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Wee John is exhausted. He’s changed out of his Calypso outfit and removed his make-up — most of it, anyway. He knows he’ll have glitter all over his face and beard for some time to come. But his mind hasn’t got the message yet that it’s time to get some sleep. It doesn’t help that the rest of the crew is still partying on deck.
He gets it. Of course they want to party and celebrate they’re all alive after Ned Low’s visit.
Wee John, though, just wants some peace and quiet and for his mind to stop swirling around all the What Ifs. So he’s taken out his sewing kit and one of Lucius’s shirts, because there’s a tear in it and Lucius is a disaster with needle and thread.
And also, when Lucius noticed it, he’d stared at the gap and his bare skin peeking through, and he’d pulled the shirt over his head before walking off and saying he was gonna have a smoke. Pete’d followed him, and Wee John had picked up the shirt.
It’s not always easy to fix things, but mending a shirt is something Wee John can do.
The door opens, and Wee John looks up. He brightens when it’s Frenchie. “Oh, hey! Had enough of the festivities?”
Frenchie glances at him, then around the room, then back to him. Most of the pink flowers are gone from his hair, but two remain. They’re pretty. “Yeah.” He smiles easily and shrugs before walking in and closing the door behind him. “You as well?”
Wee John nods. Frenchie’s become more restless, he’s noticed, ever since they all came back to the Revenge. He hasn’t asked for the details. He doesn’t need to, and besides, Frenchie wouldn’t share.
Frenchie picks up a few random things from the nightstand at the foot of the bed, then puts them back down. He settles down on the floor and rests his head against Wee John’s knee.
Wee John smiles and reaches out to briefly squeeze Frenchie’s shoulder. Frenchie doesn’t really seek out hugs. Wee John hasn’t asked what that’s about either, but he can imagine why someone like Frenchie isn’t a fan of having someone else’s arms around him. But Frenchie does enjoy leaning against people. Resting against them or on top of them. “You can come up on the bed, y’know.”
“I’m fine down here, mate,” Frenchie replies.
“Well, I’m gonna move a bit closer to the oil lamp.” Wee John nods at the one on the nightstand. “Need to see better to mend this shirt.” He shuffles closer to the foot of the bed. “So you’ll have to move with me.”
Frenchie grumbles at that and stays on the floor while Wee John moves. He looks at Wee John’s knees, then the bed, which has space enough for someone to curl up on now. His eyes meet Wee John’s.
Wee John just smiles back. “What?”
Frenchie doesn’t reply, but he does sit on the bed to remove his boots and leaves them on the floor. He also takes off his scarf and vest, handing both to Wee John. “Can you put those on the nightstand?”
Wee John does, but not before admiring the decorations on the vest. It’s well-made and gorgeous, great for Frenchie. He puts them down neatly and nods. Frenchie looks a bit more at ease now, so maybe Wee John can bring up a few things without Frenchie immediately insisting he’s fine and everything’s fine. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. Couldn’t get to sleep, so I got this.” He holds up Lucius’s shirt.
Frenchie nods. “Yeah. Falling asleep can be hard.”
Wee John goes back to his sewing. “And there was a lot going on tonight.” From the corner of his eye, he notices Frenchie tense up. “Lots of decorating to do. Lots of colour, lots of music. Lots of booze,” he adds, which gets him a laugh.
“Yeah.” Frenchie’s voice is quiet. “There was a lot. ‘S why I came down here.” He settles down on the bed and rests his cheek on Wee John’s thigh.
Wee John smiles. He hasn’t told Frenchie this, and won’t, but his friend is pretty much a cat sometimes.
“Lots of noise up there,” Frenchie continues. “Lots of people. Nice people, but still, y’know.”
“People,” Wee John says.
Frenchie hums in agreement. “It’s nice to have some quiet.” He snuggles closer. “Not too much. Not complete silence.”
“Complete silence is boring,” Wee John agrees, although he knows there’s more to it for Frenchie than that. He reaches out to squeeze Frenchie’s shoulder again, and risks rubbing his arm a few times before pulling his hand back.
“Thanks,” Frenchie says, voice quiet.
“No problem,” Wee John replies, and goes back to his sewing. If Frenchie has more to say, he’ll say it, but Wee John isn’t surprised when he hears Frenchie’s breathing even out over the next few minutes.