impressed, that Zheng had stuck around Oluwande and the others when she first caught cold. She hadn’t been feeling too badly then, but Auntie would have expected her to pull back at Oluwande’s gentleness with her. But maybe that had been her pushing through, and it had only lasted to a point—before long, her instinct to hide herself away had asserted itself.

She said it would be all right for Auntie to come. That’s what Frenchie had told her. Meaning Zheng wanted Auntie’s care, or only that she’d begrudgingly tolerate it if it was forced on her?

Auntie knew one thing for sure. She wouldn’t find out standing outside the hidden room. Taking a breath, she pulled open the compartment and descended the stairs.

“Zheng?” she said softly.

“Au-Auntie,” Zheng mumbled, blotting at her nose as she hurried to sit up. “I--“ she broke off coughing, trying to muffle the sound in the crook of her arm.

Auntie felt her apprehension melting away. Suddenly, she was at her queen’s side, rubbing Zheng’s back as she continued to cough. “I heard you’d taken a bad turn,” she murmured. Soft, like Oluwande would have.

“I-- I’m all right,” Zheng said as she got her breath back. “hihhhhh-shhhnnfffhhhh!” She sighed, sniffling wetly.

“You don’t normally catch cold this badly,” Auntie ventured. But maybe that was wrong. Maybe this was what Zheng hid from Auntie whenever she retreated to her cabin.

“I just—I don’t feel v-- very well,” Zheng admitted weakly, stifling another hard cough. “huhhhhh-chhnnhhhhh!”

Auntie offered Zheng the handkerchief the ridiculous mutineer captain had given her. “I know,” she replied. “Why don’t you lie back down?”

Zheng nodded, taking the handkerchief as she shakily curled herself under her blanket once more. “Can you shut the door?” she asked, her voice low.

“Of course.” Auntie got up and sealed the hidden room shut, so no one would see or hear them. In the dim light, she could still make out Zheng shivering.

“Here,” Auntie said. Coming back to the bedside, she eased Zheng’s head onto her lap and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. “Tell me what hurts.” Zheng looked up at her uncertainly. “Your throat?” Auntie suggested.

After a long pause, Zheng said, “It’s not too bad. But my chest hurts when I cough.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Auntie replied. “What else?”

“M-my head…” Zheng admitted, trailing off into a “hehhhh-nnggkkhhh!”

Auntie began to rub soft circles into Zheng’s temple with her thumb. She could feel that the queen was feverish. “How about when you sneeze?” It certainly sounded painful, the way she tried to hold them in.

“…Sort of,” Zheng told her. She touched the bridge of her nose. “Here.”

“Mmm,” Auntie murmured. “Would you like me to make you some tea? It might help.”

“Later,” Zheng requested, softly grabbing a handful of Auntie’s skirt. “Don’t go yet.”

“I won’t,” Auntie promised.

*          *          *

“ehhhhhh…haaahhhhh-CHIOOOO!” Oluwande sneezed, half sitting up at the force of it. “ihhhhh-shuhhhhhhh!”

They’d moved below deck to their bedroom. It was what used to be the jam room, back before most of Stede’s nice shit had gotten chucked overboard during the whole breakup nightmare. After Frenchie had become captain, they’d swapped their old room to him and Wee John. Frenchie hadn’t been concerned about bad juju anymore—”If I start worrying about that now, I won’t sleep anywhere on the ship,” he’d said—and Olu hadn’t pressed it. He knew Jim didn’t like talking about what had happened under Blackbeard’s command, and he figured Frenchie didn’t either. And anyway, the new room was bigger than the old one, so who was he to complain?

“hehhhhhhh…ahhhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!” he sneezed again.

“Fuck me!” Archie remarked. “You’d think you’d run out eventually.”

“Run out of what?” Oluwande asked. “Sneezes?”

“Snot, sneezes—something,” Archie said. She shoved a canteen in his face. “Here, you oughta keep drinking.” And with a nod to Jim, “You too.”

Jim groaned. “Do you want me to rest, or do you want me getting up to piss all the time?”

“Roach said to force fluids,” Archie reminded them. “That’s what I’m doing.” Once Oluwande had taken a drink, she grabbed the canteen from him and raised it to Jim’s lips.

“Oi!” Oluwande exclaimed as Jim sputtered with a cough. He took the canteen back. “‘Force’ just means ‘keep it up.’ You want to encourage, not choke.”

Jim coughed again, then burst with a hard “hihhhh-ehhhhh-shooooo!”

“Bless you,” Oluwande said, giving Jim’s shoulder a rub. “Attempted drowning aside, she is right, you know. You don’t want your fever coming back.”

“Oh, just give me the stupid canteen,” Jim sighed, swiping it. They rolled onto their stomach and took a few swallows of water, wincing.

“Shit, is your throat still all fucked?” Archie asked sympathetically. She sat down cross-legged from Jim and Oluwande.

“Half fucked,” Jim replied. “Now it just feels li-liiii…ahhhhh-shiuhhhhhh!” They pressed the sneeze into the back of their hand. “…Like I’m swallowing gravel.”

“Well, it felt like you were swallowing glass shards before, so you’re getting better!” Archie pointed out.

“About time,” Jim said. At a loud “huhhhhhh-CHIUUHHHHH!” from Oluwande, they handed him the canteen and lay back down. “Before you worry about a fever I don’t have an-- anymo-- ore,” they coughed a few times, “how ‘bout you focus on the one you have right now?”

Oluwande rolled his eyes—then regretted it, because his head was aching enough already—but he took another swig of water. “Mine’s n-not as…haaahhhhh-chooooo! As bad as yours w-wuhhhh…waaas…ahhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHH!”

“Bless you,” Jim told him, bumping him lightly with their shoulder. “And it’s not like only the person with the highest fever gets taken care of. There’s plenty to go around.”

“Exactly!” Archie agreed. She wriggled in between them, slipping her arms round both of them. “There’s room enough for you, Jim, me—Zheng too if she decides to stop hiding from us.”

“Wait, you?” Jim asked. “You’re not even s-sihhhh-uhhhhh-shiuhhhhhh!” They cupped their hands over their mouth. “You’re not sick anymore.”

“Plus, it’s you who gave it to us in the first place,” Oluwande said.

“And everyone else!” Jim added.

“For fuck’s sake, you start one minor outbreak, and everyone’s a critic!” Archie exclaimed. “What, do you want me to leave you alone? I’m sure I could go swab something.”

“No,” Oluwande told her. He glanced across Archie to Jim, who nodded. “It’s just th-thaaaa…” He caught an explosive “hihhhhh-CHIUHHHHH! aaahhhh-SHOOOO-ehhhhh!” in his hankie.

“It’s just that you owe us,” Jim finished for him.

“Yeah,” Oluwande said, sniffling hard. “ehhhhh-chioooooo! Eurgh….” He rubbed his forehead as his head started to spin a little. “Jim and me, we expect some top-shelf pampering.”

“Epic levels of caretaking,” Jim concurred.

“Maybe a little groveling thrown in,” Oluwande said.

“Epic, eh?” Archie replied. She must’ve noticed Oluwande rubbing his head, because she reached over to do it for him. “I’m sure I can think of something. Just give me a minute.”

And despite Oluwande’s aching head and bothersome nose, he felt himself smile, letting his eyes fall closed as he sniffled and rubbed his nose. Jim wasn’t nearly as ill as they’d been the past few days. He still didn’t like the thought of Zheng holing up by herself when he wanted to help her, but Frenchie said he’d made sure she was all right. Maybe, if Archie could muster up a bit of pampering, he could be cool with something like that. As long as his partners were okay, he supposed he could admit that a little caretaking wouldn’t go amiss.

Chapter Text

It was odd, sitting at the long tables in the galley with hardly anyone round them. When supper time came, after Roach distributed the day’s second round of soup and tea to all the patients, it was just him, Frenchie, and Fang. Jackie was at the wheel, while Auntie only stopped in for a minute to collect bowls for her and Zheng.

“Christ, this is bleak!” Archie cried, sauntering in. “You could barely make a proper orgy out of this crowd.” Especially counting Frenchie out—not really his scene.

Tonight, he didn’t mind the sparse table so much. Of course, it was a stark reminder of how many of the crew were ill, and he didn’t like that part, but Frenchie could do with some relative peace and quiet. It had been a long day. He felt tired, and a headache had been nagging at him since the afternoon. From staring out at the glittering water while he was at the helm, probably. He’d shake it once he went to bed. Frenchie hoped Wee John would sleep better tonight. He’d have to remember about the hot rum.

Of course, a handful of pirates could still make plenty of racket, and good food and rum helped it along. Even though they were on their sixth straight day of soup for every meal, and even though they’d yet to resupply, Roach didn’t go down without a fight. Today’s soup was another winner.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Roach was saying, “a solid gold statue of an ass?”

“A perfect recreation of buttocks,” Fang confirmed. “No body, no nothing. We knew it was real gold because Calico Jack put a couple bite marks in it.”

“Haunting,” Roach breathed reverently. “Whose ass was it? Who had the statue made and why? The world may never know.”

Frenchie’s throat stung a little as he swallowed a spoonful of beef and vegetables. He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank some broth from the rim.

“Can you fence a golden arse?” Archie wondered. “Or do you have to melt it down into bars or something?”

“Hold on!” Fang insisted. “I haven’t told you about the handprint yet.”

The rum was flowing freely, but Frenchie wasn’t really in the mood. His throat kept bothering him a bit each time he swallowed, and the noise wasn’t helping his headache any. So once he finished his soup, he got up from the table, clapping Roach on the shoulder to acknowledge another job well done.

“Well, I’m knackered,” he said. “You lot have fun, I’m gonna see how everybody else is doing.”

He went round checking on everyone. Frenchie didn’t exactly see Zheng, but Auntie popped her head out to say she’d eaten and had dropped off to sleep now. Since being in the secret room once today was more than enough for Frenchie, he took Auntie’s word for it and didn’t go inside. Lucius and Pete were tucked up into bed together, lingering over their tea. Oluwande’s fever was still clinging on, but Jim was making him rest. The Swede was half nodding off over his soup. Frenchie sat with him while he ate, making sure he didn’t drown himself in his bowl.

When he noticed that he felt a little stuffed up, Frenchie pushed it away. No, he wasn’t ill. There wasn’t time for all that just now. There was another logical explanation that didn’t involve him being laid up when the crew was poorly, and Frenchie was confident that he would find it.

Although he tried to check in at least a few times every day, Frenchie still felt like he was slacking when it came to looking after Wee John. As his roommate, Frenchie ought to be doing more. “All right, mate?” he asked, sniffing lightly as he stepped into their room. “How’re you feeling?”

Wee John was sitting up in bed. He handed his empty bowl to Frenchie, who set it aside. “Still kind of rubbish,” he admitted, “but I think I’m starting to get a little better.”

“Mmm, that’s good,” Frenchie replied. He wriggled his nose a bit.

“Mmm hmmm,” Wee John agreed. “I don’t feel so worn through, a-aaa…” He buried his nose in his hankie. “huhhhhhhh-CHOOOOO!” With a wet sniffle, he said, “And I haven’t been coughing so much today.”

“Perfect,” Frenchie said with a relieved smile. He sniffed again as he felt Wee John’s forehead. “Only a bit warm now, so that’s good too. Let’s see if you can sleep any better tonight.”

Wee John frowned at him, asking, “Are you coming down with it too?”

“Me?” Frenchie said. He held back a grimace. “No, I’m fine.” He busied himself smoothing Wee John’s blanket, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste.

“You sure?” Wee John pressed, studying Frenchie’s face. “Sounds like you’re sniffling a bit.”

“Well…” Frenchie began, playing for time. Logical explanation, anytime now! He racked his brain.

Ah, there it was. Good ol’ science to the rescue!

Rubbing his nose, Frenchie said, “It’s all right. Those are probably just sympathy sniffles.”

“Wh-whaaa…uhhhhhh-SHOOOOO-ehhhhh!” Wee John sneezed. “What the hell are sympathy sniffles?”

“It’s like when I was a kid, and my mum got in the family way,” Frenchie told him as the notion took shape. “My dad, he grew a belly, he was weepy, and he kept craving sardines and gravy. He wasn’t with child or anything, but he had all the same signs—you know, in sympathy with my mum.”

It explained everything. Made almost too sense, really! Frenchie felt better just thinking about it.

“So…sympathy sniffles,” Wee John said.

“Exactly,” Frenchie replied. “Sympathy headache, sympathy s-sore-- sore throat….”  As his nose started to tickle, he caught a “hihhhhh-ehhhhhh-shiuhhhhhh!” in his hand.

Well, better to a point, anyway.

“Bless you,” Wee John said, sniffling himself. “D’ye think that’s the sort of thing a good night’s sleep can help with?”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” Frenchie mused. It stood to reason. “Might just make an early night of it.” And anyway, he was tired. Hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, had he?

“I think that’s a good idea,” Wee John told him. His breath started to hitch, and he raised his hankie again. “Ehhhh-hahhhhh…ihhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHH!”

“Bless,” Frenchie said softly. Wee John sank back down onto his mattress, and Frenchie pulled the blanket round him. “Just try and rest, okay?”

“Uh huh,” Wee John agreed, clearing his throat. “You too.”

“You’ve got it,” Frenchie agreed. “And let me know if you can’t sleep—Roach has got something that might help.”

As Frenchie climbed into bed himself, Wee John said, “Okay. Good night, Frenchie.”

“Mmm hmmm,” he replied, already stifling a yawn. He rubbed his nose. “Night, roomie.”

Just a little case of sympathy sniffles, that was all. A bit of rest, and it’d likely be all cleared up by morning. Nothing to worry about.

Chapter Text

The first thought that came into Frenchie’s head when he woke was, it hurts. He’d very much not shaken his headache, which was pulsing now, and the slight sting in his throat had turned into a sharp pain. He winced as he pushed himself up in bed, coughing into the back of his hand.

“Hey, you’re awake.” This from Wee John, who was lounging in his own bed, propped up on his elbow. “How’re you feeling?”

“Mmm,” Frenchie mumbled, sniffling—his nose was all plugged up. “All right. B-bearing uhhh-up…” He lifted his hands to his face. “Hehhhhhh-chiuhhhhh! Haaaahhhhh…ihhhhhh-shooooo!”

“Bless you,” Wee John said, making an empathetic face. “That sounds like more than just sympathy sniffles to me.”

“No, it’s fine,” Frenchie insisted, wiping his nose.

“Trust me,” Wee John replied. “I’m looking at you, and you don’t look well.”

“Hihhhh-shuhhhhhhh!” Frenchie sneezed again. He bit back a congested sigh as he tried to get his tired, muddled head to focus. The throbbing ache behind his eyes wasn’t helping. “N-no—no, see, it’s because there’s so many of you ill right now,” he explained. He rubbed his face with one hand as the other sank into his hair.

“It’s just,” Frenchie continued, sniffling, “it’s a lot to cover: Pete’s cough, your ruddy nose, Swe--” he coughed, “Swede’s headach--” he cupped his hands over his mouth as he coughed again.

“I don’t know about tha-aaat…” Wee John said, turning his head to bury an “aaaahhhhhh-shiooooo!” in his shoulder. “Maybe you oughta–”

“Mmm, do morning checks,” Frenchie finished. “Too right. No time like the present.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragged himself up.

“Cap’n,” Wee John said. With his cold, his voice was deeper than normal, lending extra gravity to his tone.

Frenchie turned back at the doorway, “Oh, shit, I forgot to ask,” he realized; what was the matter with him? He rubbed his forehead. “What about you?”

Sighing, Wee John replied, “I think I’m on the mend.”

“Yeah?” Frenchie said, brightening a little. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He walked to Wee John’s bed and felt his roommate’s brow. “No more fe-- hihhhhhh…. no more feve-er…” He clapped a hand over his mouth to cover his “haaahhhhhh-ehhhhhhh-chuhhhhhhh!”

“Bless you,” Wee John told him. “I should be over it in another day or two. But Frenchie—”

“Just what I like to hear,” Frenchie said. His throat tickled, and he gave a hard cough into the crook of his arm. Wee John had never gotten as bad-off as some of the crew, but Frenchie knew he’d still been fucking miserable and was relieved to know he was finally coming out of it. 

“Don’t you think you oughta rest some more, though?” Wee John asked.

“Not now—lots to do,” Frenchie replied, swallowing a tired groan as he straightened back up. “Don’t worry about me, mate. I’ll be fine once you’re all feeling better.” He wriggled his nose, sniffling. “All the more reason to get you well, yeah?”

Wee John sighed again. “Yeah, cap’n,” he said. “Don’t work too hard.”

“Please,” Frenchie told him, mustering up a weary smile. “I don’t believe in working too hard. Now, you just rest. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

He left their room, staggering a little into a hard “hihhhhhh-shiooooooo!” as he stepped out into the hall.

Frenchie stifled a sigh as he wiped his nose. These sympathy sniffles didn’t mess about. Still, like he’d told Wee John, the best way to deal with them was to help the rest of the crew recover. A captain’s work was never done, was it?

When he got down to the galley, Roach looked up at Frenchie in surprise. “There you are,” Roach said. “Was wondering where you got to.”

“Hmmm?” Frenchie mumbled. He cleared his throat. “Is it late? Did I over-- overslee-eeeep…?” He steepled his hands over his face. “Hehhhhhhhh-chiuuhhhhhh!”

“I don’t think the problem was waking up late,” Roach remarked, tapping ash from his cigarette. “It was getting out of bed in the first place.”

“...I’m all right,” Frenchie said.

“A likely story,” Roach replied. “Go back to bed. I’ll add you to my soup rounds.”

“Hang on,” Frenchie protested. “I’m capt--” he coughed into the crook of his arm. “I’m captain. Doesn’t that mean I give the orders?”

“Captain’s orders, doctor’s orders,” Roach told him. “You have your authority, and I have mine.”

“I’m not even ill, though!” Frenchie argued. “Ih-ihhhhhhh…” He turned round, catching a hard “haaahhhhhhh-shuhhhhhhhh!” in his hand. Sniffing and rubbing his nose, he looked back at Roach and insisted, “It’s only sympathy sniffles.”

Roach laughed, stirring his pot. “Riiiight. And what’s that supposed to be?”

Frenchie would’ve thought Roach would be more up on that sort of thing, him being a doctor and all. But as usual, Frenchie was on the forefront of science. “See, back when my mum was carrying my baby sister…” he began.

That was pretty much Frenchie’s morning, having to explain himself over and over. Auntie barely even looked at him when he went to check in on Zheng, so that one was easy, but everyone else was woefully misinformed, and Frenchie had to set them straight.

“The whole time she was with child, he ate sardines and gravy at least twice a week.”

“It’s the s-sa-aaa…hihhhhhhhhh-chuhhhhhhh! It’s the same idea, only with a runny nose instead of a belly.”

“No, see, it isn’t my cough, really. It’s yours.”

All round the ship, Frenchie had to repeat the story. And no surprise, nearly everyone had something to say about that.

“Sounds made up,” Pete declared, looking up from blowing his nose.

“I don’t think that seems right, mate,” Oluwande said with a frown.

“Are sympathy sniffles catching?” the Swede asked nervously, clutching his blanket close to himself.

By the time he got to the helm to switch places with Fang, Frenchie was feeling tired, stuffed up, and short on patience. “Ohhh, looks like you’ve caught that cold too, eh?” Fang crooned as he saw Frenchie coming.

“No, I haven’t,” Frenchie said flatly. “Ask anyone, they’ll tell you all about it. Aahhhhh-hihhhhhh…” He buried his face in the crook of his arm. “Ehhhhhhhhh-shiooooooo!”

“Bless you,” Fang offered, patting Frenchie’s shoulder.

Frenchie muffled a few coughs into the back of his hand. “N-no need,” he said. “I’ll take the wheel now, Fang. I need you on laundry again. How far out are we from Dominica?”

“Couple of hours,” Fang replied. “But Frenchie…”

“Thanks for doing the laundry,” Frenchie broke in. He grimaced as he rubbed the spot between his eyes. “I appreciate it, mate.”

“O-okay, captain,” Fang said. The older man gave Frenchie a good looking-over. “If you’re sure.”

Fang’s halting voice made Frenchie feel like a dick. He caught another “hihhhhhhhh-chuhhhhhhhhh!” in his cupped hands, sniffling hard as he told Fang, “Don’t mind me, really. I’m just out of sorts today. Nothing to do with you. Thanks for everything, though.”

“All right,” Fang said softly, nodding. He gave Frenchie’s shoulder a squeeze as he turned to go. “I’ll just get that wash started.”

“Cheers, m’dear,” Frenchie called after him. He rested his elbows on the wheel, sniffling wetly as he rubbed his eyes and looked out at the water.

Chapter Text

Frenchie didn’t come back to the galley with any updates for Roach on how their sick crewmates were doing, but that didn’t really surprise Roach. Medically speaking, once there was a high enough buildup of snot in a man’s head, it started to affect his brain. Frenchie wasn’t thinking clearly, and he was bound to drop the ball here and there.

Roach seasoned the soup, frowning down at the pot. It would have to do for dinner. But they were resupplying in Dominica today, so hopefully he could improve on it before supper tonight.

For now, he left the soup to simmer and headed to Frenchie’s room. The captain wasn’t there—Roach hadn’t really thought he would be—but he found Wee John sitting in bed knitting. “I’m guessing you’ve seen Frenchie?” Roach asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Wee John replied, and his look told Roach everything he needed to know.

“Crew meeting?” Roach suggested.

“Crew meeting,” Wee John agreed. He sniffled, dabbing his nose with his hankie.

“I’ll find the others,” Roach said. “You okay to get up for a little while?” Wee John nodded. “Cool. Let’s meet in the old rec center.”

Frenchie called it the “curtain room,” since they’d divided the room up with curtains to make semi-private spaces for the Swede and Jackie, Roach, Fang, and Auntie—even though sleeping on deck was always still an option, Frenchie was a big believer in people having rooms. Most everyone else still called it the rec center, though, and when they pulled the curtains back, it was one of the biggest spaces on the ship when they wanted to gather everyone together.

Soon, most of the crew had assembled. “I couldn’t find Zheng or Auntie,” Roach admitted. “I swear they’re hiding in the walls or something.”

“Yeah,” Oluwande said in a low voice. “She’s good at not being found when she doesn’t wanna be.” He lifted his hankie to his face. “Ahhhhhh-huhhhhhhhh-chioooooo!” Jim took his free hand and Archie rubbed his shoulder.

“Pete’s not coming,” Lucius announced as he sauntered in. “Says he can’t get out of bed.”

Even though Pete had the same cold that the others had gotten, Roach thought that “man flu” was the more accurate diagnosis in his case. “You can fill him in later,” Roach told Lucius.

“Here we go, guys,” Fang said, handing out clean hankies to all the sick crew as they tossed their dirty ones in a laundry sack.

Fortunately, it seemed like they were doing pretty good today. Jim and Lucius looked almost better, and Oluwande and Wee John were getting there. With any luck, the healthy crewmates would outnumber the sick ones before long.  Now they just had to do something about Frenchie.

“Okay,” Lucius said, sniffling, “can I just be the first to say, what the fuck?”

There was a general rumble of agreement.

“‘Sympathy sniffles?’” Jackie remarked with a scoff. “The dude’s cracked in the head.”

“I reckon he just doesn’t want us to worry about him,” Fang said. “Like, he made it up to reassure us and that.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he believes it’s actually tr-- true,” Oluwande spoke up. Stifling a cough, he cleared his throat. “Frenchie’s clever. He has to realize he’s ill.”

“I dunno,” Jim replied. They rubbed their nose. “Frenchie believes a lot of weird shit.”

“When we were on Blackbeard’s crew, he wanted to put up mirrors to ‘counteract the crystals,’” Archie pointed out. “Said it would confuse the demons.”

“Plus, Frenchie’s, like, crafty clever,” Lucius added. “If he was making something up to f-fool us…” he paused, sneezing a breathy “hihhhhhhh-shiooooooo!” into his hankie. “Eurgh—he’d make up something better than this.”

“Never underestimate the scourge of snot brain,” Roach warned.

“haaahhhhhhh-CHOOOOOOO!” the Swede sneezed, groaning as he lay his head on Jackie’s shoulder. “If I catch Frenchie’s sympathy sniffles when I’m already sick, could I die?” he wondered.

“Hush, sexy Scandinavian,” Jackie said.

“Exhibit A,” Roach told the others.

“I s’pose it doesn’t really matter whether he believes it or not,” Wee John reasoned. “The real question is, how can we convince him to let us take care of him?”

“At least he’s admitting there’s something the matter,” Lucius said. “I mean, it’s mad, but maybe we can work with it?”

Oluwande nodded, rubbing his nose. “Better than if he was trying to hide it altogether.”

“Okay,” Roach agreed. “Let’s think. How can we use Frenchie’s logic to make our own arguments?”

*           *           *

Frenchie slapped his cheek to rouse himself, sniffling. There was something about the slow rise and fall of the ship on the water, his muddled head, and his bleary eyes trying to focus on Dominica as they drew nearer–-it all made him feel dead tired. He rocked on his heels to keep himself alert.

“Oh, I hear the waves

And feel the sun

And see the clouds

Day’s hardly begu-- begun.”

He coughed, wincing at his sore throat. It wasn’t exactly Frenchie’s best work, but he had to do something or he was going to nod off at the wheel. He tried again.

“Off we go

Course is set

Sailed through the night

But we ain’t th-- hehhhhhh… ain’t there y-yehhhht…ahhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!”

Sniffling yet again, Frenchie wiped his nose. As an enormous yawn hit him, he shook his head to clear it.

“Sun so bright

It hurts my head

Makes me wish

I’d have stayed in bed…”

Frenchie sighed. He didn’t think he’d be debuting this one for the crew anytime soon. “Hihhhhhhh-shoooooo!” he sneezed.

“Er, captain?”

At the hesitant greeting from Fang, Frenchie instantly straightened up. “All right?” he asked, wriggling his nose. He stifled a cough into his fist.

“You know where Zheng is, don’t you?” Fang asked. “Only, I was gonna bring her a new hankie, but I wasn’t sure—”

“Right—shit, didn’t think of that,” Frenchie said. He held out his hand. “Give it here. I’ll bring it t--haahhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!” The sudden sneeze caught him off guard, and he spun round so he wouldn’t sneeze on Fang. “Oh lord,” he mumbled when his head kept spinning after his body stopped.

“Okay, thanks, Frenchie,” Fang replied. He waited for Frenchie to finish rubbing his nose, then offered him the hankie. “And maybe take one for yourself, too?”

“Don’t need it,” Frenchie told him as he stuffed Zheng’s fresh hankie in his pocket. “I haven’t got a cold.”

“No, I know,” Fang agreed. “But even if it’s just the sympathy sniffles giving you a runny nose, it’s still running for real, isn’t it? Wouldn’t having a hankie help?”

It was sound enough reasoning. “I guess,” Frenchie admitted.

“Then here you go,” Fang said, giving him another hankie. “Don’t worry about taking anything away from somebody else—there’s plenty to go round.”

“All r-right,” Frenchie replied, trailing off into another hard “hehhhhhhh-chuhhhhhh!” After rubbing and wiping his nose half the morning, having a hankie felt kind of nice. “Thanks.”

“Bless you,” Fang told him. He looked out at Dominica, growing larger as they approached. “Want me to take over so you can see to Zheng before we arrive? Won’t be long now.”

“Sure--” Frenchie agreed, stifling another cough into his shoulder. He stepped back to let Fang take the wheel. “Good man.”

Yawning and sniffling, he made his way below deck, and Frenchie braced himself as he approached the secret room again. He rapped on the entrance and waited for Auntie to emerge. “Leave her to me,” she said sharply. “I’ve got everything under control.”

“I know,” Frenchie told her. “Just wanted to drop off a clean hankie.” He barely had a chance to pull it from his pocket before Auntie took the hankie from him.

“Very well,” Auntie said. She turned to go. “If that’s all, I’ll be getting back to my queen.”

“We’re coming into port soon,” Frenchie added. “Is there anything we can--” he cleared his throat, wincing, “we can pick up for her?”

Auntie gave him an appraising look, and from her expression, Frenchie could guess he came up lacking. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Frenchie replied hastily. “Can you think of anything else she might need?”

They were quiet for a moment. “If you could find rice?” Auntie asked. “There’s a rice porridge that—I could show the cook how to make it….”

“I’ll see wh-what we can do,” Frenchie said, wriggling his nose as it started to itch again. “See you r-round.”

“Mmm,” Auntie muttered.

Frenchie held the sneeze off until she disappeared back into the secret room, then burst with a “hihhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!”

Everything was going slower today. Frenchie had slept too late this morning, and now it felt like he just couldn’t catch up. It felt a bit like his head was underwater, and it took him longer to turn his attention from one thing to the next. And then once he finally did, his feet felt heavy, trudging from place to place.

Frenchie trudged back up to the main deck, bursting with a “hehhhhhhhh-chuhhhhhhh! Aaaaahhhhhhh-shioooooo!” as he stepped into the sunlight. Blinking hazily and rubbing his eyes, he realized they’d made it to Dominica. Fang was already lowering the dinghy, with Roach and Archie inside. “Hold on!” Frenchie called, his feet clumsy as he hurriedly scrambled over to the railing. “I’ll come too, give you a hand.”

“No can do, captain, already on our way,” Archie replied.

Frenchie pinched the bridge of his nose as his headache pulsed. “Fang, bring it b-- back up,” he instructed. He reached for the hankie Fang had given him, breath hitching. “Hahhhhhhh…ehhhhhhh-chooooooo!’

“You’re not going,” Roach told him. “Too much exercise isn’t good for sympathy sniffles. Stay on the ship. I passed around the soup for dinner—there’s a bowl for you in the galley.”

Frenchie wasn’t a fan of this whole “doctor’s orders” business. “B-but,” he began, not even sure what he wanted to say.

“They’re nearly at the water as it is,” Fang pointed out. “Do I really have to pull them up again?”

With a tired sigh, Frenchie rubbed his forehead. “Fine,” he said. “But see if y-ahhhhhhh-shuhhhhhh!” He grimaced. “Mmm—see if you can find rice somewhere, for Zheng.”

“All right,” Roach replied. “We’ll be back soon. Go sit down and eat something, you look like shit.”

Frenchie didn’t get a chance to argue, because he had to sneeze again, a strong “hehhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!” into his hankie. By the time he’d wiped his nose and looked back down at the dinghy, Roach and Archie were rowing away.

He noticed his legs were shaking a bit—maybe Roach wasn’t completely off base about sitting down. The thought of going all the way to the galley made him feel knackered, so Frenchie retreated to the beakhead instead. 

During the Bad Days, this was one of the places Frenchie had gone sometimes when he needed a place to himself. Now, he sat with one knee tucked against him and his other leg dangling between the rails.

Maybe ten minutes later, he heard Wee John calling, “Cap’n? Frenchie?”

“Over here,” Frenchie replied. He coughed into his hands. 

Frenchie frowned as Wee John came over to him. “What’re you doing up?” he asked. “You need something?”

“Just looking for you,” Wee John replied.

“Oh, right,” Frenchie mumbled. “huhhhhh…ihhhhhh-chioooooooo! Aaahhhhhh-shiuhhhhhh!” He took out his hankie and mopped up his nose.

“Here.” Wee John nudged his shoulder, and as Frenchie looked up, he realized his roommate was carrying two bowls of soup.

“Mmm,” Frenchie murmured, sniffling. “Thanks.” Wee John sat down on a barrel, handing him one of the bowls.

Frenchie’s throat was sore and it definitely hurt to swallow, but he still liked the comforting feel of the soup on his insides as he slowly ate. For a minute or so, he and Wee John were quiet, save for their sniffles, sneezes, and the sound of their spoons scraping against their bowls.

Then Wee John asked, “How’re your sympathy sniffles doing?”

Frenchie sighed. “Not too great,” he admitted. “Bad case, if I’m being honest.”

Wee John reached out and squeezed Frenchie’s shoulder. “Must have more sympathy than you thought,” he said.

“Yeah,” Frenchie agreed, stifling a yawn, “I s’pose so.” A sudden “Hehhhhhhh-chiiaahhhhhhh!” hit him, and drops of broth splashed onto his shirt. Stifling a quiet groan, he tried to wipe them off.

“Bless you,” Wee John told him. “D’ye maybe want to have a lie down, once you’re through eating?”

Frenchie shook his head. “Later. I’ve got too much on just now.”

“B-but n-- huhhhhhh-shoooooo!” Wee John sneezed. Sniffling, he cleared his throat before he asked, “But not right this second, yeah?”

Frenchie glanced at his roommate, then looked down. Didn’t look like he was doing much, did it? Hanging round the beakhead doing fuckall? “I-I’m just taking a minute,” he explained sheepishly, stretching one arm as his hand went into his hair.

“Okay,” Wee John replied, his voice gentle. “All right if I take one with you?”

Frenchie sniffled and rubbed his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

“Good,” Wee John said. He leaned forward to clink the side of his soup bowl against Frenchie’s, like a cheers. Frenchie turned toward Wee John and felt himself smile, just a little.

Chapter Text

When Roach and Archie got back, Roach shooed Frenchie away from helping them unload the supplies. “We’ve got it,” he said.

That was the prevailing theme, it turned out. Roach and Archie didn’t need help, Fang didn’t need help, and Jackie didn’t need help. Frenchie wasn’t about to bug Auntie again, but she certainly didn’t need help. It was a mad thing for them to be saying—nearly the whole crew was down ill and they were managing the ship on their own, of course they needed help. But no one wanted it to be Frenchie.

So he looked over his maps and set a new course. Mainly, they just wanted to be avoiding other ships right now. They were too bare-bones to handle a raid, so no point in chasing after merchant vessels, and they didn’t want to run into any trouble. So just stay out of the way until more of the crew had recovered properly.

“Ahhhhhhhh…hihhhhhhhh-chioooooo!” Frenchie sneezed, bending into it as he braced one hand against the table. He coughed into his hankie and rubbed his eyes.

“Bless you,” Lucius called. “Sympathy sniffles sound awful, by the way.”

Frenchie grimaced. “I’m fine,” he replied.

“What about me?” Pete asked piteously.

“Oh, don’t worry, babe—you sound awful too,” Lucius assured him.

“Worse th-thaa-aaahhhhh…huhhhhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHH!” Pete sneezed. “Worse than Frenchie, right?”

“Congratulations,” Lucius said, stifling a cough. “Of the three people in this room, you’re the most miserable, well done.”

“I’ll have you know I’m surviving an-- an ordeal,” Pete insisted, sniffling.

The one advantage to being less busy was that Frenchie had more time to look after Wee John, though he didn’t need it as much now. Wee John was feeling sort of stuffed up and a little tired, and his voice had a bit of a rumble to it—nothing dire. “Don’t really need much besides company,” he told Frenchie.

“I can manage that all right,” Frenchie replied.

So they hung about in their room, chatting and playing cards. Frenchie didn’t trust himself with a needle when he was coughing and sneezing, but he helped Wee John sort through some curtains they’d snatched on their last raid. Could come in handy for making disguises or something later.

Roach came round at supper time with soup and tea. “This isn’t exactly the same as we had for dinner,” he took pains to point out. “I put some extra ingredients in, so it’s more up to my standards.”

“Thanks, Roach,” Wee John said as he accepted his bowl and mug.

The cook/doctor nodded. “Still feeling okay?” he asked.

“Yep,” Wee John confirmed. “Ready to get out of this fecking room, but Frenchie k-kehhhhhh…” he paused, turning to catch a “haaahhhhhhh-shuhhhhhhh!” in his shoulder. “He kept me from going stir-crazy this afternoon.”

“Great,” Roach replied. “You ought to be able to get up and move around if you want, like you did this morning, just don’t push it. You don’t want to trip over the finish line.”

“Amen to that,” Wee John agreed.

At a forceful “hehhhhhhh-chiooooooo! Aaahhhhhhh…hihhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhh!” from Frenchie, Roach turned his way. “Oh, c’mon,” Frenchie grumbled as Roach pressed a bowl into his hands and set a mug of tea beside him. “You didn’t have to bring me anything. I was gonna come down to the galley.”

“Well, too bad,” Roach retorted.

Frenchie made a face, rubbing his nose. “Did you get rice?”

“A big bag of it,” Roach told him. “That’s on the menu for tomorrow.”

Frenchie nodded wearily. “Auntie’s gonna show you how to do it up,” he said.

“Sure,” Roach replied. “Now eat.”

“I want to see how the others ar-- are fa-aaring…” Frenchie argued. He pressed a “hahhhhhh-shooooo!” into the crook of his arm.

“They’re fine.”

Frenchie sniffled, wiping his nose with the side of his hand. “Not everybody. What about Pete a--” he coughed hard, “--and the Swede?”

“They’re going to be fine,” Roach corrected. “And they’re not going anywhere, so there’s no reason you can’t eat first.”

Sighing, Frenchie sipped a spoonful of soup. “You happy?”

“Overjoyed,” Roach replied. “Nothing I like better than dealing with grumpy, sniffly pirates.”

“I’m not gr-gruhhhh-hahhhhh…ihhhhhhh-shuhhhhhhh!” Frenchie sneezed again. He swallowed a stuffed-up groan.

“Right, not grumpy at all,” Roach said. “Just like a ray of sunshine. Eat.”

The soup was better than it had been at dinner. Roach must’ve been overcompensating for the past couple days, ‘cause it was loaded with veg and potatoes. And Frenchie had to admit, the tea felt nice on his sore throat.

After supper, his pounding head was swimming from exhaustion, but Frenchie got up so he could go round to the rest of the crew. Lucius was rolling his eyes at Pete, who’d started to get a slight fever. Apparently, he was so convinced he was dying that every time he talked, he had to make sure it was something weighty and important—just in case they wound up being his last words.

“Remember me not as I died, but as I lived,” Pete said, grabbing Frenchie’s arm. “B-brehhhhh…haaahhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHH! Unnhhhh—breaking hearts and kicking ass.”

“Yep, got it,” Frenchie replied, carefully peeling Pete’s fingers off him. “Lucius is getting it all down, isn’t he?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucius drawled. “Absolute legend. We’ll tell your story.”

Jim was almost well, and Oluwande was doing better too. “Shouldn’t be long now, mate,” Frenchie told him, sniffling.

“Not a bit too soon,” Oluwande replied with a lopsided smile.

“Ri-iiiigh…” Frenchie started to say, trailing off into a hard “hihhhhhhh-shiooooooo!”

“Bless you,” Olu told him. He coughed into his fist, sniffling. “Captain,” he broached, “what’s the difference between sympathy sniffles and a real cold?”

“Fuck’s sake!” Frenchie exclaimed. “How many times? So when I was a kid…”

“No, I got that,” Oluwande said. “We’re ill, you’re not, you said all that. But what I mean is, how do you know which one you’ve got? Does having sympathy sniffles feel any different than having a regular old cold?”

“Oh,” Frenchie mumbled. He sputtered with a few coughs and rubbed his temples. “No, they’re almost exactly the same. Takes a subtle eye t-- to know th-the diff…differehhhhhh…hehhhhhhhhh-chuhhhhhhh! Aaaahhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhhhh!”

“So you’re feeling just like the rest of us have been?” Oluwande asked.

Frenchie looked up from his hankie, wiping his nose. “Nearly identical,” he confirmed.

“Oh, right,” Olu remarked. “So I guess it doesn’t really matter if it’s not a real cold, huh? If it doesn’t feel any-- any differehhnt…” he caught a breathy “huhhhhhhh-shoooooo!” in his hand, “then you could use the same care we all do.”

“What?” Frenchie frowned. “No wait, hold on….”

“He’s got a point, man,” Jim said, resting their elbow on Oluwande’s shoulder.

“There’s scientific nuances that you’re not getting,” Frenchie insisted. He cleared his throat, sniffling hard.

“Oh yeah, those nuances,” Oluwande said with a slightly drowsy grin. “Right, Jim?”

“Gotta love the nuances,” Jim replied.

“Let’s…let’s just focus on getting you better,” Frenchie said.

“Frenchie, I’m good!” Olu assured him, lying back as if to say, look, I’m resting. “Nearly there. Don’t worry about me.”

“Hehhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!” Frenchie sneezed suddenly, pressing his nose into the back of his hand. Breath still hitching, he pulled his hankie out again. “Ahhhhhhhh…hihhhhhhh-chiooooooo!”

As he sniffled, coughing a little, Frenchie caught the knowing look on Jim’s face. “And don’t think you’re off the hook either,” he told them. “Get some more rest, shake the last of that cold.”

Jim flopped down beside Olu, kissing his cheek. “We will if you will,” they said.

“Oh!” Oluwande exclaimed. “Ball’s in your court, captain.”

Frenchie rubbed the bridge of his nose, stifling another sigh. “Good night, you two.”

“Buenas noches,” Jim replied innocently, while Olu waggled his fingers in a cheeky wave.

Chapter Text

Frenchie didn’t sleep that well. His headache bothered him all night, and his itchy nose made it hard to settle in. Wee John got up a few times to see to him, but Frenchie kept waving him off—the last thing he wanted was to keep his ill roommate up.

Morning came way too early, and the sound of the door opening felt like racket to Frenchie’s throbbing head. “Hey,” Lucius said in a soft lilting tone.

Frenchie muffled a groan into his pillow. “What?” he managed to ask before he started coughing.

“Sympathy sniffles still at it?” Lucius asked.

“What d’you want?” Frenchie said, pushing himself up in bed. He grimaced at how hoarse and congested he sounded.

“Well, good news first, I’m feeling fantastic,” Lucius told him. “Completely better.”

“Mmm-- mmm hmmm,” Frenchie mumbled. “Haahhhhhhh-ehhhhhh…hihhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhhhh!” He sniffled wetly. “That’s great.”

“I know, right?” Lucius replied. “Now, in less great news….” Frenchie rubbed his eyes and looked up at him. “...Roach is ill.”

“Fuuuuck,” Frenchie sighed, stifling another cough as he let both hands sink into his hair. “Of course he is.”

“We can totally figure it out!” Lucius added. “I thought you’d want to know, but you don’t have to get up or anything. We’ll sort it. Right, Wee John?”

“Definitely,” Wee John agreed. He sat up in bed too, yawning a little. “Why don’t you try and rest a bit longer, Frenchie?”

“Ahhhhhhh-shuhhhhhhhh!” Frenchie sneezed again. He rubbed his nose. “No. No, let me….” He clambered to his feet. “I’m on it.”

“You sure, hon?” Lucius asked as Frenchie wobbled a little. “‘Cause you look like you’re not quite on it. Bit of a sympathy fever in the mix today?”

“J-just give me a minute,” Frenchie insisted. He rubbed his forehead and waited until the room stopped lurching. He’d be fine once he got up on deck, into the air. It was stifling down here—he could feel himself sweating.

“...You good?” Lucius ventured. “Because I am not prepared to catch you if you pass out.”

“I’m not passing out,” Frenchie retorted. “Hihhhhhhh…ehhhhhh-chioooooo!” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Yep, all right now. Just gonna g--” he coughed into his fist, “--go see to Roach.” He glanced at Lucius. “In the galley?”

“Where else?” Lucius said, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever seen a man more stubborn about being ill?” Frenchie thought he caught Lucius throwing Wee John a wink.

“You know what they say,” Frenchie pointed out as he and Lucius headed down the hall, “doctors make the worst patients.”

“Yeah, so true,” Lucius agreed. “Wonder if they say that about anyone else?”

Down in the galley, Roach stood with a blanket thrown over his shoulders as he sharpened a knife. If Frenchie hadn’t already known he was ill, it’d have been a dead giveaway. Why else would he need a blanket in this heat?

“Have a seat, babe,” Frenchie told him.

“I’m all right,” Roach replied dismissively, sniffling hard as he rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist.

“Fuck off,” Frenchie said.

“...I’m all right to cook,” Roach amended. “Ehhhhhhhh…haaahhhhhhh…” He buried his face in the crook of his arm. “huhhhhhhhhh-CHUHHHHHHH!”

“You were saying?” Frenchie asked. “C’mere.” He beckoned Roach over to the table. The cook sank down heavily onto one of the benches, pulling the blanket round himself a little tighter.

Frenchie sat down too and wiped his brow. “You don’t h-- don’t have t-to…” His nose tickled fiercely—he’d not thought to bring his hankie, so he caught the hard “hehhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!” in his hands. “You don’t have to be doing this today,” he said, sniffling.

“What, so we’re just going to sk-- skip eating?” Roach countered, wincing as he coughed. He shook his head. “I’m not doing that, especially with sick crew on board.”

“I already told you Auntie is gonna help with the rice stuff,” Frenchie reminded him. “She knows how to bake it, so she can do it on her own. You need to be in bed, man. Hihhhhhh…ahhhhhhh-shooooooo!” He made to speak again, but his nose wasn’t quite through with him yet. “Hahhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhhh!”

“Do you think he even hears himself?” Roach remarked to Lucius.

“Oh, zero self-awareness,” Lucius told him. “He’s not wrong about you, though.”

Roach glowered at Lucius, then turned back to Frenchie. “It’s not just the rice,” he explained. “Whem we were in Dominica, I picked up something special, a surprise.” He sighed, sniffling and rubbing his temples. “It won’t keep past today. It’ll spoil. Ih--” he coughed hard, “--if I don’t do it now…huhhhhhhhh-ehhhhhh…” His expression froze for a moment, then he lifted the corner of his blanket to his face. “ihhhhhhh-SHIUHHHHHHHH! Mmm….”

“All right,” Frenchie allowed, giving his own nose a swipe. “I’ll get Auntie on the rice, and you can do the other bit. But can we divvy it up at all?” He cleared his throat, wincing. “Can I find somebody to help you with any of the legwork?”

Roach shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Frenchie said. He clapped Roach’s shoulder. “You’ll supervise, and then you’re going to bed.”

“Fine,” Roach muttered.

“Great advice, captain,” Lucius told Frenchie. “Ever heard of walking the talk?”

“Wha-aaat?” Frenchie replied. He hitched his way to an “aahhhhhh…hihhhhhh…ehhhhhhhh-chioooooo!”, then got back to his feet. “Tell me about it later. Let’s find out what we’re working with today.”

Zheng must’ve been doing a little better, because Auntie didn’t argue at the notion of leaving her to make the rice porridge. Jim was completely over their cold now, so Frenchie enlisted them to chop things for Auntie and give Roach whatever help he needed.

“So Zheng’s on her own?” Oluwande asked Frenchie. “Could you tell me where she is? I won’t stay if she doesn’t want be there, I-I just wanna know sh-- she’s…haahhhhhhhhh-shooooooo!” He sneezed into his hankie.

Frenchie thought this over, though his head was feeling fuzzy. It was hardly any cooler on deck than it was below, and he was still sweating. “All right, that’s oka--” he decided, breaking off into some hard coughs. Sniffling as he caught his breath, he said. “C-come on.”

Zheng wasn’t a crew member on the Revenge, Frenchie knew that. Her fleet had been hit hard on the Republic of Pirates, but he was sure she was working contingencies to rebuild her power. She wasn’t going to stick around long-term—she had plans, and those plans probably involved Olu going with her when she left. Jim and Archie too, maybe. Frenchie hated to think about that, but any idiot could see that Oluwande was mad about her. How could Frenchie possibly try to stop him from going if he wanted to?

So he headed to the secret room for the second time that morning, showing Oluwande how to get inside. It occurred to him that, between the memories that had gotten stirred up when Jim’s fever was high and now coming by the secret room every day, it was no wonder the Bad Days had been popping into his mind so often lately. It was like something in his head had rattled loose, and when he felt so tired, he couldn’t banish those thoughts as quick as he usually could.

Still, matters could be worse. They were down their cook and doctor, but having Lucius and Jim back on their feet would be a big plus, and if Zheng could let Olu join her in the secret room without throwing anything at him, he was doing well enough that they’d be able to look after each other. Frenchie could work with this.

*           *           *

It was easier for Zheng to blow her nose today; she didn’t feel nearly as blocked up. Her throat wasn’t so raw either. Although she was definitely still sick, she was finally getting onto an upswing. With any luck, she’d be feeling better in the next few days.

She had to give it to Bonnet, the Revenge was a hell of a ship. Fussy and impractical use of space, but its little hidey holes had all sorts of potential. Stifling a cough into the crook of her arm, Zheng stretched. She rubbed at a knot in her shoulder.

There was a knock at the entrance to her hiding place. Frenchie, Zheng supposed. She hadn’t seen him the last couple of days, but since Auntie had gone down to the galley, he was probably back to pester her again. Zheng rose to her feet, sniffling as she pushed the concealed entrance open.

“O-oh,” she mumbled in surprise when she saw Oluwande looking back at her.

“Hey,” he said. “All right?”

Glancing down, Zheng gave a hasty nod, stepping back a little. “Okay,” she replied. She sniffled again. “You look good.”

“Oh, thanks,” Olu said with a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I’m feeling a lot better than I was.”

Zheng caught a sudden “hihhhhhh-hhnnnnhhhh!” in her cupped hands. “You don’t have to say I look good,” she told him, her voice low.

Oluwande smiled again, and the sight of him felt like being wrapped in a soft blanket. “Well, you’ve got a good excuse, haven’t you?” he pointed out. “All right if I come into your…cave?”

The corner of Zheng’s mouth twitched in the suggestion of a smile. She loved that he didn’t try to lie about how sick she looked. “I guess that might be okay,” she said.

Closing up the entrance behind him, Oluwande came down into the hidden room. “How’re you doing?” he asked with a sniffle. “You been feeling pretty rubbish?”

Zheng shrugged, rubbing her nose before she folded her arms tightly across her chest. “I’m still alive, so I call it a-- a win,” she said, stifling a cough from the back of her throat.

He was hovering a couple feet away from her, and Zheng knew the distance between them was her fault. “S-sorry I took off,” she muttered, sniffling. “It was nothing personal.”

“No, I know,” Olu replied. “I’ve got…” He must have realized that she needed to sneeze again, because he paused as she took out her handkerchief, letting out a hard “hehhhhhh-shnnnkkkhhhh!” Another soft smile. “Bless you—I’ve got experience with people who have trouble opening up, and I’ve learned that it’s not really about me. It’s about what they’ve been through and what they need to feel safe.”

He gave so much and made no demands in return. In their world, there was a surprising amount of strength in that. Zheng gave a nod toward the bed, and they both sat down. As she reached for the knot in her shoulder again, Oluwande asked, “May I?”, lifting his hand but not reaching out. Waiting for the go ahead.

“Ok-kaa-ay…” Zheng said before another “ahhhhhhh-shhnnngggkkhhhhh!” got the better of her. Oluwande started patiently working at her knot.

He was good at that, the patience. And it seemed he came by it honestly. You wouldn’t think it to see them now, but from what Oluwande had told Zheng, Jim was a pretty closed book when they first met. 

“The knife-wielding matchmaker?” Zheng had remarked, disbelieving.

Olu had just shrugged. “People can change,” he’d said with a contented expression, “under the right circumstances and with enough help.”

Now, Zheng thought of how gentle Auntie had been with her the last few days. The right circumstances, enough help—was that really all it took?

Well, no, it took more than that. It took a desire to want to change in the first place. Zheng wasn’t altogether sure she had that. She sometimes thought she did, but it could come and go. She’d make a careful overture, then retreat back to what she knew: a calculated charm that only looked like connection.

“Haahhhhhhh-shiooooooo!” Oluwande sneezed, turning his head away and catching it in his shoulder.

The noise startled Zheng from her thoughts. “B-bless you,” she said.

Or maybe you didn’t need to assess your desire or will ahead of time. Maybe you didn’t need the stars to align perfectly. Maybe you just had to decide to start.

“Opening up can be a liability in our line of work,” Zheng offered quietly. She sniffled, rubbing her nose. “You don’t get to be a pirate queen by exposing your underbelly.”

“I s’pose not,” Oluwande agreed. His massaging fingers were warm and firm.

“It’s a tactical way to live,” Zheng continued, “but it can be isolating too. This ship is full of saps, and--” she muffled a few coughs into her fist, “--by all rights, most of you should be dead by now. But you somehow keep surviving by having each other’s backs.”

Olu laughed at that. “Yeah,” he said with a soft sniffle. “We talk it through.”

“I’d like to try more of that,” Zheng told him. “A little of it, anyway.” She reached back and caught his hand, entwining his fingers with hers. “As long as I have enough help.”

From the bright look in his eyes, she knew he recalled the exact conversation she was referencing. Oluwande put his arm around her. “I’m definitely in,” he replied, “and I know some other people who’d love to join in when you’re ready for it.”

“Let’s start with you a-aaahhhh…” Zheng grabbed her handkerchief and clamped it over her mouth. “Hihhhhhhhhhh-shnnnnkkkhhhhh!” She grimaced. “And see where it goes.”

“I’m cool with that, yeah,” Olu said. “And if you’d be more comfortable with a mutual-assistance sort of situation, there was one thing I was hoping you could help me with.”

Zheng had to admit, there was something reassuring about that. Putting herself in Oluwande’s hands felt a little easier if she could offer him something in return. “With what?” she asked.

“Frenchie’s ill and he won’t admit it,” Olu explained. “It’s like he thinks he can’t let himself be unwell. Keeps saying he just has ‘sympathy sniffles.’”

Zheng frowned. “What the fuck is that?”

Oluwande chuckled. “Don’t ask. It’s a mad excuse that only Frenchie could come up with. B--” he let out a quiet cough, “--but I thought he might listen to you. You know, captain to captain?”

Zheng raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “You sure there’s not some other way I can help you?” she asked.

“I guess you could,” Olu reasoned, “but this is the one that I want.”

Damn him. How could she say no to those sweet puppy eyes? Beware the man who can get the pirate queen to do his bidding. “Fine,” Zheng conceded. “Captain to captain it is.”

She could’ve warmed her hands by the smile that spread across Olu’s face. “Thanks,” he said, leaning in to kiss her temple.

Chapter Text

Frenchie had taken refuge up on the maintop, looking down over the rest of the ship—another of his getaway spots from the Bad Days. His head felt achy and scrambled, and his nose was dripping. He sat cross-legged, resting his forehead against one of the posts on the railing. Yawning, he blotted his nose with his hankie.

“Hehhhhhhhh-nnnggghhhhh!”

Frenchie looked at the hankie in surprise, because it wasn’t him who’d sneezed. Looking round, he realized with a start that Zheng was climbing up to the maintop. “Hiya,” he said, mustering up the nearest thing to a smile that he could manage. “You’re back with us. How’re you feeling?”

“Like mild to moderate shit,” Zheng replied dully, sniffling.

“Well, at least that’s an improvement over a few days ago,” Frenchie pointed out. He cupped his hands over his mouth, sputtering with coughs.

Zheng hoisted herself the rest of the way onto the top and sat down beside him, elbows resting on her bent knees. “You’re sick,” she said. Statement, not question.

“Naw,” Frenchie told her, “it’s just a sympathy cough.”

“That’s not a thing,” she said flatly. Sniffling again, she rubbed her nose. “Look, Frenchie, you’re a not-incompetent captain.”

Color Frenchie surprised again. “Cheers for the slightly insul-- insulting complime-ent…” he said. “hihhhhhhh…ehhhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhhhh!”

Zheng waited as Frenchie sniffled, stifling a few more hard coughs. “Sure, you lack ambition and a certain ruthlessness,” she went on, “but with this crew, it sort of works. They’re threatening in the way that a puppy in a leather jacket is threatening, and th-they need a-- a lighter tou-uch…” She fought through the sneeze to the end of her sentence, then caught an “aaahhhhhhhh-chhhnnnhhhhh!” in her hankie.

“Bless,” Frenchie told her. A tired but genuine smile crossed his face. “God, can you imagine if we were puppies in leather jackets?” He mused. “I’d be a beagle, and Fang—”

Zheng cut him off, saying, “Shut up, I’m not playing this game.” She coughed into the back of her hand. “The point is, I haven’t taken the ship from you because you’re a decently okay captain.”

Right—Frenchie would do well not to forget who he was dealing with. “And I appreciate that, Miss Zheng Yi Sao, ma’am,” he said, nodding. He rubbed his nose.

“But there’s still a lot of shit you don’t know how to do yet,” Zheng said, “like how to handle captaining when you’re sick.”

Frenchie gave a dismissive shrug. “Oh, ‘sick’ is such a strong wo—”

“Stop it.” Zheng’s words were like a brick wall; Frenchie’s splatted against them and fell to the ground. The pirate queen sighed. “Believe me, I-- I understa-aaand…” She scrubbed at her nose, but she couldn’t hold back the sneeze. “Hehhhhhhh-nnngggkkhhhhh!” She coughed again.

“I understand the impulse to want to keep the whole ship running on your own when your crew is laid up,” Zheng said, “but you can’t sustain that. Especially when you need to be in bed yourself.”

Fidgeting, Frenchie repositioned himself, sitting with both knees tucked close to his chest. “I really don’t think I need to be in bed over a few—”

“If you say ‘sympathy anything,’ I’m going to start breaking your fingers,” Zheng warned.

“Right,” Frenchie agreed. “That’s good feedback.” A strong tickle flooded through his nose, and he buried his face in his knees as he sneezed a rapid “haaaahhhhhhhh-chiuuhhhhhhh! Hihhhhhhhh-shoooooo!” Stifling a sigh, he rubbed his forehead and said, “Buttoning up now.”

“You aren’t stupid, Frenchie,” Zheng told him. “You’re just inexperienced. That’s why I’m here.”

She cleared her throat. “Here’s what you do,” she said. “Find a nice, safe, preferably sheltered place to tuck your ship and your crew away for a while. A cove near an uninhabited island is ideal, but you can make it work at sea if the weather and currents are favorable. Let everybody sleep it off, yourself in--” she coughed, “--included, until they’ve worked the bug out of their system.”

Zheng took out her hankie and dabbed at her nose. It was a testament to her skills that she was still so sharp when she was obviously feeling unwell. She continued, “Anyone who isn’t sick can perform the essential duties, which should be minimal at that point. Lean on those who’ve already recovered and stick to the basics: weather, food and water stores, any signs of trouble on the horizon. That’ll be enough to keep you ticking over until everyone’s back on their feet.”

“O-okay,” Frenchie replied, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Thanks, Zheng.”

It wasn’t as if it was a mastermind of a plan—most of the advice was simple and practical—but Frenchie hadn’t thought of it himself, had he? Zheng was right; he had a lot to learn. “Thanks,” he repeated, sniffling. “C-could, hehhhhhhh…” He steepled his hands over his face, “ihhhhhhh-shuhhhhhhh! Mmm…” He wiped his nose, then coughed into the back of his hand. “Do you think you could help me find a good spot?”

Zheng hesitated at this, but she nodded. “Fine.” Carefully, they both climbed down from the maintop, and Zheng followed Frenchie to the sofa room.

“Hey, Pete,” Frenchie called softly as they stepped inside. “Out of your hair in--” he sniffled wetly, “--in a few minutes, sorry.”

From the bed, Pete sneezed a hard “huhhhhhh-ehhhhhhhh-CHUHHHHHH!” He groaned loudly and sniffled. “Can you tell Lucius to come back in here?” he asked, his stuffed-up voice on the edge of a whine.

“Yep,” Frenchie replied. “Soon as I’m done h-heere…aaaahhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhhh!” He clapped a hand over his mouth.

Zheng gave him a long-suffering look. “You realize we’re trying to stop you running all over the ship to take care of everything, right?”

Frenchie squirmed a little under her gaze. “I will,” he mumbled, “once we’re sorted.”

“That’s the point,” Zheng told him. “You’re never going to have everything sorted. You have to know wh-whehhhhhh…” Grimacing, she turned away from him and buried an “ehhhhhhh-hhhnnkkhhhh!” in her hankie. “...When to take a step back and let someone else fill in,” she finished with a sigh.

“Yeah, all right,” Frenchie replied hastily. “Can you just help me?”

Zheng turned her attention to his maps. “Here’s the course we’re on n-now,” Frenchie said, tracing their route as he rubbed his nose with his other hand. “Should we not have left Dominica, d’you think?”

“No, that wouldn’t have been a good place,” Zheng said. “Busy port, ships coming and going all the time. Not somewhere you want to be hanging out if you’re not equipped to watch your back.” She looked intently at the map, her nose twitching a little as she sniffled.

“What’s with the drawings?” she asked.

“Oh, right,” Frenchie said. “When I first took over as captain,” he stifled a cough, “there were some places I didn’t know—I mean, I didn’t know them by sight on the map. So I drew these to help me recognize what’s what.” He pointed to St. Augustine. “Like, this here’s St. Augustine. I put an orange for, well, oranges, and a knife, ‘cause that’s where Jim is from. Or here—you’ll like th-- this one….” He pointed to Antigua, covering his mouth as his breath started to hitch. “Ehhhhhh…haaahhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!”

Zheng frowned at the small figure Frenchie had doodled. “Is that…?”

“Auntie,” Frenchie confirmed, “for ‘Auntie-gua.’ Some of ‘em are like that.”

“It’s how you read the map without reading it,” Zheng realized. “Clever.”

Frenchie shrugged, rubbing his nose. “I thought maybe it’d help me with the actual reading part,” he said. “But by now, I mostly know where everything is without looking at the words or drawings, so I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t really like reading. Gives me a headache.”

“Your cold is giving you a headache,” Zheng told him. 

“No,” Frenchie argued. “‘Cause trying to read always makes my head hurt, not just when I have a—” 

He cut himself off abruptly, but he knew from Zheng’s expression that she’d caught it—that he’d come close to saying he had a cold. “I don’t know how you’re meant to sort the letters out when they don’t keep still,” Frenchie said quickly, to distract from his near slip.

Zheng frowned. “What? Hihhhhhh…huhhhhhhhh-shhnngghhhh!”

“Bless,” Frenchie replied. “You oughta see Lucius. He reads just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I reckon he pins the letters down in his head somehow, so they stop moving on him.”

Zheng blinked at him for another second, then shook her head. “Okay, I’m not touching that.” She looked over the map, then tapped one of the islands. “Here, off the coast of Widow’s Marsh. Sailors avoid it because they’re superstitious about the name, so we’re unlikely to see other ships nearby. But if we need to get back to civilization in a hurry, it’s not far from St. Christopher’s. If we divert here, we’ll arrive before nightfall. It’ll do.”

Frenchie nodded. “Right. Hihhhhhh…ahhhhhhhh…” he grabbed his hankie. “Hehhhhhhhh-chooooo!” Wiping his nose, he said. “Widow’s Marsh. Yeah, we can do that. Here, let me—”

“I’ll let you delegate this to somebody else,” Zheng told him. She coughed a little and cleared her throat. “A captain isn’t much good if they can hardly stand. I’ll tell Auntie to divert our course, you can tell Lucius his husband wants him here—”

“Needs him here!” Pete broke in.

“—And then you’re going back to your room,” Zheng finished.

To Frenchie’s surprise, she reached up and placed her hand on his shoulder, just for a second. “Being sick isn’t your fault,” Zheng said, “but it’s on you to make things easier for yourself, so you can get better and be there for your crew.”

“A-all right,” Frenchie said quietly, rubbing his nose. “Thanks, Zheng.”

For a moment, she seemed at a loss. Then she muttered, “Olu asked me to,” turned on her heels, and left the sofa room.

“Good chat,” Frenchie called after her.

Chapter Text

Auntie’s rice porridge was simmering on the stove now, and she’d shooed Jim away. They went to find Roach, following the sounds of his snoring to the ration stores, where he’d curled up and dozed off on the floor.

Jim weighed their options. Obviously, Roach would be better off sleeping, but he’d been intense earlier about how he absolutely had to make his special surprise today, and Jim didn’t know how long it’d take. Deciding they’d rather avoid the wrath of a sick, cleaver-wielding Roach, Jim nudged him with their foot.

“ahhhhhhhh…huhhhhhhh-CHIOOOOOOO!” he sneezed, groaning as he sat up and stretched.

“Hey,” Jim said. “I’m ready to help with your thing now. What do you need?”

Roach massaged his temples, stifling hard-sounding coughs. “Six empty barrels,” he said. “Three smaller ones and--” he coughed again, “--and three big enough to fit the small ones--” and again, “--into.” He cleared his throat and sighed. “Then we’ll be working over here.”

Tottering to his feet, Roach led Jim to a large mound of straw and sawdust in a corner of the galley. As Jim pushed the straw aside, they realized it was insulating blocks of ice, which were arranged around bottles of…

“Wait, is that milk?” they asked.

“Cream,” Roach corrected.

“Who brings a shitload of cream onto a pirate ship?” Jim asked. “It’ll never keep.”

“That’s why we’re using it t-- toda-ay…” Roach explained, cupping his hands over his mouth as he exploded with a “haaahhhhhh-ehhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHHH!” He pulled his blanket around him more tightly and wiped his nose. “Go find the barrels, and get the big sacks of sugar and salt out of the ration stores.”

Before long, Jim was tightly sealing the small barrels after Roach dumped cream, sugar and a few other ingredients into them. “Put them inside the bigger ones,” Roach instructed. “Then pack the big ones with the ice.” He cleared his throat, sniffling.

Jim was breaking the ice into smaller chunks when Oluwande came into the galley. “Hey, ¿qué pasa?” Jim said. “Zheng kick you out?”

No, we hung out for a while,” Olu told them. “But she said she’d talk to Frenchie for us, try to get him to see sense a-and…” he paused, catching a breathy “hihhhhhh-uhhhhhh-shoooooo!” in his hankie. “And admit defeat.”

“Good luck with that,” Roach groused.

Jim and Olu exchanged bemused looks. “Yeah, if only he’d follow your example,” Oluwande joked.

“You see me sitting, right?” Roach countered. “Letting J-Jihhhh-hihhhhhhhh…haaahhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHH!” He stifled a congested groan. “Letting Jim do all the work?”

“Most of it,” Jim said. They wedged more ice chunks into one of the barrels. “The problem is, Frenchie’s not gonna rest unless he knows everybody else is good, and that’s not gonna happen anytime soon.” They tossed a tiny ice chip at Olu. “You’d know a thing or two about that.”

“When have I not been rehhh-- restiiing…?” Oluwande protested, trailing off into a breathy “hehhhhhhh-shiaahhhhhhh!”

“Salud,” Jim said pointedly. “How ‘bout when you were sitting up with my feverish ass while you were sick too? Or when you couldn’t sleep because you were wondering if anybody was looking after Zheng?”

“I-I just…” Olu tried, but it was clear he realized he couldn’t talk his way around that one. “All right, maybe I do that a little,” he conceded.

“Exactly,” Jim replied, “and that’s the issue with Frenchie.” They offered Olu a crooked half-smile. “I know your queen is the shit, and she might convince him to go to bed, but I don’t know if even she can get him to stay there.”

“At gudpoint, maybe?” Roach suggested. He coughed hard into his blanket, then started pouring salt into one of the big barrels.

“What we really need is some way to reassure him,” Olu mused. “Show him that everybody’s okay--” he sniffled, pulling out his hankie to wipe his nose, “--and that he can let us run things for him while he’s ill.”

“You got any ideas?” Jim asked.

“Count me out, I’m dangerously close to snot brain,” Roach said. He poured salt into the last barrel. “Seal these up, Jim. I’ll show you how to finish them off, a-- and then you t-two-ooo…fuck!” He buried a loud “HUHHHHHH-ihhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhh!” in the crook of his arm. “You two can brainstorm to your hearts’ content. I need to lie down.”

“Okay,” Jim replied. “Let’s do it, Cucaracha.” They grabbed one of the barrel lids and started pounding it shut.

*           *           *

Wee John’s sniffles were the last lingering symptom of his cold. He didn’t feel badly at all, but he knew Frenchie wanted everyone taking it easy until they’d fully recovered—he could talk!—so Wee John had brought a few of the crew’s disguises back to his room to do some repairs.

Frenchie had devised a handful of go-to cover stories the crew could use as a pretense for getting invited on board another ship: they were merchants adrift after taking heavy damage to their ship, they were a delegation of ambassadors who’d lost course in a storm, they were wealthy nobles on a pleasure cruise, and so on. They could get through a raid with a lot less bloodshed when they were welcomed aboard and then discreetly swiped as many small valuables as they could. Frenchie had a particular talent for getting people to happily give him their valuables, to the point that they pleaded for it. But all that meant looking plausible, and you couldn’t pass yourself off as an ambassador in a torn or bloodstained coat (Frenchie’s schemes meant less bloodshed, not zero.)

Wee John sat in the nook, carefully fixing the sleeve on a handsome emerald jacket. He got so absorbed in his work, he didn’t realize Frenchie had come along until he heard his roommate’s scratchy, congested voice in the doorway. “Hey.”

“Oh, hey,” Wee John said, starting a little. “Didn’t see you there.” Frenchie hovered in the doorway, sniffling. His fingers fidgeted at his sides. “Everything all right?”

“We’re going out towards Widow’s Marsh, near St. Christopher’s,” Frenchie told him. “Just gonna hunker down ‘til everyone’s feeling better.”

“Okay,” Wee John replied. He frowned—that sounded like a good thing, so why was Frenchie acting uneasy? “What’s up?”

Before Frenchie could answer, he burst with a strong “haaahhhhhh-shooooooo!” into his hands. He let out a quiet sigh. “I think I might have caught that cold that’s been going round,” he admitted.

Wee John gave himself credit for not laughing out loud at the world’s most unnecessary confession. “Yeah, I think you may have,” he agreed with a bemused smile.

“Yeah…” Frenchie echoed, looking glum. “Ihhhhhhh…hehhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhh!”

“Bless you,” Wee John told him gently. “You want a cuddle?” Frenchie nodded. “Okay, c’mere.” 

He set the jacket aside and got up, moving to sit on his bed. “Sitting up or lying down?” Wee John asked as Frenchie joined him there.

“I’m not bothered,” Frenchie mumbled with a shrug. “Dealer’s choice.” He gave a long, wet sniffle.

“All right then, how ‘bout we lie down?” Wee John suggested.

Wee John knew Frenchie wasn’t one for kisses, dates, or fucking, but he did enjoy a good cuddle between friends now and again. Now, he tucked himself against Wee John, who held him tight.

“You okay?” Wee John asked softly as Frenchie coughed into his fist.

“Yeah,” he replied, sighing. “I just—I didn’t want to be ill.”

All right, so Wee John did laugh this time. “Who does?” he pointed out.

“Well—” Frenchie started, then broke off. He glanced up at Wee John and gave him just a hint of a sheepish smile. “Well, I mean, yeah.” He drew in a sharp breath as he was hit with an “aaaahhhhhh-shuhhhhhhhh! Hihhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!” Rubbing his nose, he said in a low voice, “But I really didn’t want to be ill.”

Wee John thought of how doggedly Frenchie had been holding things together since everyone had started catching cold: sitting up with folks who were poorly (Wee John included,) repeatedly readjusting as the number of healthy crewmates dwindled, always wanting to check on everybody and make sure they were all right.

“I know,” Wee John said. “So that’s why you came up with sympathy sniffles?”

“It made sense,” Frenchie told him. “I figured, I couldn’t have a cold, so it must be something else. And what I said about my dad, that really happened. Ihh-ihhhhf, haaahhhhhhh…” Wee John felt Frenchie’s body tensing as another “ehhhhhhhh-chioooooo!” burst out of him. He stifled a weary cough. “If you can feel like you’re with child when you’re not, why couldn’t it go the same way with a cold?”

“Maybe because, unlike a cold, pregnancy’s not catching,” Wee John replied, teasing lightly. He rubbed his nose and sniffled. “Your dad couldn’t have been carrying a child. But if you start sneezing after you’ve been round a shitload of people with colds, you can probably assume it’s not just in your head.”

Frenchie let out a soft groan as he buried his face in Wee John’s chest. Tsking fondly, Wee John turned Frenchie’s head a little so he could brush his knuckles against the other man’s cheek. “You feel kind of feverish,” Wee John noted. “D’ye want a wet rag for your forehead?”

“Maybe late-- later…hehhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhh!” Frenchie sneezed. He shifted round so he could get his hankie out of his pocket, sniffling hard as he blotted at his nose. “Can we just stay like this for a bit?”

“You’ve got it,” Wee John replied. As Frenchie coughed again, Wee John didn’t say anything further. He just hugged his friend, roommate, and captain a little tighter.

Chapter Text

Frenchie had known he enjoyed a nice cuddle almost as long as he’d known he didn’t fancy any of the things that usually went along with it. But it wasn’t until the Bad Days that he’d realized it wasn’t just something he liked—it was something he needed. During that time, the nights he’d spent cozied up next to Jim or Fang were always the nights he slept the best, even as their arms had made him miss Wee John’s.

There was something so calming and comforting about his roommate’s firm embrace. Frenchie’s lanky limbs tended to go everywhere, like a clumsy marionette, and when Wee John held him, he could sort of feel himself coming back together. And now, when he felt tired and stuffed up and headachy, he needed those arms as much as ever.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been lying there when two faces appeared in the doorway. “Frenchie, can you come with us?” Jim asked. “We’ve got something that needs your urgent attention.”

Frenchie groaned inwardly. Just like that, the feeling of being ill and snug in bed with no responsibilities popped like a soap bubble. His head reminded him what Zheng had said about knowing when he needed to take a step back and rest, but his mouth said, “Yeah, coming.” Reluctantly wriggling out of the cuddle, he rubbed his nose, sniffling as he asked, “What’s the matter?”

“You sure this isn’t something you can handle on your own?” Wee John asked pointedly. “Cap’n’s not feeling very well.”

“Sorry, it is quite urgent,” Lucius replied. “You better come too, Wee John. This is sort of an all-hands-on-deck situation.”

As Frenchie rose to his feet, he burst with a hard “haaahhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhhh!” Hastily wiping his nose, he asked. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Numerous possibilities started careening through his fuzzy head.

“Easier for us to show you,” Jim told him. They slipped into the room while Lucius beckoned Frenchie and Wee John to follow.

Naval ships? Other pirates? A storm rolling in? Frenchie balled up his hands so they wouldn’t fidget, muffling a hard cough into the crook of his arm.

Lucius led them up to the deck, and as the bright sunlight hit Frenchie’s eyes, he sneezed a strong “ehhhhhhhh-shiooooooo!” that bent him at the waist—probably not a storm then. He caught the sneeze in his cupped hands, then straightened back up, bracing himself for whatever crisis was about to meet them.

He sure didn’t expect what he saw.

Spare flags and fabric had been hung up in a makeshift canopy over the deck, shielding everyone from the sun as they lounged beneath it. There were blankets and pillows everywhere, and Fang was helping Auntie pass out bowls of rice porridge. Off to one side, three barrels were suspended in a big net. Archie and Oluwande sat in the rigging and kept pulling the ends of the net between them, making the barrels roll—Frenchie couldn’t figure out what that was about.

“Everybody’s up here,” Lucius told Frenchie, “so you don’t have to go looking for anyone or checking on anyone.” He pointed out Pete, curled up in a ball and snoring, and Roach, lying with his blanket tucked round him as he drowsily supervised the thing with the barrels. “Jackie’s at the wheel, and she’ll come down and join us once we reach Widow’s Marsh.”

“What a-about Zh-Zhehhh-hihhhhhh-chooooooo!” Frenchie sneezed.

“Over there,” Lucius replied, nodding to a sort of blanket tent a little offset from the canopy. “Technically, it’s for anybody who needs a bit of privacy, but Oluwande warned us that Zheng might monopolize it, just a smidge. He thinks he can coax her out later, though.”

Jim came up behind them, and Frenchie realized they’d grabbed his and Wee John’s bedding out of the room. “We have soup, we have plenty of water, and Roach says his surprise will be ready soon,” they explained. “We’ve got everything we need for the people who are sick, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Frenchie felt a tired smile slide across his face. “Fuck me,” he murmured, an odd mix of surprise and relief and gratitude all at once.

“Come on,” Lucius said. “Let’s get you settled, so we can see to those sympathy sniffles.”

“Oh, we’re not doing that anymore,” Wee John told him.

“No?” Lucius asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” Wee John echoed. Sniffling, he put his arm round Frenchie. “He’s got a cold, he said so.”

“Finally—thank god,” Lucius replied. But he gave Frenchie an encouraging smile and added, “So we can see to your cold, then.”

Frenchie nodded, catching a hard “hehhhhhh-chiuuhhhhhh!” in his hands. “Okay,” he conceded, rubbing his nose.

His and Wee John’s blankets and pillows were added to the comfy hoard. Beneath the canopy, Frenchie could feel the breeze but not the full force of the sun, and it was the coolest he’d felt all day. He propped his pillow against some sacks so he could half-sit, half-lie.

“Here we are,” Fang announced, offering bowls to Frenchie and Wee John. “You’ll love it. It smells delicious!”

“Cheers for telling me—I can’t smell anything,” Frenchie told him. “Thanks, mate.” He stifled a cough into the back of his hand, then tried a spoonful of soft, soupy rice in broth. It was topped with garlic, chilis that made his nose run, ginger, and salt pork, and the rice practically melted in his mouth.

“How’s that?” Jim asked.

Frenchie looked out at the crew. Everyone seemed cozy, content, and taken care of. “Good,” he said with a wet sniffle, nodding. “It’s all real good.”

“Oh, we so nailed it!” Lucius exclaimed, exchanging a high five with Jim. “Now would you get some fucking rest already? Crew’s orders, you got it?”

Frenchie nodded again. “Got it,” he echoed, wiping his nose with his hankie.

Jim and Fang joined the Swede to play some cards over dinner. Auntie brought porridge to Zheng in the privacy tent. It sounded like Archie was entertaining Olu with a story about one of her mad adventures. Lucius went over to Pete, sketching and teasing his husband while they ate. Wee John settled in comfortably beside Frenchie, discovering that Jim had tucked a bit of his knitting into his blanket for him. He set his needles and yarn aside for later, then turned his attention to the porridge.

Frenchie, though, didn’t feel the need to be doing anything. He ate his rice porridge and watched the crew’s cozy camaraderie. He snuck glances up at the canopy now and then, smiling to himself. He wondered who’d come up with all this and if they realized just how much peace of mind it brought him.

“Aaahhhhhhhh-shiooooooo!” he sneezed into his hankie—it was messy, since his nose was still running. “Ihhhhhhh-chuhhhhhhhh!”

“You all right?” Wee John asked.

“Yeah,” Frenchie replied, blotting at his nose. “I mean, I feel rubbish, but I’m okay.”

“Good,” Wee John replied, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

At last, Roach declared the barrels sufficiently tumbled. He had Archie and Olu get them down from the netting and cracked them open. As Roach fussed with the barrels, Archie stood on her toes to see between him and Oluwande. “Holy shit!” She exclaimed.  “Is that fucking ice cream?”

“Fucking ice cream,” Roach declared, looking exhausted but pleased with himself. “Who wants chocolate?”

The empty porridge bowls were filled back up. Chocolate ice cream, vanilla, strawberry—already starting to melt, but it was cold and creamy, soft on Frenchie’s sore throat as he swallowed it.

“Okay, you were right,” he told Roach. “You ab--” he coughed into his fist, “--absolutely needed to do this today.”

“You see how much better things g-go-ohhhh…” Roach caught an enormous “huhhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHH!” in his hankie. “...When you listen to me?” he finished, sniffling.

“Now and then,” Frenchie replied with a sleepy smile. “Now go lie down. You look like shit.”

“Yes, sir, captain,” Roach answered, tossing him an amused wink.

Satisfied, Frenchie rolled onto his belly and propped himself up on his elbows, not minding the next “hihhhhhhh-chiuuhhhhhh! aaaaahhhhhhh…hehhhhhh-shooooooo!” that burst out of him. He rubbed his nose as another spoonful of ice cream half-melted on his tongue. After the stress and worries of the last week, he wasn’t sure if there was anything he’d needed more than this moment right here.

Chapter Text

They anchored off the coast of Widow’s Marsh by late afternoon, and supper time brought a second helping of rice porridge. As the sun sank low on the horizon, Roach roused himself and headed below deck for a bit, returning with a bottle of rum wrapped in a towel. Frenchie watched as he checked on their ill crewmates, which was much easier now that everyone was in the same place. Even Zheng had come out of hiding, sitting on the edge of the canopy next to Oluwande.

“Anyone need me for anything?” Frenchie asked, raising his voice as much as his throat would allow. He got a chorus of “no’s” in reply, along with a few “shut ups.”

“All right, just chehh-- checki-ing…” he said, raising his hankie to his face. “hihhhhhh-shioooooo!”

“Wee John, does he still have a fever?” Roach asked as he came round, holding his hand to Frenchie’s cheek. The cook wiped his nose. “Looks like he does, but I can’t tell for sure.” No wonder, Roach looked feverish himself.

Wee John reached out to feel Frenchie’s forehead. “Yeah,” he replied. “Not a bad one, but it’s definitely there.”

Roach nodded. There were several barrels of water dotted round beneath the canopy, and he got up to soak a ladleful onto a cloth. “Keep this on your forehead,” he ordered, handing the cloth to Frenchie. “I-I-ahhhhhhhh…” he turned and pressed a “hehhhhh-uhhhhhhh-SHIUHHHHHHH!” into his shoulder. “I don’t need a delirious captain on my hands.”

“Right, mate,” Frenchie agreed, sniffling. “Will do.”

“And he didn’t sleep last night,” Wee John added.

“I thought so,” Roach remarked. Coughing into his hand, he poured a little rum into Frenchie’s mug. “Medicinal.”

Frenchie pushed himself up to more of a sitting position. As he picked up the mug, he realized this was the hot rum Roach had told him about earlier—so that’s why he’d wrapped a towel round the bottle. “And how ‘bout some f-for yourse-elf…?” Frenchie asked, trailing off into an “aaaahhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhhh!”

“I knew you’d say that,” Roach replied. “Why do you think I saved you for last?” He tapped the rum bottle against Frenchie’s mug in a hasty cheers, then took a swig. “Good night.”

“Night, Roach,” Frenchie said. He swallowed the hot rum, then lay back down, wrapping his scarf round his eyes before he draped the wet cloth over his forehead. It didn’t take long for his head to start swimming drowsily, and he felt the sounds of his coughing, sniffling crewmates fading away.

*           *           *

“Well, that's the Caribbean for you, isn't it? Sunshine one minute, cataracts the next!”

“Start with his leg, see where it goes.”

“Do you think I wouldn't know the smell of my rotting former first mate?”

Claws and blood, screams and groans, day after fucking day.

“Kill me, you fucking cowards!!!”

“Never going back to land.”

“Fire away—not literally, I hope!”

Raw seagull, blood dripping down his chin. Gagging even as his belly ached with hunger.

“‘Ooh, I don't know, Blackbeard! Maybe a-a little bit toxic sometimes. Maybe it's a bit uncomfortable.’”

“It's okay; it's just life.”

“‘You do make the crew a little bit uncomfortable sometimes. They think you're crazy!’”

The sharp tilt of the deck, blinding rain coming down sideways. Fingers shaking as he clung to the capstan, sure he was about to drown.

“Sounds like something that maybe actually can't exist, captain.”

“All love dies! I'm just hastening the process!”

Frenchie’s head spun as he bolted upright, gasping for air. “F-- fucking heh-- ell!” he choked out between coughs. As his fingers scrabbled at his scarf, a sudden shiver ran through him, and he realized he was slick with sweat.

“Frenchie?” This was Jim’s voice, coming from a short distance away. “You okay?”

That’s right—canopy. Middle of the night. He’d been sleeping out on the deck. 

“Y-yeah,” Frenchie stammered. He stifled another hard cough and sniffled, feeling round for his hankie. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. I j-just….” Not finding the hankie in time, he buried his face in his cupped hands. “haaahhhhhh-shoooooo! Hehhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!”

Sighing, Frenchie sniffled again and reached up to his scarf, feeling a bit shaky as he unwound it from his eyes. He blinked hazily at the moonlight reflecting off the water.

There was a quiet rustling noise, and then Jim was walking over to him, carefully stepping round their sleeping friends. “Bad dream?” they asked. Frenchie was still trying to form his words into a reply when they nodded. “Bad dream,” Jim said, answering their own question.

“I-I’m all right,” Frenchie insisted weakly as Jim sat down next to him.

“Yeah, I know you are,” they replied. They put their arm round Frenchie, and he found his head dropping onto their shoulder.

For a couple minutes, neither of them spoke. It seemed like Jim was the only one Frenchie had woken. His nose and throat were still giving him grief, but he tried to be quieter about it.

Jim leaned forward, plucking Frenchie’s hankie out from his blanket. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely as they offered it to him. He blew his nose until it felt a little less uncomfortable.

“Jim?” Frenchie said. “Before, when your fever was making you see things, were you thinking b-back t-o-oooo…” he lifted the hankie again. “hihhhhhhh-chiuhhhhh! Aahhhhhh…hehhhhhhh-chioooooo!” Frenchie wiped his nose, swallowing a stuffed-up groan. “To when the others got left behind, and we were kept on with Blackbeard? Those days?”

After a long, silent moment, Jim replied, “I don’t remember.”

“Oh,” Frenchie mumbled, sniffling. “Oh, right.”

Jim pointed out, “Kinda delirious, so….”

“Yeah,” Frenchie agreed. They lapsed back into silence for a minute. Then Frenchie asked, “Is that bullshit, though?”

More quiet. Finally, Jim said, “I don’t remember all of it.” Their voice was low. “And some of what I do remember wasn’t from that time—it was…older.” Frenchie found Jim’s hand in the dark and gave it a quick squeeze. “But some of it, yeah.”

“I don’t usu-- usually…hihhhhhhh…ehhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!” Frenchie sneezed. He sighed. “I don’t usually dwell on those days much. When those thoughts creep in, I can normally push ‘em away again quick. But lately, th-- they’ve been seepi-- seeping into m-- my mind mor--” 

The hard, tickly coughs at the back of his throat got the better of him. Frenchie covered his mouth with his hands and coughed in earnest. When they finally stopped, he wiped his watering eyes with the back of his wrist. “Tonight, it’s like they just spilled over. I dunno why.”

Jim gave Frenchie a rueful smile as they told him, “Because when you stuff enough shit into a box, eventually the lid won’t shut anymore. Even a box in your head.” Looking him over, they added, “I don’t think the fever is helping.”

“Yeah,” Frenchie agreed glumly. He sniffled, dabbing at his nose. “I think that’s jimmying the lock a bit.”

“Wait,” Jim said. They found the cloth that had slipped off his forehead and rewet it from the water barrel, filling Frenchie’s mug while they were at it. They crept softly back to Frenchie, saying, “Here,” as they handed him the cloth and the water.

“Thanks,” Frenchie replied. “Hehhhhhh-ihhhhhhh…” With his hands full, he turned to catch the sneeze in his shoulder. “uhhhhhhhh-shoooooooo!”

“Salud,” Jim told him. They put their arm back round him.

“Mmm hmmm,” Frenchie said with a wet sniffle. He winced as he drank a few swallows of water, then held the cool cloth to his hot forehead. “You can go back to bed. I’m fine now.”

“That’s okay,” Jim replied matter-of-factly.

Frenchie coughed again and took another drink. “I don’t wanna keep you up,” he pointed out, clearing his throat.

“Just returning the favor,” Jim said. “Too bad I don’t play guitar.”

The suggestion of a weary smile tugged at the corner of Frenchie’s mouth—so much for them not remembering. “You could sing,” he told them.

Jim chuckled softly. “No one wants to hear that.”

“I do,” Frenchie said. He rested his aching head back on Jim’s shoulder. “Pretty please? I can’t right n-now…” He sneezed a hard “hahhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhh!” into the crook of his arm. “Mmm—my throat’s too sore for it, and I hate that.”

“All right, fine—Jesus,” Jim said. “Okay, um….”

They hemmed a bit, and Frenchie thought they were looking round to make sure no one else was awake. But then they began to sing.

“Una mariposita, que del cielo bajó

Con sus alas extendidas

Y en el pico una flor.”

It was a gentle song, the melody rising and falling like lapping waves. It sounded like a lullaby, and Frenchie wondered who’d used to sing it to Jim. Their voice was nice—husky and quiet.

“¿Para quién son las flores?

Si no son para mí.

Ay mamita del alma

Yo me muero por ti.”

“Hehhhhhh-shooooooo!” Frenchie’s head was starting to feel heavy, and the sneeze caught him off guard. He only halfway raised his hand to his face to cover it. Stifling a few coughs, he let his eyes fall closed. He felt his breaths growing slower, more restful, as Jim continued their soft lullaby.

“Cuando venga papito

Se lo voy a deci

Que esa mariposita

No me deja dormir

Dormir….”

Chapter Text

Gradually, Frenchie became aware that it was morning and he was awake. He yawned and sniffled, stifling a few coughs. As he raised his hand to his face, he realized that his scarf was covering his eyes.

Normally, he always did that when he slept on deck, but last night, he didn’t remember winding the scarf back round his head before he’d dropped off again. Had Jim done it for him after he’d fallen asleep?

As he gently tugged his scarf loose, Frenchie shielded his eyes before he opened them. With the canopy overhead, though, the sun wasn’t too bright. 

He was lying on top of his blanket, but the wind was making him shiver a little. Frenchie sat up to rearrange his bedding, catching a “haaaahhhhhhh-chiooooo!” in the crook of his arm. He yawned again.

“Hey, there he is,” said Wee John fondly as he and Oluwande came up to Frenchie. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ill,” Frenchie admitted, sniffling. His nose felt pretty sore, and he dabbed gingerly at it as he lay back down, slipping under his blanket. “But I’m all right.”

“Yeah?” Olu said. Noting the blanket, he asked, “Have you got chills?”

“S-- sort of,” Frenchie admitted, coughing.

Olu knelt down and felt the side of Frenchie’s neck. “Still a little feverish,” he observed.

“Mmm,” Frenchie mumbled. He picked up his barely-damp cloth. “C-could you…hihhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!” He pulled the blanket over his nose to cover the sneeze.

“Yeah, sure,” Oluwande replied. Once he’d got the cloth wet again, he laid it over Frenchie’s neck.

“Are you feeling better?” Frenchie asked, looking from Olu to Wee John, as he realized neither of them were sniffling.

“Yeah, loads,” Wee John told him. “I feel back to normal.”

Oluwande nodded. “Roach is about the same as you,” he said. “He’s still sleeping, so we figured we’d go round and check on people.” He pointed to where the quartet had lain down last night—Zheng included, not far from the others. “I think Zheng’s turned a corner. She’s not feeling so poorly anymore, which is probably what made it easier to get her to come out of the tent.”

“The Swede’s a little better,” Wee John explained. “Jackie’s starting to come down with it, though. She isn’t that ill, but she’s pissed at him for giving it to her.”

“S-sou…ahhhhhhhhh…ihhhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhhh!” Frenchie clapped his hankie over his mouth. “Sounds about right.” Lifting his head a little, he raised his voice. “All right, Jackie?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Jackie called back from across the deck, sounding raspy and stuffed-up. “Goddamn motherfucking plague ship.”

“Pete’s doing better too,” Olu added, “but he insists that he’s not. Lucius thinks he’s got used to being waited on hand and foot.”

Frenchie gave a drowsy smirk. “Surprised Lucius has gotten this far without smacking him.”

Wee John chuckled. “I guess there’s a pool going? I didn’t get in on it, but apparently Archie started it.”

“Oh, I know—I had day three,” Frenchie replied. He cleared his throat. 

“If Lucius makes it through until Pete gets over it, I reckon Fang will take home the pot,” Oluwande said. “He was the only one who believed in Lucius’s patience.”

“Or the only one who underestimated how annoying Pete is when he’s ill,” Lucius said, arriving with a steaming mug. 

“Wait, you know about the pool?” Oluwande asked. “Doesn’t that taint the results?”

“Please, we’re pirates,” Lucius told him. “It’s not like anything we do is on the up and up.” He handed Frenchie the mug. “Here you go—Auntie made tea for Zheng, and Jim managed to convince her there was enough to go round.”

Frenchie sat back up, keeping the blanket over his lap. He shifted the wet cloth so it wouldn’t slide off. “Cheers,” he replied, taking a sip of tea. “Ehhhhhhhh…hahhhhhhhh-chooooooo!” he sneezed into his shoulder. And again, “hihhhhhh-shuhhhhhhh! Mmm….” He touched his hankie to his nose. “Is Auntie gonna cook again?”

“We thought we oughta wait ‘til Roach wakes up first,” Wee John said. “If he’s got something in mind and feels strongly about it, we figured that’d be all right, so long as he lets Jim or somebody do the fetching and chopping?”

Frenchie nodded. “Yeah, I s’pose.”

“But if he’s not wed to anything, or if he’s feeling too ill to get up, then we’ll ask Auntie,” Oluwande added.

“Then you’ll ask Zheng to ask Auntie for us,” Lucius corrected.

“Someone will ask Auntie,” Oluwande said.

As he sputtered with a hard cough, Frenchie drank a bit more of his tea, wincing. “Oka-aaay,” he said, stifling a yawn.

Fang came round with the laundry sack. “Morning, Frenchie,” he said. “Stick your old hankie in here, I’ve got a new one for you.”

“God, that’s perfect,” Frenchie breathed as Fang handed him a dry hankie. “Thanks, Fang, this cold is murder on my nose.”

Jim and Archie came over to them. “It’s a beautiful day off the coast of Widow’s Marsh,” Archie spieled. “No storms or ships on the horizon. Only danger out here is dying of boredom from all the fucking tranquility.”

“Mmm—I was gonna ask somebody to check all that,” Frenchie said.

“Zheng put ‘em onto it,” Olu explained.

Frenchie nodded, sniffling. “Thank her for be?”

“Will do,” Oluwande assured him. And they thought Frenchie couldn’t delegate!

“Aaahhhhh-hehhhhhhhh…ihhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhhh!” Frenchie sneezed into his fresh hankie. He stifled a congested sigh. With sidelong glances at both Archie and Wee John, he said, “I’m just saying this now, nobody’s blowing anything up out of boredom while we’re here.”

“Oh, come on!” Archie exclaimed.

“What about just a small explosion?” Wee John asked. “That doesn’t count, right?”

“I mean, we’re not gonna blow nothing up,” Frenchie amended. “We’re just not doing it now, while folks are ill and need quiet. But later, oncce everyone’s feeling better, we will—to celebraa-aaate…” He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hihhhhhhh-shoooooooo! Hahhhhhh-ehhhhhhh-chuhhhhhh!”

“Bless you,” Fang told him. “You need anything?”

Frenchie shook his head, sniffling as he gently blotted at his nose. He yawned into the back of his hand. “Not right now,” he replied. “I’m just gonna lie back down, I think. Might have sobeone get my guitar out of our room later, if I need something to do.”

Jim raised their eyebrows. “How’s your throat?” they asked.

Frenchie smiled a little at his fever-hazed memory of last night. “Still too sore to sing,” he said, “but I can play, at least.” Catching another strong “hehhhhhhh-chiooooooo!” in his hand, he eased himself back down onto his pillow.

“If I start thrashing, somebody wake me, all right?” he asked.

Wee John tucked Frenchie’s blanket round him more snugly, then gave his shoulder a rub. “We will,” he promised. “Just try to sleep.”

“Mmm, okay,” Frenchie murmured drowsily.

Most of the others went their separate ways, with parting calls of, “Sleep tight, Frenchie,” and, “Feel better, captain.” Off to look after the ship and the rest of the crew so Frenchie wouldn’t have to.

Wee John stayed nearby, sorting through some raid disguises that needed mending. “Is your head feeling any better?” he asked as Frenchie put his scarf back over his eyes.

“N-not rea-- really…” Frenchie replied, bursting with a “hihhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!” into his hankie. “Still aching.”

Tsking, Wee John reached over and started massaging Frenchie’s temple lightly with his fingers. “How’s that?”

“Thanks, mate,” Frenchie told him, “but you really don’t have to—”

“I know,” Wee John said. “Just ‘til you fall asleep, yeah?”

It did feel awful nice. “Yeah,” Frenchie agreed, stifling a few coughs into his blanket. “Yeah, all right.”

All round Frenchie, the crew was helping one another out. Everybody ill was being looked after, the ship was anchored safely away from trouble, and by and large, things ran just fine without him. Frenchie was being looked after too: soothing tea for his throat and a clean hankie for his nose, a wet cloth for his fever and a warm blanket for his chills, the comforting touch of a friend for his aches.

There was nothing for him to see to or worry about. As he focused on the gentle circles Wee John was rubbing into his temple, Frenchie knew that all he had to do was rest.