Chapter Text
Everyone on the crew was excited the day they nabbed a load of posh disguises from a fancy ship, and why not? Snazzy suits, stunning frocks, flash accessories—what’s not to love? They divvied up their finds according to the closest size matches, and Wee John got to work making alterations.
But it was only a few days before Frenchie noticed the worries start creeping in. Roach was the first to express his doubts, pulling Frenchie aside after supper one night. “Hey, man, Stede had me lay out a full table before,” Roach pointed out. “There were, like, eight spoons there! How the hell am I supposed to know what’s what?”
That same night, Fang sidled up to Frenchie on deck as he leaned on the railing looking out at the stars. “When are we gonna start rehearsing for raiding the rich folks’ ships?” he asked anxiously. “I need lots of practice, and there’s heaps of rules to learn, aren’t there? Will I need to cut my beard?”
And the next morning, the Swede trotted after Frenchie down the hall. “I like The Shipwrecked Merchants,” he said, referring to their standard grift for raiding merchant ships.
Right—lots of folk were getting the jitters, and it was up to Frenchie to calm them down.
“Okay,” he spoke up at breakfast, “who all is worried about posing as hoity-toity people?”
All round the table, hands began to raise. Some readily, some reluctantly. Pete grimaced as he lifted his hand in the air.
“Mmm, got it,” Frenchie murmured. “Well, first of all, we’ve got time yet. We’re still altering our disguises and adding hidden pockets and shit, and Wee John needs time to make his disguise.”
“The sketches are gorgeous,” Wee John announced.
“They really are,” Lucius confirmed. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”
“And then some,” Frenchie agreed. “So we’re not rolling out a new grift next week or anything, yeah? I know last time was a rush job, but those were special circumstances. We’re gonna work this one up just like we did The Shipwrecked Merchants, and we won’t give it a go until we’re all ready for it.”
He took a bite of toast. “Second of all,” Frenchie went on, swallowing, “no offense, but I think some of you are making it more complicated than it’s really gonna be. Oluwande and I pulled a grift on fancy folks before, and it was easy, wasn’t it, Olu?”
“It…took me a bit to get into the swing of things,” Oluwande replied carefully. “Frenchie did most of the talking at first. But once I got my bearings, yeah—it was easier than I would’ve expected.”
“Yeah, but coordinating a grift with two people is much simpler than one with everybody,” Lucius argued.
“What coordinating?” Oluwande remarked. “Frenchie just started talking. Threw me in headfirst, I had no idea what was going on.”
“Right, and it turned out great!” Frenchie insisted. “You had fun.”
“After I stopped pissing myself,” Olu said.
“Just to be clear, he means emotional piss,” Frenchie clarified hastily. “At no point was anybody actually pissing themselves.”
He shook his head. “Look, we’re getting off track,” Frenchie said. “The point is, third of all? Don’t worry so much about all the posh people’s rules, ‘cause we won’t be using their rulebook. I’ve got something different in mind for us.”
* * *
It’s not that there was no work to be done, not by a long shot. Anyone who could be trusted with fabric or scissors followed Wee John’s instructions, doing some of the easier but time-consuming tasks for him so he could focus on the more complicated bits. Frenchie got in on that—he picked out stitches on hems that needed to be let out, cut material Wee John had marked, and sewed concealed pockets for hiding weapons or nicked treasure. There were some props to put together as well, and those who weren’t handy with a needle saw to that.
Although they did practice, it wasn’t learning about fucking spoons. Frenchie had been in a swanky dining room enough times to know that was a losing game. No, best if they didn’t stick around long enough to sit down to dinner at all. Too many pitfalls, too easy to get caught out.
And they didn’t bother with a lot more than just spoons.
Once everything was ready, Frenchie took pleasure in scoping out the surrounding waters for the perfect big fish: the ideal ship full of posh nobs to raid. He found their target, and they set sail. “This is it, everybody!” he called, trotting down the steps from the helm. “Let’s get our game faces on.”
Along with their disguises, of course. Frenchie and Roach had divided their stolen suits for lanky blokes between them, and no doubt Frenchie would be wearing one of them soon enough. But for this first time, he knew exactly which disguise he wanted.
With careful fingers, he put on the fancy-looking suit that Wee John had made for him. Emerald green jacket with a matching waistcoat and breeches, fine gold detailing on the cuffs and lapels. Black stockings, a ruffly black cravat.
Everyone was coming in and out of the sofa room, where Stede’s full-length mirror was, to get a gander at themselves. By the time Frenchie had finished doing up all his buttons, there was a bit of a queue.
“Hey, looking good, mate!” he said to Fang, who was examining his velvety red suit in the mirror.
“You really think so?” Fang asked.
“So fucking handsome,” Lucius assured him. “You’re to die for.”
Fang giggled shyly. “Wee John did a great job on the tailoring,” he pointed out.
“Well, he had a good model to work with,” Pete pointed out, giving Fang a light, cheeky smack on the arse. “Now hurry up! We’re next.”
As Fang moved aside, Lucius and Pete stepped up to the mirror in unison and admired themselves. Pete was dressed in a deep brown with gold accents, while Lucius’s suit was different shades of blue.
“Absolute stunners!” Lucius proclaimed. He straightened Pete’s cravat and kissed him on the cheek.
“Hot,” Pete agreed. As he fingered Lucius’s lapels, he turned back to Frenchie. “We can use these disguises, like, recreationally, right?”
“Er, yeah, sure,” Frenchie told him. “Long as you keep ‘em in good shape. Don’t wanna make Wee John mend stuff all the time.”
“Translation? Be gentle when we undress each other,” Lucius noted. He stroked Pete’s chin and leaned in to kiss him. “No ripping each other’s suits off.”
Oh, that sort of recreation. “Right, that,” Frenchie said.
Pete and Lucius parted to let him through. “Speaking of hot,” Lucius remarked, “all yours, captain!”
“Thanks, gents,” Frenchie replied with a grin as he took his turn at the mirror.
Wee John had outdone himself, no question. Frenchie had unwittingly worked his roommate ragged, not thinking of all the time and effort that went into making a suit like this. He’d promised himself he’d never put that much on Wee John ever again. Wasn’t fair to him.
But looking at his reflection, Frenchie was bowled over by a fresh wave of gratitude at his mate’s hard work. He was lucky as shit that Wee John had done all this for him—in his incredible suit, he looked sleek and sophisticated. Besides Stede’s old ones, Frenchie didn’t think he’d ever seen a suit he liked as much as this one.
The door opened, and from the way the figure ducked his head to avoid hitting the door frame, Frenchie knew it was Wee John. He turned round to greet his roommate.
“Hey—” Frenchie broke off, his jaw dropping. “Whoa, check you out!”
He’d seen Wee John’s disguise in various stages as he’d worked on it, but this was the first time Frenchie had seen his best mate in it. An elegant gown with a skirt that bloomed outward—Frenchie knew Wee John had used pieces from a few different stolen petticoats to make one that would fit him. The fabric was a rosy pink, and Wee John was decked out with jewelry and a silvery wig. His makeup was dramatic but chic.
“Mate, this is amazing!” Frenchie exclaimed as he sauntered over to Wee John to better inspect the gown.
Wee John snapped open the fan Frenchie had nicked for him, revealing the peacock painted across it. “All dolled up,” he drawled, “in need of a place to go.”
Smiling brightly, Frenchie hooked his elbow round Wee John’s. “I know just the spot.” He peered up at his roommate. “Hey, how come you look different?”
With a laugh, Wee John retorted, “I’m wearing a fucking dress!”
“You’ve worn frocks before, though,” Frenchie pointed out. “The wig’s new, but it’s not that.” He frowned. “What is it?”
Wee John posed a gloved hand beneath his chin, and Frenchie’s eyes widened. “Your beard!” he exclaimed. “You shaved it off!”
“There you go,” Wee John said, chuckling. “Figured I’d give myself away otherwise. Not too many bearded ladies among that set.”
“Oh yeah, I suppose not,” Frenchie reasoned. “Looks great either way. That gown’s beautiful on you.”
He said it casually, not really thinking about it, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Frenchie winced. “Shit, sorry,” he mumbled. “Should I not say things like that? Is it too—?”
“No, i-it’s fine,” Wee John replied hurriedly. Letting go of Frenchie’s arm, he smoothed down his skirt.
Fuck. Frenchie had made things awkward, he was pretty sure about that. But was it because of what he’d said, or was asking if it was awkward the thing that had made it awkward?
It had gone better than Frenchie could have hoped, telling Wee John that he didn’t fancy him—that he didn’t fancy anyone, ever. That he didn’t go in for all the kissing and fucking and lovey-dovey stuff that the others got up to. A big “no thanks” to all of that. Wee John had been about as understanding as a person who didn’t really get it could be. He’d not laughed at Frenchie for being so anxious about telling him, and he’d assured Frenchie that he still wanted to be mates.
But Wee John having non-mate-like feelings for him, that was the hard part. Before, Frenchie had had no idea that Wee John liked him that way, or that he’d thought they were both flirting with each other. Frenchie didn’t want to act like he was toying with his friend or rubbing it in or anything. Trouble was, what felt like being friendly to him could feel like flirting to other folks, and Frenchie couldn’t always tell he was doing it, at least not until after he’d put his foot in it. In the week since they’d hashed it all out, he’d found himself tripping into saying the wrong thing more than once.
“Er, see you out there,” Wee John said.
“Right—yep,” Frenchie answered, nodding too much. He watched his roommate turn on his heels and leave, then heaved a sigh.
“Bitch-witch,” he muttered. Frenchie gave his cheeks a couple light slaps and shook himself out. Come on, none of that now, he thought. Game face, remember?
Puffing out his cheeks, Frenchie sighed again. “Game face,” he repeated firmly, and he turned to head out on deck.